Primary Justice bk-1 Page 3

  “Visitors for you in the main foyer,” she said brusquely.

  “Thank you, Maggie. Please show them in.”

  There was a pause, then a slow, inhaling noise. “You understand this is only temporary, Mr. Kincaid.”

  “Yes, I do, Maggie. But while it lasts, I plan to treasure every precious moment we spend together.”

  “I’ll get your visitors,” she said, and rang off.

  There was no reason for Ben to be surprised. Derek had not made any representations regarding his visitors’ appearances, although he had linked them with one of the most sophisticated and prosperous corporate entities in the state. Nonetheless, when Maggie ushered the visitors into his office, Ben was surprised and vaguely disappointed. The two adults, a man and a woman, were older than he had expected, perhaps in their early sixties. Both had pure white hair. The man wore blue jeans and a white shirt with a plastic pencil holder in the front pocket and noticeable yellow-gray stains under each arm. The woman wore a simple green print dress, a plain brown coat, and white costume beads.

  “My name’s Jonathan Adams,” the man said, taking Ben’s hand, “and this is my wife, Bertha.”

  The single sentence had been sufficient to tell Ben a great deal about Mr. Adams’s origins. He had the thick, slow drawl usually found in rural areas in the western part of the state.

  Ben shook his hand, then Bertha’s, and introduced himself.

  “Honestly!” Bertha said, eyeing him with suspicion. “Are you an attorney?”

  Ben tried not to react. People usually thought he looked young for his age. “Yes, I am,” he said amiably. “Promise. I’ve got a diploma and everything. Just haven’t coughed up the money to have it framed yet.”

  “Oh,” she said, looking meaningfully at her husband. “I see.”

  Ben knew exactly what that expression meant. It meant: Jonathan, I thought we were getting a real lawyer.

  She turned her attention slowly back to Ben, eyeing him carefully. Ben knew that expression, too. It meant: This case may not mean much to your firm, but it’s the whole wide world to us, and we’d like to have a real lawyer, not some baby-faced kid who hasn’t lost his training wheels yet. Or something like that.

  “Princess, don’t be standoffish like that,” Bertha said.

  Ben looked up, startled. For a moment, he thought the woman was talking to him. Then he saw a small dark-haired girl standing behind the adults. “Mr. Kincaid, this is our Emily.”

  The girl was beautiful. Her features were simple and smooth; her pale skin was virtually translucent. Her long black hair served, to highlight her flawless white complexion. She was a marble sculpture of what a little girl ought to look like, Ben thought, a Botticelli angel. And there was something else about her, he realized, a light, or a glow, that seemed to radiate from her.

  Ben suddenly felt embarrassed. He was romanticizing a little girl. And he was staring, too.

  “Good morning,” he said, smiling.

  Emily gazed at him with a puzzled expression. Her eyes didn’t quite seem to focus on his face. “Good morning, Mr. Kincaid. Have I met you before?”

  Ben blinked. “Uh, no, I don’t believe so.”

  “Oh,” Emily said. She looked around the office. “Have I been here before?”

  Jonathan Adams interrupted. “Good grief, girl. What a lot of questions. Just say hello.”

  Ben smiled. “It’s all right. I like to ask questions myself.” He took the pink woolen sweater she was holding and hung it on a hook behind the door. “How old are you, Emily?”

  “I’m five,” she said, and she held out five fingers.

  Five? Ben was no expert on children, but this girl appeared to be at least eight or nine. He saw Mr. and Mrs. Adams exchange another meaningful glance.

  Ben squatted down to her level. “And what grade are you in?”

  Emily giggled. “Not old enough for school, silly. Mommy dinn’t want me to go to kinnergarnen.”

  Bertha Adams looked out the office window.

  Emily abruptly changed the subject. “Do you play pat-a-cake?” She raised her hands with the palms outstretched and chanted. “Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man, bake me a cake as fast as you can—”

  Ben winked at Mrs. Adams. “I don’t think I know that one.”

  “I know more,” she said. She continued chanting in the same rhythmic pattern. “A bumblebee and reverie. It will do, if bees are few—”

  Mr. Adams interrupted. “Bertha, don’t you have her crayons or something?”

  “Yes.” She reached into her purse and pulled out an oversized book. “Emily, honey, I brought your coloring hook.”

  Emily turned and stared at the book. “What is this?”

  Bertha pressed the book into her hands. “It’s your coloring book, princess. We bought it just before we came here. And here are your colors. You take them and go sit in the lobby.”

  Emily frowned. “Don’t remember no lobby. Don’t know this place.”

  Bertha pointed out the door toward the lobby.

  “You won’t leave me, will you?”

  “Of course not, child,” Mr. Adams said. “Now you go sit down and wait for us. We need to talk to Mr. Kincaid here for a spell.”

  Ben rose to his full height; “Bye-bye, Emily. Maybe we can play again later.”

  Hesitantly, the girl started to leave.

  “Wait, Emily,” Ben said. “Don’t forget your sweater. It’s cool in the lobby. Air conditioning’s down too low.”

  She cocked her head at a slight angle. The puzzled expression again crossed her face.

  Ben took the sweater from the hook behind the door. “Remember this?”

  The girl looked at the sweater. “It’s pretty. Can I have it?”

  Ben looked at Mr. and Mrs. Adams, but their eyes were fixed on one another.

  “Of course,” he said, after a moment. He handed the girl her sweater.

  Bertha again pointed toward the lobby. “Now run along, dear.”

  Emily obeyed.

  Ben gestured for the couple to sit down in the orange corduroy chairs. There was an awkward pause as all parties considered the best means of broaching the obvious subject.

  Mr. Adams broke the silence. “You probably know this already, Mr. Kincaid—”

  “Call me Ben.” He felt ridiculous hearing a man thirty years his elder calling him mister.

  “Sure. As I was saying, Ben, I work for Joe Sanguine out at Sanguine Enterprises. I’m vice president in charge of new projects and development, have been for fourteen years. I go back even before Sanguine bought the outfit. ’Cept during the time I spent in California, I guess my title changed—”

  “Stick to the subject, Jonathan.”

  He grinned. “Yes, Bertha. Anyway, ’bout a year ago, I was scouting some real estate as a possible location for a new outlet in south Tulsa, out toward Jenks. Place was a vacant lot, out in the middle of nowhere. And who do I find wandering around out there but little Emily? She was filthy and so confused she didn’t know up from down. She knew her name was Emily and that she had a mommy she couldn’t describe somewhere, but that’s about it. Said she woke up nearby but didn’t know how she came to be there. Course I figured she was just kinda confused and disoriented from being abandoned.” He paused, and glanced at his wife. “Later, we found out just how bad it really was.”

  Ben tried to maintain an even, professional composure. “Is there…something wrong with Emily?”

  “Yeah, there sure enough is.” He rubbed his hands against his cheeks, as if rousing himself. “Korsakov’s syndrome.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “That’s what the doctors call it. Korsakov’s syndrome. With some visual agnosia. Emily has no long-term memory. In fact, she has no short-term memory, really. Anything you say to her or show her, she’ll forget as soon as you or it are out of sight. Maybe sooner.” He paused. “Emily lives only in the present. And she doesn’t live there for long.”

  Ben nodded, although he certainly did not understand. “Why does she think she’s five years old?”

  “Because that’s the last time she remembers,” Adams answered. “That’s when her memory shuts down. Before that, her memory is more or less intact. Course, there’s not really much she can tell you—what do you expect from the memory of a five-year-old kid? Plus there’s the visual agnosia. She doesn’t seem to see faces. Or if she does, she can’t describe them. Can’t put it into words. Can’t draw you a picture.”

  He rubbed his hand against his forehead and brushed back his white hair. “After some point in the year she was five—nothing. She can’t even tell you what happened an hour ago. That’s why, first thing, she asked you, ‘Have I met you before?’ She can’t remember.”

  “She still asks me that sometimes,” Bertha added, “and she’s been living with us almost a year now.” Her stoic expression did not break, but Ben could see her sadness ran deep.

  “She’s pretty good with voices, though,” Jonathan added. “After a month or so, she began to recognize the sound of Bertha and me. Now, once she hears our voices, she seems to remember, at least a little bit, and trust us.”

  “I never heard of such a thing,” Ben said.

  “It’s a rare brain disorder, according to the docs. An extreme form of amnesia. Usually occurs as a result of alcoholism.”

  Ben’s face wrinkled. “But Emily couldn’t have been—”

  “No, Ben, she couldn’t have been an alcoholic. It can also be caused by a blow to the head, a brain tumor, or anything else that might cause a”—he took a deep breath, as if gearing up for the big words—“neurological dysfunction.”

  “She’s been to see doctors, men?”

  “Yes, of course.” A tinge of irritation, or frustration, crept into his voice. “She’s been checked by damn near every neurologist in the Southwest. EEGs, blood tests, CAT scans, psychotropic drugs, the whole dog-and-pony show. No visible sign of brain damage. But then, they explain, the atrophying of the tiny … mammillary bodies in the brain that causes this disorder probably wouldn’t show up on any of their tests.”

  “Kind of makes you wonder why they take the gruesome things in the first place,” Bertha added quietly. There was no humor in her voice.

  “Then no one has any idea what caused this?” Ben asked.

  “There is a theory,” Adams said hesitantly, “though no real proof, that the syndrome can result from what the docs call … hysterical … or fugal amnesia. Meaning that Emily experienced some traumatic event too awful to remember. Something her mind wants to avoid. So it hasn’t remembered anything since.”

  Ben felt embarrassed about his earlier snap judgment. Jonathan Adams was obviously an intelligent man. “That might explain why her memory stops at age five,” Ben said. “But what could happen to a five-year-old girl that would be too horrible to remember?”

  Bertha’s head was lowered. “I hope she never remembers,” she said quietly. “We try not to dwell on it. We love our little Emily and the thought—” She stopped, and her face tightened. She returned her gaze to a fixed spot on the carpet.

  “May not have happened when she was five,” Adams added, covering the silence. “With Korsakov’s syndrome, sometimes the erosion of memory goes both ways. It moves not only forward but backward from the time of the trauma.”

  The room fell silent. Ben wished to God he had a cactus or calendar or something in the office to which he could divert his attention. After a moment, he realized he had become so engrossed in the discussion of Emily’s disorder that he had totally failed to explore the legal matter at hand.

  He cleared his throat. “Forgive me for changing the subject, Mr. and Mrs. Adams, but I was told that you were seeking advice on an adoption matter. Do you want to adopt Emily?”

  “Yes,” Bertha said, not looking up.

  “You know, Ben,” Jonathan said, “this is probably going to sound ridiculous, but I’m just a feeble old coot so I’m entitled to a little ridiculousness every now and then. I don’t think it’s any secret how we feel about our little Emily. Took to her from the first moment I saw her in that vacant lot.”

  “Well, if you’re sure, then—”

  “We know what you’re thinking, Mr. Kincaid,” Bertha interrupted. “Don’t you think it’s crossed our minds? Why adopt such a bundle of trouble? Especially at our age. It’s not as if she’s ever going to be attached to us.” She released a short, unhappy laugh. “She can barely remember who we are.”

  Jonathan Adams gently laid his hand upon his wife’s and squeezed.

  “But we love her, Mr. Kincaid, we truly do.” For the first time, the strong woman’s voice cracked. “We never had any children of our own. Couldn’t.” She took a deep breath and tried to regain control. “And then, long after I’d given up any hope of children, Jonathan comes home with little Emily. I’ve spent the last year watching her drift from one moment to the next. And I’ve been happy, mostly.” She sunk back into the folds of her coat. “She’s mine how. And I want to keep her.”

  Ben looked at the woman, men looked away. At last, the impenetrable fortress had been breached. She began to cry.

  4

  BEN CALLED MAGGIE AND asked her to bring in soft drinks. After some minor grumbling and a five-minute delay, she appeared with three cans of Coke Classic. As the sodas were served, small talk replaced the previous serious conversation. Ben could feel the tension in the room diminishing.

  “She doesn’t always seem so … unfocused, you know,” Jonathan said. “You should see her when she listens to music. We’ll play a record, and her entire personality changes. She seems completely absorbed.”

  “Same thing in church,” Bertha added. “When the organ is playing, and they’re taking communion.”

  “She becomes absorbed in the ritual,” Jonathan continued. “She likes helping me garden, too. Seems to like repeating the same act over and over. Makes her feel comfortable.” He sipped from his Coke. “It’s a wonderful thing to see, Mr. Kincaid. All of a sudden, she’s not the restless, lost child you saw a moment ago.”

  “I can’t believe you’ve had Emily for almost a year without getting caught up in bureaucratic red tape,” Ben said.

  Jonathan and Bertha eyed one another. “Well, when we first found Emily, we reported it to the police, of course,” Jonathan said. He took another swallow of his Coke. “They claimed they made an investigation and to no one’s surprise told us they hadn’t the foggiest idea who she was. They told us to take her to the Department of Human Services. We … uh … forgot.” Jonathan winked in his wife’s direction.

  “But even if you were already attached to Emily,” Ben said, “you should have turned her over to the child welfare authorities and then applied to adopt her.”

  Bertha shook her head. “What would be the point? Let me tell you something, Mr. Kincaid. I’m fifty-nine years old. Jonathan is sixty-one. We’ve never had children before. They wouldn’t let us adopt a puppy, much less a sweet thing like Emily.”

  “And as time went on,” Jonathan added, “we realized just how permanent, how … devastating, Emily’s condition really was. They probably wouldn’t put her up for adoption at all. They’d put her in one of those homes for special children. I’ve heard about what goes on in those homes, Mr. Kincaid. We couldn’t let that happen to our Emily. We just couldn’t.”

  Ben frowned. He was hearing damaging information that he knew wouldn’t help their case at an adoption hearing.

  “So we kept Emily at home,” Jonathan continued. “Told the few neighbors we know she was the daughter of a mythical niece of Bertha’s in Kansas City. It worked for a while. But you know how neighbors are.” His voice took on a shrill tone. “ ‘Why isn’t little Emily in school? When is that niece from Kansas City coming back for her? Maybe the Adamses are one of those old couples that snatch kids in shopping malls.’ ” He paused. “Eventually, someone called the police.”

  Bertha smiled wryly. “We got rid of the nosy Parker with a lot of tea and sincere-sounding balderdash. Or so we thought. I guess our luck couldn’t hold out forever.” Bertha reached down beside her chair and withdrew a long sheet of paper from her purse. “Some rude young man wearing dark sunglasses served this on us last week.”

  Ben took the sheet of paper from her. It was a court order commanding Bertha and Jonathan to show cause why Emily shouldn’t be taken from them and placed in the custody of the Department of Human Services. The hearing was set for the following Friday.

  While Ben reviewed the order, Greg suddenly burst through his office door.

  “Hey, Ben, we’re taking a poll on Marianne’s name—” He saw the Adamses and froze. “Whoops! I didn’t know you had visitors.” He looked mortified.

  “Greg,” Ben said, “this is Jonathan and Bertha Adams. Jonathan is a senior vice president at Sanguine Enterprises.”

  “Really.” Greg looked awkwardly at Jonathan, then shook his hand. “Nice to meet you.” He turned away hurriedly. “Well, Marianne doesn’t have to commit until lunchtime. I’ll come by later when you’re not busy.” He slunk backward out the door. Ben heard him mutter to. Maggie in the hallway, “Geez, he’s only been here two hours and he’s already talking to clients!”

  “Is that young man a lawyer here?” Jonathan asked.

  “Strange but true,” Ben said. He returned his attention to the court order. “Everything seems to be in order. The DHS is apparently taking this very seriously.”

  “Isn’t there anything you can do, Mr. Kincaid?” Bertha asked.

  At last, Ben realized, it was time to try to sound like a lawyer. “Of course we’ll appear at the hearing on your behalf and try to convince the court it would be in the child’s best interests to remain with you. We’ll make a formal request for adoption. Other than that, there’s not much we can do. I’m afraid the procedures for adoptions are rather rigid. And it won’t look good when they tell the court that you kept Emily for a year without reporting to the DHS.” He paused. “The best approach would be to go to court with a consensual adoption. But for that, we’d have to know who her mother or father is and obtain their consent.”