Before I Let You Go(21)
After polite greetings, Bernadette insists that I call her “Bernie,” and she all but snatches the paperwork from my hand before I’ve even taken a seat. She scoops frameless reading glasses up from her desk and begins scanning the page as she sits.
“This chemical endangerment law was never meant to apply to pregnant women.” She sighs, shaking her head. “They enacted it in response to cases where meth labs were found in family homes . . . baby in the playpen in the kitchen, sucking on their pacifier while Mom and Dad cook meth on the stove right next to them. Unfortunately, about the same time some DAs decided they were going to try to address the so-called epidemic of babies born with neonatal abstinence syndrome, and the wording in the statute was vague enough that it allowed them to push the law to a place it was never supposed to go.” Bernie looks up from the warrant and meets my gaze. “In short, Lexie, your sister is in some serious trouble here. There’s a criminal charge to deal with, as well as the immediate matter—the hearing tomorrow that could potentially revoke Anne’s parental rights over her fetus.”
“So, what do we do?”
“Ordinarily, my advice would be to get your sister into a rehab center as quickly as humanly possible—if it is humanly possible, which it generally isn’t since rehab centers avoid pregnant women like the plague,” Bernie tells me, peering at me over the top of her glasses. “But my secretary told me that your sister is quite unwell so that’s probably not an option anyway.”
“She won’t even leave the hospital before the baby comes,” I inform her. “Even if she does, she obviously can’t detox while she’s pregnant, and the social worker said that a pharmacological maintenance program doesn’t count.”
“Unfortunately not. My experience is that here in Alabama, judges generally don’t count an opioid-replacement program as adequate effort toward rehabilitation.”
“Well, that’s just bullshit,” I snap, then I wince and shake my head. “I’m really sorry—I just don’t understand. All of the science says that maintenance programs work, particularly if it’s in conjunction with therapy. So why wouldn’t it count?”
“Absurd, isn’t it? Look, we’re generally dealing with very conservative judges, and there’s nothing in the law that says that people need to be referred to evidence-based treatment. We see a lot of referrals to abstinence-based programs. Twelve-step programs are particularly popular.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense.” Particularly not in Annie’s case. I did drag her to a twelve-step program for a while when we ran out of alternatives, but just the mention of “a higher power” is generally enough to give both of us hives.
“You’re preaching to the choir here, honey.” Bernie sighs. “I know how frustrating all of this is, believe me. It’s like the law was passed by a bunch of men in suits who never even intended to address this scenario,” she says, then she snorts, “which, of course, is exactly what happened. But let’s take a step back for a second. Give me an idea of what we’re dealing with here with your sister, Alexis. Does she have a criminal record?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I don’t think so. I mean, she’s been charged at least twice before—but I think the charges were dropped both times. She was charged with possession in Chicago, but she got off on a technicality. And then two years ago she was caught trying to steal narcotics from a medical clinic, but the charges were dropped.”
But for my groveling and pleading with my boss, that attempted theft of class A drugs charge would have put her away for a long time. There was CCTV footage of her doing it, plus the security guard at work caught her while she was still in the meds room.
“So is this her first attempt to get clean?”
I clear my throat.
“Not by a long shot, unfortunately.”
“So, how many previous attempts at rehab?”
“Many,” I admit. “But you know, this time might be different, with the baby and all . . .”
“Has she met with the CPS social worker yet? This . . .” Bernie looks down at the paperwork in her hand and reads, “Mary Rafferty?”
“No, Annie was too sick to be interviewed, but I spoke with her this morning.”
“How did it go?”
“Not well,” I murmur. “She seemed to have made up her mind pretty quickly that Annie wasn’t going to make a fit mother.”
“Are they doing a home visit to review Anne’s living conditions?”
“No, she said not at this stage.”
“All right, Alexis. Here’s the thing.” Bernie lowers the paperwork and she sighs. “There’s pretty much nothing I can do for your sister tomorrow.”
“Oh.” I’m confused, and I frown at her. “I don’t understand. Why did you agree to take the case if you can’t help?”
“There are two courts involved in your sister’s situation—the juvenile court, which will hear the petition to strip Annie of her right to parent the baby, and the criminal court, where she may eventually face trial for the chemical endangerment charge. The immediate issue is the parental rights challenge, and there’s nothing I can do for her in that regard.” She turns the paperwork around so I can see it and she points out, “It will be heard in a juvenile court, which is closed to everyone but court staff. Annie will have to go on her own. She can’t even have legal representation. But this hearing is all about the baby’s best interests, so an attorney will be appointed to make decisions for the baby on a day-to-day basis. We call it a guardian ad litem. In this case, they’ve nominated a guy named Bill Weston. I’ve come across him before. He’s a nice enough guy, but like a lot of attorneys who opt to do this kind of work, he’s a real, old-school conservative. And if tomorrow goes as I expect it will, he’ll be the one who gives consent or otherwise to all of your sister’s treatment for the duration of her pregnancy.”