Diane knew her argument would only go downhill from there. The State had not yet secured a new foster placement for Kiley. She was staying in a group home, the youngest of all the children there.
Then it was Hobbins’s turn. The conviction of Chance’s wife and initiation of TPR hearings had been the wake-up call the father needed, she said. After some initial relapses, he had been clean for five months. He still denied all knowledge of his wife’s crimes, but he had been willing to let Kiley go with Janice Miller because the woman had been there for his daughter when he had not. But now Miller was gone, and he was finally in a position to parent.
“Miss Hobbins, does your client live in a residence suitable for the child to be there now?”
“Yes, Your Honor. He has a private apartment with subsidization through Section Eight. It is a one-bedroom; Kiley would have the bedroom, and he would sleep in the living room. Were he granted custodial status, he would qualify for additional subsidization. He has a social worker through his drug rehabilitation program, and she would assist him in securing a two-bedroom. He is working part-time as a janitor at Portland State, but his sister has agreed to watch Kiley while he is at work.”
Diane remembered the sister. She’d refused to take Kiley in because “my food stamps barely cover my own three kids, and you people don’t pay foster parents for shit.”
“And what does Kiley want?” The judge directed his question to the guardian ad litem.
“Your Honor, she’s not even three years old,” Diane said.
“I didn’t ask if she wanted to run off and live with Santa Claus. I’m simply asking a question of our assigned guardian ad litem, since presumably she needs to justify her public-interest salary here today. Is that all right with you, Miss Light? Am I allowed to ask a question?”
The guardian ad litem’s role was to advocate directly for Kiley, but in this case, Diane believed that the prosecution was doing precisely that.
Diane took a deep breath and forced herself to nod deferentially. She waited while the guardian ad litem rushed through the basics. In some ways, Kiley was lucky to have suffered the abuse at such at a young age. The psychiatrists said she was unlikely to retain any conscious long-term memory of the incidents.
She tested at below-average intelligence — most likely a consequence of her mother’s prenatal drug use — but the experts attributed her delayed speech to the lack of environmental stimulation prior to her placement with Miss Miller. She had recently shown some willingness to vocalize but had become distracted and unresponsive in the two days since her move to the group home. She had seen her father six times during the last three months with the consent and supervision of her foster mom. According to the monitoring social worker, she demonstrated a “natural fondness” for him and “clearly recognized that he played some role in her life.”
Kiley’s father said, “I just want one more chance to be her dad, Judge. I promise you on my life that I will not mess it up this time. Please, sir.
“Baby steps, Mr. Chance. We’ll start with five-hour days with you, one hour supervised. She’ll remain at the group home at night. We’ll hear again from all parties in two weeks and make a decision then.”
“Your Honor, that’s four hours a day without supervision,” Diane protested.
“I’m aware of basic math, Miss Light.”
“But the best interests of the child —”
“— require some consistency for this little girl. The biological mother is in prison. The foster mother just died. She has one person left, and he stands here by all accounts a changed — and acquitted — man. You have nothing to offer but a group home filled with juvenile delinquents.”
“I can offer myself, Your Honor. I’ll take her if that’s the only option. You can’t put her back with this man.”
“Good Lord, Miss Light. Get control of yourself. I recognize your indignation, and it’s on the record. There’s no need to be hyperbolic.”
“It’s not hyperbole, Your Honor. I’ve been on this case for ten months. I handled the criminal prosecution. I have shepherded the case through the family court process. I went to Miss Miller’s home multiple times to talk to her about the adoption. He’s seen Kiley — what, six times since this all happened? I’ve seen her on at least twenty occasions. Does he even know her favorite stuffed animal? It’s a raccoon. Its name is Coo-Coo. It was one of the only times Kiley repeated after her speech therapists — she tried to say
The courtroom fell silent. Even Diane could not believe her outburst. In all those hours studying the file, she had never once considered the possibility. But suddenly every piece fell into place. There was a reason she had been the major-crimes attorney assigned to the trial. There was a reason she had requested the transfer from criminal court to the family law unit. Maybe there was even a reason Janice Miller had been hit by a drunk driver.
Diane could do this. She could be a good mother to that girl. She and Kiley could be a family. The two of them, together.
Stone cleared his throat before speaking. “Well, that’s very noble of you, Miss Light, but the best interests of the child value biological connections. Let’s give Kiley a chance at a life with her father. I hope I’m not wrong about you, Mr. Chance.”
“You’re not, sir. I promise you, you’re not. Thank you. Thank you so, so much.”
Chance grabbed both of Hobbins’s hands and shook them hard. Diane saw the defense attorney’s eyes tear up and wanted to slap her.
THREE WEEKS LATER, Kiley officially moved in with her father full-time. Kiley’s clothing and Coo-Coo were packed into a black Hefty bag at the group home. A social worker drove her and the bag to Chance’s recently rented two-bedroom apartment, outfitted with a new twin bed for Kiley, and left her there.
DIANE STARTED HER car engine, searching for the comfort of the radio. All that silence made the minutes tick by too slowly. Where the hell was Jake?
The guy leaving the Wendy’s was looking at her. He saw her notice him. He smiled.
She still wasn’t used to that kind of smile from a man. She had spent her entire life as the type of girl men looked away from. Or if one looked, the glance would be followed by a nudge of his buddy, then a wisecrack and guilty giggle.
At least they usually had the courtesy to keep their voices down. Well, not that one time, back in law school. She’d worn her knee-length purple sweater tunic to class. Even with the black leggings, it was a bold fashion choice. She’d thought she looked pretty good until she heard the male voices singing in the undergrad quad, “I love you, you love me . . .” Maybe she would have managed to forget the incident — the day abandoned somewhere in the recesses of her mind like that enormous sweater discarded in the bathroom garbage can — but someone had yelled, “Barney!” as she walked the stage at commencement. To this day, she couldn’t see that big purple dinosaur without wanting to eat a pint of Haagen-Dazs.
Her cell phone buzzed on the console. A text message illuminated the screen. It was from Mark.
Mark and Mindy. Just the sound of it was ridiculous. Diane had spent nearly thirty years with the man, and now her relationship with Mark was nothing but logistics hammered out through misspellings and abbreviations. She hit Delete.
Where the fuck was Jake?
Maybe pulling Jake into this had been too big a risk. At one point, they’d had something resembling a friendly relationship, albeit based on reciprocal compensation: He was her favorite informant; she was his benefactor in the drug unit. Relying on and rewarding the cooperation of criminals was one of the ugly realities of her job, but as drug dealers went, Jake wasn’t so bad. He sold only to adults and only in small quantities. Most important — for her purposes, at least — he always kept his ears and eyes open for information that he could trade for a get-out-of-jail- free card.
Jake was so well connected to Portland’s white crack trade that she’d gone to him last January hoping he
