She eyed the big red file folder I held at my chest, bit the bottom corner of her lip. “Why should I trust you?”

“Who else do you have?”

“It will be fine, Theresa,” said Beth. “As long as you can convince the judge that you’ve really changed, we have a great shot for some sort of joint custody.”

“Can we trust the judge?”

“Judge Sistine is impeccably fair and absolutely fearless,” I said. “She might be wrong, but never for the wrong reasons.”

“Just tell the truth,” said Beth. “If the judge thinks you’re hiding anything, it can really hurt your cause.”

“Okay. I’ll try.”

“Trying isn’t good enough,” I said. “Whatever happens in there, it’s okay to show your anger, it’s okay to show your sadness, it’s okay to show the whole gamut of your emotions, but tell the truth.”

“And you think the truth will get me back my daughter?”

“It’s the only thing that can,” I said.

There was a bustle in the hallway as a small crowd came our way. It was led by a tall gray man in an expensive suit. He was accompanied by a lovely younger woman who held on to his arm, three men with dark suits and briefcases, and a perfectly coiffed man swathed in sharkskin. This last I had dealt with before. His name was Arthur Gullicksen, and the material of his suit was entirely appropriate.

“Victor?” he said as he approached. “I’m surprised to see you here. I thought Beth was handling this case.”

“She’s my partner,” I said, “which means we work together on everything. She asked me to help, and so here I am.”

“That’s just fine,” said Gullicksen, letting his gaze stray from my eyes to the big red file folder. “Have you met Bradley Hewitt?”

“No, I haven’t,” I said.

After Gullicksen made the introductions, the tall gray man said, “I’ve heard about you, Mr. Carl.” His voice was incredibly deep and rich, almost as rich as his suit.

“Nothing bad, I hope.”

“So many of us, I suppose, hope in vain,” he said. He didn’t smile as he said it, and yet his expression wasn’t unkind. It was as if all of us were together in an unpleasant situation that was not of our own making, all of us but one. When he turned his gaze upon Theresa, something shifted in his expression. Theresa seemed to wilt under his attention, until she turned and fled into the courtroom.

“She just wants to be able to spend time with Belle,” said Beth.

“You think that’s best for my daughter?” said Hewitt.

“A girl needs her mother,” said Beth.

“But not that mother,” said Bradley Hewitt.

“Do you have a second, Victor?” said Gullicksen.

I glanced at Beth, who nodded me on, and so Gullicksen and I huddled at the far end of the hallway, out of earshot of the rest of the crowd.

“You know, of course, that this is a mistake,” he said. “I could understand a motion like this coming from Beth. She has a reputation for not worrying about political realities, but I’m surprised to see you involved.”

“We are representing a woman who simply wants to live with her daughter again. What political reality am I missing?”

“Mr. Hewitt is an intriguing man, with connections to the highest levels of government.”

“And he used that power to force a mother to give up her child.”

“He used that power to protect his daughter from a woman who didn’t know how to care for her. All your client wants now is the money that comes with custody. Be aware that my client will continue to protect his daughter by any means necessary.”

“Is that a threat? Because I’ve been expecting one, Arthur, from the moment I got involved.”

“Not a threat at all, Victor,” said Gullicksen. “Just a friendly piece of advice. Mr. Hewitt is willing to allow supervised visitations for your client.”

“She already turned that down. We want joint custody, fifty-fifty.”

“Too bad. I hate to keep a mother from at least seeing her child. What’s in the file you so carefully clutch to your chest?”

“Oh, odds and ends,” I said.

“I have a red file folder of my own. It’s a neat trick. I couldn’t help noticing that you’re involved in a highly sensitive case involving a fugitive and a painting. I hope nothing that happens here will in any way interfere with your efforts on behalf of your other client.”

“Now, that does sound like a threat.”

“As I said, Mr. Hewitt has much influence and many friends. Including Mr. Spurlock of the Randolph Trust.”

“Let’s keep our focus on a mother trying to regain her daughter.”

“Okay, Victor, then I must ask. What do you really know about Theresa Wellman?”

“She had a rough patch,” I said, “but she says she’s changed.”

“Is that what she says?” Gullicksen smiled at me like I had just told an amusing little anecdote. “Tell me, Victor, when did you start believing in the Easter Bunny?”

Judge Sistine was a large, humorless woman with the forearms of a bear. She sat stone-faced on the bench, taking notes, as I questioned Theresa Wellman. I sneaked glances up at her every now and then to see how Theresa’s story was playing, but Judge Sistine was too good a jurist to show her hand. Still, I had little doubt that the testimony was having an effect.

It was Theresa doing the telling, that’s the way it is in direct examination, but it was my questions that created the setting, that decided where was the beginning, that maintained the pace, that ensured the telling details made it into the record, that slowed everything down at the most emotionally painful parts, giving Theresa the space she needed to break into tears. Nothing lubricates the wheels of justice like a few tears.

It was the classic story of a girl, sheltered and innocent, who is swept off her feet and into a fast and thrilling lifestyle by an older, wealthy man. Gullicksen objected from the start, claiming that none of this was relevant to the matter at hand, but I stated that the background was crucially important, and the judge agreed with me. So I put it all out there and on the record, the parties, the travel, the fine clothes, the luxury apartment, the important people who were suddenly paying attention. It was glamorous, it was exotic, it was simply too fabulous for a young girl from West Philly to turn down. A fantasy come true, with a darkness at the center, because at the center of it all was the unequal relationship between the young woman and the powerful, older man, Bradley Hewitt.

“Let’s go into some details about these parties you mentioned, Theresa,” I said. “Was there drinking?”

“Oh, yes. Wine at dinner, of course, Bradley liked his wine. Often champagne. Liqueurs after dinner and then more champagne or maybe really fine Scotch.”

“Did you drink much before meeting Mr. Hewitt?”

“My parents weren’t drinkers.”

“But you drank with Mr. Hewitt.”

“He developed my taste.”

“Were there any other intoxicants at these parties?”

“Marihuana,” she said. “Cocaine often. Pills.”

“Did you have much experience with drugs before meeting Mr. Hewitt?”

“No, not really.”

“You grew up in West Philly, isn’t that right?”

“I went to a parochial school, Mr. Carl. The nuns were very strict.”

“Did Bradley partake of drugs at these parties?”

“Not so much, but he encouraged the others. And he encouraged me. Strongly. He said he liked having sex when I was stoned.”

“And you acquiesced to his requests.”

“Yes.”

Slowly, we went through the hints of violence, the cheating, the humiliations, the verbal abuse. I didn’t have her go into the physical abuse, since there were no witnesses to it, Bradley Hewitt would just deny it, and I wasn’t quite sure if I believed it anyway. Instead we focused on the pregnancy, Bradley Hewitt’s demand that Theresa have an abortion, her refusal, the bitter end of the fantasy as the relationship died. The birth, the sporadic support from the new child’s father, his complete lack of interest in the baby, her need for more child support, the petition, the response, the fear, the decision to give up her custodial rights in exchange for a financial settlement.