Saturday’s Child by JT Hume 08 - ANOTHER KNIFE IN THE BACK I don’t remember going down the stairs and walking across Intake to my office. I’m shaking Marsha’s slimy hand one second, and I blink to find myself staring at the blank screen of my desktop computer. It’s not powered on. Neither is my brain. I can’t grasp what happened. I can’t catch my breath. All I’m feeling is the total-body blow and the hammering pulse in my temples. One thought rises to the top, and it bounces back and forth inside my brain: total failure. The one thing I thought I was good at, being a CPS worker, and I failed. I thought I could handle adult disappointment and failure like this with maturity and perspective. Bullshit. Daddy says, “When it comes to fighting, everyone has a plan until they get hit in the face.” He's right again. Minutes tick by, and I come to realize it’s not the end of the world. I have options, not the least being that I can find another job from the list in my email (as long as Elma doesn’t “forget” to send it). I will lose my apartment, paid ahead or not. Devon will put up with me for a month or two while I get my feet under me. Absolute worst case is my grandmother is in town and she’ll have some ideas if I tell her. My guts rebel at the idea. She’d feel obligated to bring my parents into the picture, and again, it would be a defeat. I’m not ready to give up. I’m reaching for my DACS tablet when my desk phone rings (I want to throw it out a window). I don’t know as I pick it up in this shit sandwich of a day, I’m about to be thrown under a bus for dessert. “Ms. Parks,” a nasal voice says on the other end. “This is Annette in Judge Davis’s courtroom. She wants to see you in chambers now.” “Now?” My voice squeaks. “Yes, Ms. Parks. Now. Thank you.” Click. I stare at the handset for a second before I throw it across the room, followed by a very satisfying crash against the wall as it pulls the rest of the phone along with it.
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume Too many emotions hitting me from all sides. I swear I won’t cry before I leave on the last day. I won’t give the bitch upstairs the satisfaction. I clench my jaw as I stuff the tablet in my CPS bag. When I slam my office shut, I think that maybe I would have started bawling if someone had said it’ll be Jayce boxing my personal belongings in a week, not me. I storm through Intake and the Crib without acknowledging a greeting or hello from anyone, including Jayce. They’re not the cause of my grief, and I don’t want their pity, anger, or sympathy. I want to be mad, if for no other reason than it’s justified. I’ve done nothing wrong except get on one person’s bad side. Marsha is right on one thing. There are no available appeals or challenges. Probationary employees can be dismissed on day one or on day 364 of their probation with no recourse. I knew it when I got hired, and I agreed to the condition when I signed my employment forms. It still sucks. The drive to the courthouse takes less time than before because I’m driving like Barb, with the ignoring of speed limits and blowing through red lights. What is CPS going to do, fire me? Through the metal detectors, I’m speed-walking down the hall and stairs and am stopped short at the locked entrance to Judge Davis’s courtroom. Family Court judges are always busy because of the sensitivity and number of the cases they hear, but also because they’re de facto gods. Compared to most facets of law, the rules and regulations governing Family Court are broad in nature because what works for one family may not work for others, so the judges have wide leeway in managing the outcomes of the cases in front of them. They work harder than most judges, and their decisions are rarely overturned by higher courts. I walk around the building to find the back hallway to Judge Davis’s office. No one challenges me as I head down the narrow passageway, and her door is open. I poke my head in and knock on the frame. She’s standing in front of her desk with her arms folded. Her robe is on a hanger by her desk. It’s obvious she’s waiting for something, maybe me.
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume When I enter, a cloud falls over her face. “Ms. Parks.” Since she’s addressing me by my last name, we’re on official business. “Your Honor.” “How are you?” Some honesty won’t hurt. “Having a bad day, Your Honor.” She nods. “I’m afraid it’s going to get worse. When you think of this day years from now, I hope you’ll understand and forgive me.” She gestures for me to follow, and we go out the door. Holy shit, am I getting arrested, too?! I’m ashamed at the little voice inside my head calling for my mommy. I shove it down. Judge Davis doesn’t give me a chance to ask questions or explain myself. She’s walking down the hall and through a door I’ve never entered. It’s another hall to a downward staircase followed by another hall. I’ve lost all sense of direction. We don’t walk for long. One last door, and we enter a stark meeting room with concrete walls and no windows. Seated at a gray table are two men, one in a power suit and the other in a uniform, and a stenographer with her handset. I know the uniform, and he gives no sign of recognition as I take one of the two empty chairs. The judge sits beside me and points to the stenographer. “This meeting is on the record. Before we begin, we will identify ourselves. Please state your name, spell it out, and give your full job title. I am Judge Evelyn Davis, Family Court judge.” She spells her last name, recites her court number, gives the date and time, and looks at me. “Emma Parks, probationary Child Protective Services worker.” I manage not to choke on the job title. I stutter while spelling my name and have to do it twice. I look at the man in the uniform across from me. “Trevor Walsh, interim chief of the Metropolitan Police Department.” He spells his first and last name and looks at the last power suit in the room. “Special Agent Marty Groban, United States Federal Bureau of Investigation.” He spells his first and last name.
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume “Special Agent Groban, for the record, what is your position within the FBI?” the judge asks. “My apologies, Your Honor. I should have said I am the special agent in charge of the region and the senior agent assigned to the Staci Baker case.” “Thank you.” “Your Honor, why did you ask for us to meet?” Trevor is asking the judge, but he’s looking at me. I shake my head. I don’t have a clue. “Chief, I have information pertinent to Ms. Baker’s kidnapping. Very sensitive information. When this meeting is made public, and I don’t think we can avoid this, you and I may be asked to tender our resignations. Emma could be fired.” Too late, Evelyn, I want to say. The power behind the people in the room has my mouth on lockdown. I do notice she’s using my first name. Trevor sits back, impressed with the judge’s gravitas. “Okay. You’re serious. Three careers on the line. For Staci?” She nods. “I’ve been debating this meeting since I first heard of her disappearance, and I’ve decided I cannot remain silent in good conscience. Emma would have come to the same conclusion, too, yet time is of the essence. Staci is in danger, and we have information you may need.” Agent Groban leans forward. “Before we go down the rabbit hole, why the official record? And where is it going?” He nods at the stenographer. “The answer to the second question is we all will get a copy of the transcript, and you may do with your copy as you see best. The answer to the first question is there may come a time when we will have to prove we did our best to combine forces to find Staci.” She pauses and smiles without humor. “And we may need it at our personnel meeting when they gather to fire us.” “We best get started, ma’am,” Agent Groban says.
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume “Yes,” she says with a sigh as she rests her hands on the table, fingers intertwined. “Before I returned to the city, I came into possession of second-hand information on a person in this case. I’ve not acted on it because, as I said, it was gossip. I must say I have absolute faith and trust in the person who gave me this information. She did not see the event we’re about to discuss, nor is she local, so you cannot speak to her in a timely manner. Three people have firsthand knowledge of what happened. Two of them are local. Emma is one of them.” “Who are the other two?” Trevor asks. It dawns on me what’s happening, and I stand in horror, knocking my chair away. “No!” She reaches out to me. “Emma…” I forget titles and offices. “Evelyn, we can’t do this!” She takes my hand. “We have to. Calm down and think. When you do, you’ll understand this must be done.” “No. I made a promise.” “This is for the best. Think, Emma, think!” The men are agog at my reaction and are watching us like spectators at a tennis match. They calm me more with their silence than Evelyn does, and yes, she’s right. Fuck. Shit. Dammit. Trevor picks up my chair and guides me to sit in it. I squeeze his hand in silent thanks and look at Agent Groban. My voice is a hollow echo of itself. “The other two people with firsthand knowledge of the event are my sister Sissy and then-Congressman and current Mayor Edgar Hart.” Even the stenographer freezes at the last name before she bends over her machine to resume tapping. Trevor gives a low whistle. “You weren’t kidding, Your Honor, from that sentence alone.” He turns to me. “If Marty is okay with this, I suggest you start at the beginning and talk it through to the end. We’ll hold off on the questions until you’re done.”
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume Agent Groban nods as I take a deep breath and close my eyes.
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume
This serial and book are solely owned by its creator, JT Hume (a pseudonym). Copyright © 2016. All rights reserved in all countries and languages. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Third-party vendors providing electronic means to create, edit, and/or publish/post this serial and book have no literary and/or financial claim (including wi-fi network owners and operators). For more information and permission requests, the author may be contacted via email only: jthumebooks at gmail dot com. Twitter: @JT_Hume Website: http://www.jthumebooks.com
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