“Right down here,” the man said, abandoning his small construction project. “He expecting ya?”
“Yes, we have an appointment.”
“Whoa, Cardinal!” he shouted to a spotted puppy that appeared out of nowhere and peed onto the floor as the handyman snagged him. “What-cho doing loose?” He called out for “Evelyn,” but received no answer. “Just down on your left,” he advised his guests, raising his voice. “I best handle the Cardinal and his little mistake.”
A professorial man wearing a checked shirt, brown corduroy pants and brown bucks greeted them from a distance, drawn by the handyman’s voice. “Bernard Montevette,” he introduced himself.
They shook hands all around. Montevette was a short man with kind eyes, half the hair he wanted and a delicious New Orleans slur to his words. A chandelier fan paddled the air languidly, gently cooling the rich, wood- paneled walls, the fading green carpet and the few antiques. The slow, lazy propeller strobed soft shadows down onto the room’s walnut table that sat away from Montevette’s enormous partners’ desk. “Don’t get out-of-town police as a rule. Can’t think of the last time, and I’ve been involved with Charlemagne-well, I am, in fact, only the home’s fourth director in its one-hundred-and-seventeen-year history; the first and only director to have been a former resident here.”
“One of the boys?” Daphne inquired.
“Exactly. And the Charlemagne has the proud distinction of being the only boys’ home in the country not to accept public funds. We operate privately from an endowment established just after the Second World War.” The way he regarded them, Daphne had the uneasy feeling he was considering them as a couple intent on adopting a son. This was the first time the idea came to her of how to save Trudy Kittridge. It struck her all at once-a whole and complete plan-as only the best ideas hit her. She wanted to steal Boldt away immediately and run it by him.
“We’re involved in an active investigation, Dr. Montevette,” Boldt said, “that requires some discretion.”
“Yes, so Ms. Matthews informed me earlier.” He met eyes with each of them; his were an icy gray blue. “I am at your service, sir.”
“Illegal adoption,” Daphne reminded.
“Yes, so you said.”
Daphne explained, “How one might go about it here in New Orleans. Successfully, that is. The way the law works-”
“Or doesn’t,” Boldt added.
“Private adoption,” Montevette supplied, nodding. “I believe I have someone on my staff who might be able to help us. If you don’t mind?”
“Not at all,” Daphne answered.
He summoned a “Miss Lucy” over the phone. Announcing that she would join them shortly, he added, “The fact of the matter is that private adoption is something we all must contend with-that is, adoptions not arranged through a state organization. Private adoption is less regulated than state-arranged, although it still requires court appearances and proper paperwork. It is far more susceptible to human greed and abuse. What I think you will find here in New Orleans,”-
“Paperwork?” Daphne asked.
“More than just paperwork,” Montevette explained. “In the surrender of a child, the biological mother is required to make a court appearance in front of a sitting judge. She is advised by the judge that she is surrendering the child in perpetuity, and in a court of law, and that she is also surrendering her right to any legal recourse in the future. This is a fairly recent law, and one that has proved to simplify and qualify the process-a great improvement, I might add. At the time of adoption, a birth certificate is required, along with the document attesting to this court appearance and the surrender of the child. If the mother’s medical costs are to be reimbursed, a copy of the medical bills are submitted. Ah! Miss Lucy! Come in, please. Won’t you join us?” Montevette jumped to his feet and pulled back a chair for the young black woman. Miss Lucy Penneford wore a soft yellow dress and too much violet eye shadow. Her skin wrinkled when she smiled widely.
“Pleased to meet you,” she said to them.
Montevette caught her up to date. “… how an illegal adoption might be carried out … And I was recalling that shake-up we had down to City Hall last year and how you-”
“Oh, yes. I think I can explain that,” she said. She had an even thicker accent than Montevette. Her voice played musically in the room. The fan worked dark shadows across her face. The air smelled faintly of lavender. She had brought it with her.
She said, “It had evidently been going on for years. They worked down to the city office … what is that called?”
“The Bureau of Vital Statistics,” Montevette supplied.
Daphne had the feeling Montevette knew more of the story, more of the answers, than he was willing to admit. She wondered why.
Miss Lucy continued, “And you know all those girls work for minimum wage down there, and it’s just plain tough on minimum wage. Some man comes along and offers you a hundred dollars to process a birth certificate, and there’s not a lot of thought that needs to be done on the subject.”
“Which is just what was happening,” Montevette contributed.
“Been going on for years, come to find out. Decades maybe. You need a birth certificate for a child, you simply come up with the hundred dollars.”
“No adoption at all,” Daphne said, amazed at the simplicity of the scam.
“No need,” replied Montevette. “You obtain a fraudulent birth certificate for the child in your name, and he or she is legally a member of your family. Who’s to question it?”
“It allows the mother to be paid for more than just hospital costs,” Miss Lucy explained.
Boldt said, “It creates a viable black market.”
Montevette agreed. “But it was closed down.”
“I knew some of them girls,” Miss Lucy told them. “Some of them is still doing time for that. And believe you me, that was the last of it. Don’t even ask, Miss Matthews, because I can see you’re about to, aren’t you? That was the last of it. Honestly. They cracked down hard on those girls.”
“But there are other ways,” Boldt said, fishing for a back door through which he might locate the Pied Piper or his accomplice.
“Oh there are!” Miss Lucy said cheerily. “Another one I’ve heard about is this missing father thing.” She explained to blank looks, “A single mother has a child and does not list a father on the birth certificate. Happens all the time. Either she wants no part of the man that put her in that condition, or she don’t know who done it to her anyway. Maybe she’s a drug addict, or in some other way where she don’t exactly want the child no more. The way they do it, she sells a man-a complete stranger-the chance to put his name onto the birth certificate as the lawful father. Now this is the legal birth certificate we’re talking about. This stranger is now the legal father of that child and has custody rights to that child, custody rights that she is willing to surrender for a price. It’s a common means of adoption in the minority communities, believe me. Middle-class Cajun or blacks buy a blood right to a child. Cheap and easy.”
“But not only with blacks,” Daphne said.
“No, you’re right. White trash, too. Maybe some suburban teenage kids. Thing is, it’s legal of course,” she smiled, “as long as you ain’t found out by no DNA test.”
“Do the attorneys need special training, licenses, anything like that?” Boldt asked.
Montevette answered. “As far as I know, in Louisiana there are court fees to be paid, paperwork that must be filed. It’s a specialty field, but by choice, not requirement.”
“And if an attorney desired to bypass certain elements in the process?” Boldt asked.
“I see what you’re driving at. Sure do. But he couldn’t arrange a legal adoption without a judge on his side because of the requirement of a court appearance. Flat out, could not do it.”
“But with a judge in his pocket?” Daphne asked.
Montevette and Miss Lucy exchanged looks. Miss Lucy said, “Miss Matthews, Louisiana ain’t exactly like other places. An expression like that-it’s offensive.”
Montevette explained, “Let me tell you how we operate in New Orleans, Ms. Matthews. I have a little family
