The judge’s gavel bangs and she calls for order.
I take a deep breath and reel it in.
I hold up a supplicating hand to the judge. “Just one or two more questions, Your Honor.”
She doesn’t look happy. “Proceed.”
My voice is even as I ask, “If Robert and Rachel McQuaid had survived, and if all the ‘red flags’ had unfolded the same way—would you have sought to terminate parental custody?”
This is the big one. More important than the stats I’ve cited or the counterarguments I’ve given.
“I deal in facts, Mr. Becker. Truths. I’m not going to entertain your hypotheticals,” he sneers.
Until the judge speaks up. “Actually, that’s an answer I’d like to hear as well, Mr. Smeed. If the children had been in the custody of the biological parents, would the situation have been dire enough—given the information you have—to warrant their removal from the home?”
He blinks and swallows. Stares and shifts. But he’s not dumb enough to lie to a judge. “To the extent that I can predict such a thing, Your Honor, if it had been a two-parent household, with the biological parents present . . . no, it is more than likely we would not have sought custody of the children.”
“Would they have even been on CFSA’s radar?” I ask. “A broken arm, a fight on the playground, a busted-up keg party—would you have ever even heard of the McQuaids?”
He looks down, fidgets again, and then says, “Most likely . . . no.”
Swish. Nothing but net.
“I’m done with him, Your Honor.”
• • •
After the CFSA questions Smeed—reinforcing his bullshit claims about dire consequences and the potentially unsafe environment Chelsea’s guardianship poses—he’s excused from the stand. I squeeze Chelsea’s knee under the table, then I stand up and call her as a witness. She gets sworn in and sits in the witness box, looking small—timid.
I catch her gaze and give her a smile, then I lean back casually against the table.
“Are you nervous, Chelsea?”
She glances at the judge, then back to me. “A little bit, yeah.”
“Don’t be. It’s just you and me, having a conversation.”
She nods her head and I get started.
“Tell me about the kids.”
Chelsea practically glows as she talks about the strong-minded woman Riley is growing into, Rory’s precocious energy that will one day lead him to do great things. She smiles as she discusses Raymond’s kind nature, and how no one can be in a room with Rosaleen and not smile. She gets choked up when she mentions Regan and how she learns from her brothers and sisters, and what a good baby Ronan is, how badly she wants to be there to watch him grow into the amazing kid she knows he’ll be.
“You’re twenty-six,” I say. “You had a whole life in California—friends, an apartment, school. And you put that all aside and came here to be a guardian to your nieces and nephews. Did you ever consider not raising them? Letting child services find new homes for them?”
She raises her chin. “Never. Not for a second.”
“Why?” I ask softly.
“Because I love them. They’re mine. Raising them is the most important thing I’ll ever do.” Her eyes are wet as she turns to the judge. “And some days it’s hard, Your Honor . . . but even on those days, there’s so much joy. They’re everything to me.”
I give Chelsea a nod, letting her know she did great. Then I sit down and the agency’s lawyer gets her turn.
She stands. “Miss McQuaid, what is the nature of your relationship with your attorney, Jake Becker?”
And I’m on my feet. “Your Honor, unless opposing counsel is suggesting I pose some type of danger to the McQuaid children, this type of questioning is completely out of line.”
“I agree. Move on, Counselor.”
She does. Trying to spin the incidences with the kids into some kind of negligence on Chelsea’s part. But there’s no damage done. When there’s no smoke, there’s no fire.
After Chelsea is excused, I submit the statements from the pediatrician, which attest to the kids’ health and how they’re all up to date on their well visits. I also submit statements from Sofia, Stanton, and Brent, corroborating Chelsea’s competency as a guardian and to show that she has a support system. CFSA stands by the argument that originally won them custody and we both rest our cases. The judge says she’ll deliberate and return with her ruling as soon as possible, then court is adjourned.
After the judge leaves the courtroom, Chelsea turns to me. “What now?”
“Now . . . we wait.”
25
We stay close to the courthouse for lunch, and despite Brent’s most annoying efforts, Chelsea doesn’t touch her food. Two hours later, court is back in session. Chelsea holds my hand in a death grip under the table as the judge clears her throat to render her decision.
“As one of nine children¸ I feel particularly qualified to rule in this case.” She peers down through her glasses at us. “As Miss McQuaid stated, raising children is hard—particularly six children between the ages of six months and fourteen years. Whether there is one child or ten, however, it is still the court’s responsibility to ensure these children are raised in the custody of a guardian who will care for them and provide a safe environment that allows them to thrive. After reviewing all of the evidence presented, I believe Chelsea McQuaid is just such a guardian . . .”