If he was stealing from his own mother, why didn’t she confront him or report him to police? Maybe she was waiting patiently for her son to clean up. In the end, a friend’s sister was the whistle-blower. She discovered that her brother and Wyatt were stealing her blank checks, forging them, and cashing them at a local bank in amounts of $120 or $150. With police guidance, she agreed to a traffic stop in a designated location while her brother sat shotgun. They led police to Jacobson, who consented to be searched. His addiction was little secret to anybody, it seems. He stored a tourniquet, alcohol prep pads, and a syringe in his front jeans pocket. Police cuffed him and carried him away, each arrest like déjà vu. Not only was his probation revoked, but Jacobson also tallied three party to the crime of forgery and possession of drug paraphernalia charges. From jail, he began writing letters to friends, begging them to smuggle smack to visitation hour. His mail could be opened and read at any time, and his letters gave credence to investigators’ suspicions that he might try to smuggle heroin himself.
When technicians in Radiology laid him on the gurney, maybe they hoped they’d find the balloon-tied finger of a latex glove or a condom-wrapped baggie of smack. They studied his stomach and intestines for anomalous white shapes, but they were disappointed to report that Wyatt Jacobson was clean. Maybe they were relieved. But good news for Wyatt was bad news for the cops. Their suspicions were unfounded, their surveillance wasted.
In the following months, Ryan negotiated with the district attorney, explaining Agnes’s good intentions, and neither Agnes nor Wyatt was charged with bail jumping. In totality, though, Jacobson was sentenced to twenty-four months in prison, and Ryan assured Agnes that Wyatt could get out early if he completed his treatment plan while incarcerated.
In the case of Lucy Vasquez, the state of California refused to extradite her, a judge stating he was shocked and disappointed in Wisconsin’s actions, given court orders in California, and considering that Lucy made a good-faith effort to follow those California orders awarding her custody of Callum. She was released from custody, but in turn, the judge ordered her to return with Callum “of her own recognizance” to resolve these matters on Remy’s home turf.
When Lucy’s family had retained Ryan, he wrote a letter to the district attorney in Green Bay asking for dismissal of criminal charges against her, documenting the fact that Lucy filed for divorce in California, that Remy was served, and he never appeared. Even though that order was overruled by Wisconsin, Lucy had relied on it to guide her actions.
“This is a civil matter now. Ms. Vasquez has retained my office to sort it out in family court, which is the proper venue here.”
Ryan’s request was granted, and therein began the epic battle of territories, the Land of Milk and Honey versus the Cheese State, each volleying for jurisdiction in Callum’s fate. From time to time, Ryan would joke that this case required “real lawyering”—in other words, that he couldn’t rely on his quick wit and storytelling to “save a client’s ass,” usually the only gadgets in his toolbox when his clients looked guilty as charged.
“Things aren’t looking so hot for my California kidnapping case,” he told me. I knew his casework by crime, label, or nickname.
“What’s the problem?”
“Well, by my legal research, it looks like Wisconsin will win on jurisdiction. She will definitely lose the home-court advantage.”
Ryan was ultimately proven correct. Despite his recommendation that the California divorce and custody order remain in effect permanently, Green Bay was the final site for resolution. Mysteriously, though Lucy had fled with Callum to California to keep him safe from Remy, when the guardian ad litem, appointed by the judge to represent Callum’s best interests, recommended fifty-fifty custody—that is, equal parenting rights and privileges for Lucy and Remy, so long as Lucy stayed in Wisconsin—Lucy opted for California instead. She eventually left Callum behind to be raised primarily by the very father she’d accused of recklessness and abuse.
“What?” I asked Ryan. Why on earth would Lucy Vasquez travel such an enormous distance, risking criminal charges, if she would give up the fight for her son’s well-being? Wouldn’t she want to remain close to oversee his safety? Was it possible that, like other mothers we’d met through Ryan’s work in criminal defense, she had exaggerated the fear factor, or more disheartening yet, had thrown in the towel, exhausted by her fruitless attempt to fight the system?
One day, right after Fern was born, I forgot eggs on the stovetop, left home, and almost torched our Hazel Street house. When Ryan arrived home from work, smoke hung from the ceiling like black petticoats. He grabbed the plastic handle of our stockpot with an oven mitt, ran it outside, and sprayed it with the hose. What remained of the eggs looked like shriveled black testicles, and he stared into the pot for a moment before remembering our dog, Mr. Owen, not yet deceased. Ryan called out several times before the curly black beast tumbled like a charred effigy from upstairs. He had been hiding in our closet and had survived.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Ryan screamed when we arrived home from the YMCA. “There could be twenty thousand dollars worth of smoke damage inside. The furniture, the curtains, the clothes—it’s probably all garbage. We might as well haul it out to the curb.” He
