Cracks in the Sidewalk(80)

“Explain.”

“David, the eldest of the Caruthers children, complained the grandparents were not allowing him and the other children to see their mother. Every time they came for a visit, they were told she was asleep. My client, understandably concerned about the welfare of his children, went to check it out and discovered his wife, Elizabeth, was in a coma. Naturally, he was upset because he hadn’t been notified.”

“Did he behave aggressively toward Charles McDermott?”

“On the contrary, Mister McDermott attacked him!”

“Elizabeth’s father?” Judge Brill asked with astonishment.

“Yes! He broke Jeffrey’s nose and—”

“And I suppose your client also wants a restraining order against the McDermotts?”

“No. In light of the mother’s current condition, he’s asking the court for relief on the existing visitation order.”

Judge Brill heaved a sigh. “Have him in my office at three this afternoon, and I’ll listen to arguments.” He hung up, tossed all five of the messages from Jeffrey Caruthers into the wastebasket, and telephoned Dudley Grimm and instructed him to bring the McDermotts at three o’clock.

Judge Samuel Brill had a full docket and a desk piled high with the folders of people waiting for decisions. He pushed back his chair, closed his eyes and once again remembered Jack Wallner. If only he could trace things back far enough, he might somehow discover where he went wrong.

Sam Brill was never late, so when he failed to appear his clerk hurried back to chambers and rapped on his door. When she got no answer, she called out his name and eased the door open. He sat behind his desk, his head tipped back as if sound asleep. When she went to wake him, he wasn’t breathing. On his desk lay a brochure depicting the serenity of the Grand Canyon.





Claire McDermott


The pain of giving birth is nothing compared to the pain of watching your child die. Birth is a joyous pain that brings promise, but this is a hell worse than anything you could possibly imagine. Some days I can actually feel my heart being cored from my soul and shredded into confetti. I want to scream and cry out, but I don’t. I can’t. I have to stay strong for Elizabeth. So I push back the ache in my heart and listen for the sound of her breathing. I pray that something will change, that the Lord will have mercy on my child.

I believe Elizabeth hears my voice and understands what I’m saying, so I talk to her all the time. I read aloud for hours on end—magazines, books, and quite often the Bible, Psalms mostly. I tell her I understand this terrible thing she’s going through and try to sound convincing when I say it’s a temporary setback. But I can’t even fathom what it’s like to be trapped inside the prison of your own mind. I worry she might be frightened, and I try to ease her fears by acting as normal as possible. I want to take her in my arms and comfort her as I did when she was a child, but that time has gone.

We haven’t seen or heard from any of the children since the day Charlie and Jeffrey had the fight. I miss the kids more than words can say. But right now I’ve got to focus on Elizabeth—she’s the one who needs me most.

I’m tired to the bone, but I seldom sleep. I doze off for a few minutes from time to time, but I always wake startled and anxious to make certain Elizabeth is still okay. I’ve heard her speak words twice. The first time she called for her daddy, and the second time she talked about David. It wasn’t actual conversation, just loose words like the rambling of someone caught up in a dream. That’s partly why I don’t sleep: I’m hoping she’ll call for me, and I want to be there to answer.

The nurse comes once a day. She monitors Elizabeth’s condition, checks her feeding tube, things like that. She’s generally here less than an hour but during that hour I rush upstairs, shower, and change my clothes. The minute she leaves, I hurry back to sit beside the bed.

In situations like this Charlie acts as if he has five thumbs and no fingers. Seeing Elizabeth hurts him as much as it does me. The only way he can cope is to shield his eyes, turn away and not look directly into the bright light of truth. I wish I could tell him what to do, but I myself don’t know. Nobody does. We’re the blind leading the blind, cripples leaning on other cripples, lost souls praying for guidance.





Visitation Revisited


In the wake of Judge Brill’s death the case of Caruthers v Caruthers was assigned to the Honorable Margaret Thumper, a newcomer to the bench and a woman determined to prove herself by making quick work of the sizeable caseload dumped on her desk. She zipped through the files of troubled teens and violent spouses, giving little more than a cursory glance at documents that told of malicious behavior patterns and mental instability. Within two weeks of the tragedy, she had begun to hear cases.

Although given only two days’ notice, both Dudley Grimm and Noreen Sarnoff were informed that Judge Thumper would hear arguments in her chambers at three o’clock sharp on Wednesday. Margaret Thumper was determined not to be tagged “the junior judge,” so to compensate for her youthful appearance she wore her blond hair slicked back in a tight chignon and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on the tip of her nose. She aimed her words like spears, and she had developed her stern demeanor to the point where she could go for days without smiling.

“Sit,” she said when the two attorneys entered the room. Without looking up she opened the file folder in front of her. “You’ve each got five minutes, so get right to the point and state your case quickly. I’ll hear from the plaintiff’s attorney first.”