24

ROSANNE IS PETITIONED

“We’re not going to get anywhere if you persist in yelling,” the man, Mr. Jones, said from behind his desk. He was tired and upset and flustered. He had already, just moments ago, spilled his coffee and, in the process of cleaning it up, had burned a hole in his desk with a lighted cigarette. Now he was left with a distraught Mrs. DiSantos and a desk blotter that was decomposing into a soggy mess.

“All right, all right,” Rosanne said, sitting back down into her chair.

“Okay,” he said, reaching for the manila folder. He opened it and a little coffee trickled out of it. “Lanie,” he barked into the intercom. A young girl appeared. “Take this and wipe the papers off and Xerox them, will you?”

The girl screwed up her face and took the folder from him.”Okay, Mrs. DiSantos,” he said, “you’ll have to appear in family court for the preliminary hearing.”

“I don’t—”

“Listen to me,” he said, leaning forward on his desk. Too late. He looked under the sleeves of his jacket and sighed. He sat back in his chair. “What you say at this hearing is going to be very, very important. You’re going to need a lawyer—a good one—and you’re going to have to present your side to the judge in a way that discredits every point that has been made in the petition. Or at least prove that what has gone on in the past is no longer true about the present. Or future.” He sighed. “You can’t let it get to court or—”

“Or what?”

“Or it could take months to settle, maybe as long as a year, and until it’s settled, Jason would stay with the Rubinowitzes.”

“Oh, God,” Rosanne said, dropping her face into her hands. “I just don’t understand—he’s my son.” Mr. Jones sighed again. Then he got up and offered a box of Kleenex to Rosanne.

“Thanks,” she managed to say, fumbling for some tissues.

“I know how painful this is, Mrs. DiSantos,” Mr. Jones said, moving back to his chair. “But we have to go over the points of the petition. If you want,” he said, sitting down and slapping his hands on the arms of it, “I can get a lawyer from Legal Aid to sit in—”

Rosanne blew her nose. “I have to think about it,” she said. “Can I have a day at least?”

Mr. Jones cocked his head to consider this. “Yes. But you have to understand, Mrs. DiSantos, you don’t have long to prepare. I strongly advise you to consult a lawyer as soon as possible.”

“Yes,” she sighed, head hanging.

“Look. This is the situation as it now stands. The Rubinowitzes have had the child for almost two and a half years-half of the child’s life. And now that you’ve requested to regain custody of the child, they have petitioned the court, claiming they can provide a better home for the child than the mother—than you can, Mrs. DiSantos.”

“But how can they say that?” Rosanne cried, leaping from her chair. “I’m Jason’s mother!” she yelled, slamming her hand down on Mr. Jones’s desk. “Just because I’m not rich means I can’t have my child? Get them another kid! Why do they have to take my child?” She slammed the desk again. “It’s not fair!”

Mr. Jones’s face expressed sympathetic pain. “I want to try and help you,” he said quietly. “Please, please sit down and listen. There’s nothing you can do until you understand what you’re up against. So please, Mrs. DiSantos...”

Rosanne clutched at herself and whirled around. After a moment her shoulders eased slightly, she took a deep breath and then sat down in the chair, still holding herself tightly. “You’ve got to help me, Mr. Jones,” she said in a half whisper. “You know me. You know Jason. You know that he’s all I’ve got.” She closed her eyes, tears forcing themselves out and down her face.

There was a brief knock and Lanie came back in with the papers. “Thanks,” Mr. Jones said, examining fresh copies in a fresh folder. He cleared his throat, glanced over at Rosanne—whose eyes were still closed and turned another page. “There are two major points in the petition. The first concerns why you placed Jason in a foster home in the first place, the facts concerning your husband—”

“My husband was sick,” Rosanne said, opening her eyes. “Dr. Karrel at St. Luke’s Hospital will explain.” When Mr. Jones didn’t say anything, Rosanne added, “I couldn’t leave him when he was sick, Mr. Jones. And I put Jason in a foster home because—because—I’m a good mother, Mr. Jones. Until Frank got well, I didn’t want Jason to...” She looked to the ceiling for a moment to compose herself. She crossed her legs and began rocking slightly. Finally, “I did everything by the book. I told them the truth, I made sure Jason had a good home, I tried to help my husband get well. He’s dead now and everything’s different. Jason belongs with me now.”

“But you see, Mrs. DiSantos, the Rubinowitzes have come to love the child too—”

“Jason,” Rosanne said.

“What?”

“Please stop callin’ him ‘the child.’ “

“Okay.” Mr. Jones tried to regroup his thoughts. “Let’s get to the actual points of the petition. Okay. One. For the last three years, you and your husband apparently had no means of employment.”

“That’s not true,” Rosanne said, leaning forward. “I’ve worked almost every day of my life—I make two-fifty a week—”

Mr. Jones frowned. “But, Mrs. DiSantos, there is no record of employment.”

“But there—” Rosanne stopped herself. She bit her lip. “What kind of record do you need?”

“Well, let’s see.... According to this, neither you nor your husband have paid any taxes—federal, state or city—nor have you paid any Social Security for”—he paused, thumbing through the papers—”four years.” He looked up. “To all intents and purposes, you’ve had no means of employment, or any visible means of support. And considering the nature of your husband’s illness, as you call it, the court is very likely to assume that you may have engaged in illegal activity—”

“I clean houses, Mr. Jones. I’ve been cleanin’ houses for over three years. I’ve paid our rent, I’ve paid for our food, our clothes—I’ve bought all of Jason’s clothes and I gave the Rubinowitzes a hundred and twenty dollars every month—and I didn’t have to. They got money for being foster parents—”

“But the fact remains, Mrs. DiSantos,” he sighed, “you’ve been earning money under the table.”

Rosanne didn’t say anything.

“I see.” Mr. Jones mulled over this confession. “Well, there’s a good side and a bad side to this. On one hand, we can prove that you’ve been the breadwinner of the family, have diligently and responsibly supported yourself and your husband—do you think you can get character references from your employers?”

She nodded.

“Good. You’ll need them.” He made a note in his folder. “Now, the problem is, this same information, when revealed, will set you up to be prosecuted for tax evasion.” He looked at her. “Your employers as well.”

“My employers?”

“They should have been paying Social Security for you out of your salary.”

“Oh.” Rosanne sighed. She sighed again. “So what can I do?”

He leaned back in his chair, nibbling on his pencil. “I think the best course for you to take is to find out how much you owe in taxes and make arrangements to pay them—before the hearing. Then at least you can tell the truth and demonstrate a sense of responsibility.”

Rosanne shook her head. “Where am I gonna get the money? I only have about two thousand saved up and I need that money to—”

“Well, that brings us to point two. They claim you cannot provide an adequate home environment for the child—for Jason.”

“Well—” Rosanne said, her frustration starting to choke her. “I was lookin’ for a new apartment—a nice one-bedroom in Brooklyn—but I won’t have deposit money if I have to pay those taxes—and now you say they’re gonna take out taxes and Social Security from what I make and so I won’t have...” Her face caught in silent agony. “Oh, God,” she finally sobbed, collapsing into her lap.

“We can file for family housing—

“I did,” was Rosanne’s muffled cry. “The waiting list’s two to five years.”

Mr. Jones didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything. He tapped the folder against the desk and watched Mrs. DiSantos cry.