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I went through my mail, searching for answers to interrogatories I’d sent weeks ago in a messy, slow-moving divorce—one of those cases you regret taking the moment you find out who the other attorney is. Steve Woodrow, aka “Slippery Steve,” was living down to his reputation. I’d called Steve several times about the answers he owed, only to end up in voice mail. He had never returned my calls. I dialed, got his voice mail again, and left another message. It took all my self-control not to pepper the message with expletives.
I didn’t see a cashier’s check or money order from Shanae Jackson for her child support case. No tickee, no laundry. It was Thursday—only two days since we’d met. I’d give her until Monday. After that, we’d have to talk. Maybe her brother wasn’t as obliging about paying my retainer as she’d expected.
I was wrapping up for the day when the phone rang. Could it be Slippery Steve returning a message? Dream on, I thought, picking up the phone.
“Ms. McRae?” The voice was deep and unfamiliar. “My name is William Jackson. I’m Shanae Jackson’s brother.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Jackson?” I steeled myself to give a polite, but firm, “no” to any hard-luck story.
“My sister . . . ” His voice broke. “My sister is dead.”
I was too stunned to speak. “D-d-dead? What happened?”
“She was murdered. Someone beat her to death with a softball bat las’ night.” His words slurred. I wondered if he’d been drinking. “A neighbor found her this mornin’. Her back door was open and she jus’ walked in and found her on the kitchen floor.” He took a deep breath and sighed. “I drove down here from New York right after I heard.”
“Oh, my God. I’m so sorry. Was it a break-in?”
“I don’t know. Cops didn’t tell me nuthin’. They did say they couldn’t find a purse or identification. The neighbor knew her from her clothes and a cross she wore on a chain. Her face . . . ” Again, his voice cut off. I could hear the pain in it—and in his silence. “Her face was smashed in. I could barely recognize her myself,” he sobbed.
I took a moment to absorb the horror of the situation. How would Tina deal with her mother’s murder? If Shanae had been found that morning, she must have been killed sometime after Tina left for school. I hoped the police had contacted Tina’s school or her father before the girl came home.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Jackson. Is Tina all right? Where will she stay?” Concern aside, I needed to note the change of address in her file.
“She supposed to stay with her father. So, she’s all right—kinda.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means the man may say she’s stayin’ there, but half the time, she ain’t gonna be there.”
“Where else would she be?”
“Who knows? She might stay with friends, but that don’t mean much. I don’t know these friends. I don’t know how far to trust ’em.” He paused. I could hear his labored breathing. “I think Tina’s fallen in with a bad crowd, Ms. McRae. I told Shanae it was just a matter of time before she got into trouble. And Rodney ain’t gonna lif’ a finger to stop her.”
“Hold it, hold it.” I tried to stem the flow of his words with a question. “Why do you think he’s the one to blame for Tina’s behavior?”
“Tina's problems started after Shanae went into the drug program, you know. When she was livin’ with Rodney.”
I thought about that. “According to someone familiar with Shanae’s history, she was abusing Tina. That in itself could have contributed—”
“I’m telling you it started with Rodney!” He wasn’t going to hear otherwise, regardless of the facts. “I told Shanae, what with her working two jobs, taking care of Tina was too much for her. I even offered to take the child in with me, cause she knows her Un
cle Bill won’t take any of her grief. But Shanae wouldn’t hear it. Maybe she weren’t much of a mother, but she loved that girl.”
I took notes for my file, the cynic in me wondering if Shanae held onto Tina for love or money. Fisher had paid some child support, even if it wasn’t all that he owed. Shanae had been getting some financial benefit from having custody of Tina. She might not have wanted to give it up.
“So what’s her dad’s number? In case I need to reach Tina.”
He gave me Fisher’s home and work phone. “But you’d be better off calling her cell phone,” he added.
I hadn’t thought to get her cell phone number when we met. I forgot that every kid has one. Uncle Bill gave me the number.
“If Tina listens to you,” I said, “you should encourage her to stay home and out of trouble.” At least, until we get her current situation resolved, my inner cynic interjected.
“I’ll do what I can. And now I need you to do something for me.”
“What’s that?”
“I want to be Tina’s guardian. I want you to handle it.”
