Burnt Offering

It was Seattle, all that means is that it was cloudy with a slow drizzle spattering against the 22nd floor window of my attorney’s office. Madelaine was 85 years old, with silver hair, a slow southern drawl and brown eyes. She had been a dress maker once and had found her true love with a butcher. “He ruined it when he had that heart attack,” she had told me. Twenty years after his death, she still carried a torch for him.

“I don’t understand,” I had said. My corn rows brushed the tops of my shoulders. My vandyke beard had begun to turn grey; the grey hair made me think of my father. My father; Samuel had been a mail man, he had an iron grey beard that complimented his chocolate brown skin.

My mother was Creole, from Deridder Louisiana; she spoke French, played piano and had a master’s degree in English. She taught e how to read when the public schools had given up on me. Lots of people have given up on me lately.

Madelaine sighed and brushed a few grey strands away from her brown eyes. “You spend too much time worrying about why Corinne left you. The fact is that she left.”

“I did it right,” I replied.

“Sometimes that happens,” she answered. She passed me a twig of black licorice. I took the licorice and watched a grandmotherly twinkle pass through her brown eyes. People misjudged Madeline; especially other attorneys. They saw her as a mildly befuddled, harmless old lady. They realized too late that she was a gunslinger.

“Listen” she told me. “Marriage is a contract.” I took a bite of the licorice. “The divorce rate is so high because people have forgotten that. You don’t negotiate a contract after a bottle of wine while sitting on the beach under a full moon. You negotiate a contract when you are stone, cold sober and know what you want.”

I sat down on the couch; the licorice held in my right hand but long forgotten. I let the words sink in. I had asked Corrine to marry me on a beach while having a picnic. We never talked about our expectations.

Damn.

“You broke the contract,” Madeline said. “You didn’t know it but you broke it.”

I sat quietly, waiting. The ink wasn’t dry on the divorce papers before my former spouse called in a CPS (Child Protective Services) report accusing me of neglecting our five-year-old son. That was five years ago; since then, she has made 13 separate CPS reports; three of which said that my house had burned to the ground while my 5 year old was home alone.

Three times.

I called my therapist; I called Madeline. Dr. Steven Sorenson had a Ph.D in psychology, a masters in social work and a masters in counseling. Although he was one of the smartest men that I have ever met, it still took him 3 years to understand me. I don’t think that I am complicated, I’m a black belt.

It was the last report that broke me. My former spouse said that I pointed a gun at my 5 year old son. The court called her a liar, but it was too late for my reputation, and my dojo.

“Madeline, if I don’t get out of here she is going to kill me.”

Madeline gave me a look that said ‘stop being dramatic’.

“That last restraining order came to my dojo,” I commented. “Conveniently “I said as I made air quotes with my fingers. “The cops arrived during my 4:30 class…all of the school aged kids and their parents.”

“I’m sorry,” Madeline told me as she wrote a quick note on her legal pad.

“You’re sorry!? I can’t see my kid and my reputation is shit.”

“I can help with one, “Madeline said, “You’re going to have to fight for the other.”

“So we are going to do this?” I asked.

“It appears so,” she replied.

2

Every building has a certain smell. Law offices smell of leather and expensive cologne. Court smells like fear; DSHS buildings smell like stagnation and desperation. The Department of Social and Health Services is a sprawling of a state agency whose published goal is to assist children and families. It would be nice if that were true.

I sat next to Madeline and made small talk about the weather. Small talk was never my strong suite.

“How are things with your brother?” Madeline asked. She continued to make notes on her legal pad.

“I saw him on Mother’s day,” I replied. “he picked up Timothy. We talked some…I thought that we had a chance to rebuild our relationship, but I don’t think that his wife will let him.”

“Well,” she began as she made another note, “Keep trying.”

“Why?” I asked. “They both raised their left hand…right hand on the bible and swore to tell the truth; then my brother the pastor lied his ass off.”

“I was there,” Madeline said. “but it isn’t about him, it is about you and your heart.”

I sat quietly for a moment, pondering what she had said. I loved my brother; when we were children, I wanted to be just like him.

“I need to use the rest room,” I said as I stood up. Madeline smiled knowing that she had struck deep.

I walked across the small lobby toward the Men’s Room, noting the multicolored, stained carpet. Heavy booted footsteps made me look left. Two sheriff’s deputies were running up the steps. Green uniform tops, reflecting the county motto.

“Stop right there!”

The short dish water blond deputy commanded. I turned, looking behind me. No way was she talking to me. I continued toward the restroom.

“Hey!” she and her partner had topped the stairs. The slender, dark haired partner pointed directly at me. “Stop right there!” He was trying a command voice. It didn’t impress me.

“We have a report that you have a gun,” it was the blond. “We need to frisk you,” she said.

“No you don’t,” I answered.

“It is illegal to have a gun in a state building,” she informed me. She took a step closer. “We need to frisk you.”

“No,” I replied. “you don’t.”

The deputy reached for me. The sidestep was kihon; basic. It was smooth, unplanned, instinctual. Dishwater deputy staggered forward; she was embarrassed, her cheeks flushed red.

Stringbean put his hand on his gun. “We have a report that you have a gun,” he parroted.

“I don’t,” I replied. I wasn’t going to jail again.

“We have to frisk you ,” dishwater says. She is stuck on that.

“Listen,” I began. I keep my eyes on Stringbean; he is in position to attack, but he is not convinced that Dishwater is right. It is in his body language, “my attorney is right over there; we can talk to her.””

“Alright,” Stringbean. He is shifting his mental stance. Dark eyes probing; trying to figure out why the ground is shifting.

Madeline stood up quietly as Stringbean, Dishwater and I approached.

“I see you found some friends,” she began, attempting to ease the tension with humor.

“These officers say they have….”

Dishwater cut me off, “We have a report that he is carrying a gun,” she pointed at me.

“My client,” Madeline began, “Is legally licensed to carry a hand gun.”

“It is illegal to have a weapon in a state building,” she seemed desperate for this arrest.

“I’m sure that he is aware of that,” she patiently laid the trap. “Go ahead,” she said to me in a grandmotherly tone, “Let them frisk you.”

I nodded in agreement.

Dishwater stepped forward, “Lift your arms,” she commanded. She thought that she was in charge.

I raised my arms straight out from my sides. Dishwater’s hands ran across my arms, down my torso. Madeline asked, “Who called you and made the complaint?”

“We don’t get a name,” Dishwater answered as she ran her hands down my left leg. Anger boiled through my blood, just under the surface.

“No name on the complaint?” Madeline asked.

Stringbean answered, “No mam. We get an address and a problem, sometimes a description. Your client was identified as the problem.”

Dishwater fished my wallet and cell phone out of my jacket pocket. She opened my wallet and glanced at my driver’s license.

“May I have your badge number?” Madeline asked dishwater. Always trying to catch flies with honey.

Dishwater rattled off her badge number. Madeline wrote it down and then listened as Stringbean repeated his badge number.

“He’s clean,” Dishwater announced. Righteous conviction in her voice. I’m angry, I’m embarrassed but I’m not an idiot. I’m licensed to carry but I’m not going to do anything stupid.

Stringbean looks embarrassed, Dishwater looks triumphant.

“Can I have your card,” Madeline asked.

Dishwater fished into her shirt pocket and pulled out her business card.

“Is there a case number?” Madeline asked as she covered all of her bases.

“There was no crime, so no case number,” Stringbean said, “but I can get you an incident number.”

“That would be nice of you,” Madeline encouraged.

Stringbean pulled the handset off of his shoulder and spoke into it. “1604 requesting an incident number.”

“1604,” came the reply. “Stand by.”

Stringbean pulled his business card from his shirt pocket followed by a ball point pen. “1604, incident number follows, 0-14-5-17.”

“Roger that,” Stringbean replied as he wrote the number on the back of his business card. He handed the business card to Madeline. The two cops stood awkwardly for a moment, then turned and walked back towards the stairs.

Madeline smiled at me, “We’ll take care of that later ,” she said as she watched the retreating deputies.

I let the anger rise, I touched it, felt it’s heat…breathed it in, wrapped it around myself.” I continued my walk to the rest room, my hands were shaking. I had allowed my former spouse to manipulate me once; that ended with 24 hours in jail. That wasn’t going to happen again.

I pissed away the anger, zipped up and crossed the industrial faux porcelain sink. The water was lukewarm, the soap had a chemical smell to it. I washed my hands slowly, tamping down the anger, slow breath in; slow breath out. The paper towels were garden variety brown. I dried my hands then returned to the lobby. My outer appearance was calm thanks to my thirty years in the martial arts.

I watch as a short blonde man stepped through a fake, government issued wooden door. He wore wire rimmed glasses, khaki slacks, white shirt, black tie and a green pull over sweater. “Steven Green!” he announced. It wasn’t a question. I stood up, not looking at Madeline, “Yes,” I answered. He glanced my way then said, “Follow me.” He was cold, clinical. I didn’t feel like a father then, I felt like a ‘client’.

The social worker led Madeline and I through the non-descript government door into a short, carpeted hallway. The carpet was short, pile, industrial grey. Long wear life and easy to clean.

We entered a small conference room where three other people were seated around a dark, imitation walnut table.

I sat down in o ne of two plastic chairs at the foot of the table; Madeline sat down next to me. Bifocals introduced himself as a social work supervisor but I didn’t catch his name. There was a public health nurse with corn rows and chocolate skin, and at the end of the table CPS investigator that Iooked vaguely familiar. I think that I had taught his kid karate. I nodded in his direction, he didn’t respond.

“Mr. Green,” the spectacled social worker began.

“Excuse me,” Madeline cut him off. “My client was just confronted by two King County deputies. The deputies believed that he was armed, please tell me how they came yto this conclusion?”

Bifocals was surprised by Madeline’s direct manner. He thought that he was in charge. Madeline just showed him that he was not.

“We called the police,” bifocals replied. The admission was a demonstration of Madeline’s control.

“Why?” she asked.

“We had information that Mr. Green was armed.”

I leaned forward, anger rising again. “Who,” Madeline began as she placed a calming hand on my arm. “Where did you get this information?” she asked.

Bifocals, still emotionally scrambled said, “Mrs. Green told us that he was licensed for concealed….”

“And you believed her? A woman that the superior court of King County called a liar.”

It was the knock out. Madeline emotionally laid him on the canvas.

“So how does my client get an unbiased hearing?” she asked.

Crickets from from around the table.

“Excuse me,” bifocals asked as he tried to take control of the meeting back. Madeline let him. “He left his child alone and the apartment caught fire,” Bifocals accused.

“Is that the first, second or third time.” I asked. “According to my former spouse my home has burned down three times.”

“Then what happened?” Bifocals asked.

“My son and I went to the store,” I began. “When we got back there was a fire engine in front of building E…directly across the parking lot from my building. My son asked the firemen if he could see their truck. The firemen showed him the truck and let him spray the hose. I took pictures and shared them with my former spouse. The next afternoon I got a call from CPS. That was not the first time.”

“That’s easy to check,” the investigator commented. “All you have to do is call dispatch and see if an engine responded to Mr. Green’s address.”

“Be my guest,” I said. Madeline touched my arm, she heard the knife edge in his tone.

Bifocals cleared his throat, “What about the allegation of pointing a gun at your son?” he asked. “You’ve admitted to owning a gun.”

“Owning a gun doesn’t make me guilty,” I replied.

Madeline pulled a manilla folder from her brown leather briefcase. “AsI told the investigator at the time,” she began. She pulled a single piece of hospital letter head from the envelope. My client was in the hospital at the time.” Madeline passed the note to the public health nurse. “Thus is Mr. Green’s discharge note. You can see that the day Mr. Green made those allegations, Mr. Green was in the hospital recovering from a surgery.”

The public health nurse glanced at the single page and said, “I know that surgeon.” She passed the note to bifocls. “Mr. Green,” she said. “I thnk that all of us at this table are agreed that we just want to help you. Is there anything that we can do yto help you?”

“Help me?” I resplied. I let the anger and venom slide into my voice. “You want to help me; any more of your help and I might slit my writs. I haven’t seen my son in two weeks behind your help. So no thank you. I think that you have done enough.”

The room was uncomfortably quiet. I sat staring at the panel with smoke in my eyes, Madeline wasn’t the only one who is a gun slinger.

“I think that sums it up,” Madeline said as she climbed to her feet. I followed her up from the table. She swept her file into her briefcase. I followed Madeline out of the room.

-30-