I awoke in the trunk of the Prius, drooling on the newly laid carpeting, still wearing that stinking rubber suit. I groaned, and then heard something whoosh by. Moments later, I heard it again, then again, followed by a hiss. I tried to sit up and klonked my head. After struggling with the vanity cover, I kicked it out of the way, forced myself up into the car, and sat up in time to see an eighteen-wheeler scream by in the first light of dawn, eighteen inches from the Prius, leaving scraps of torn clothing scattering down I-20 in its wake.
After a few seconds I realized that it was my clothing scattering down I-20. I looked at myself: I looked like a total freak in the full-body rubber suit. More cars swept by, whoosh, whoosh, hissing every time they hit a wet patch on the road, scattering my clothes further. After the third one I swallowed my pride, crawled out of the car, and retrieved what I could from the highway, mortified with embarrassment every time a car honked at me as it passed.
All of it was ruined: my jeans, my shirt, even my vest. All I could rescue was my wallet, squashed almost beyond recognition where some car had run over it; but, oddly, they hadn’t taken my money, and my driver’s license was still recognizable.
The keys were still in the blue bomb, thankfully. At least I didn’t have to go hunting all over the hillside in the freak suit hoping the vampires had thrown them there and not in the trash back in Blood Rock. I started her up, trying to figure out what the hell I was going to do, and let the voice of NPR’s Renee Montagne soothe my wounded pride.
“This is Morning Edition. The time is eight fifty.”
I sat bolt upright. Eight-fifty Wednesday morning! My meeting with DFACS about Cinnamon was at ten. I couldn’t show up like this! Where the hell was I, and where was I going to get some clothes? I twisted round, scanning the highway for any sign Conyers 8. Atlanta 39.
“Oh, shit.” Forty miles-in rush hour traffic. And still with nothing to wear.
My eyes refocused down the road, where I saw a sign for a store.
“Oh, hell,” I said, starting the Prius. “At least it’s not a Laura Ashley.”
So it was almost ten thirty when I reached the massive complex downtown that held the Fulton County Courthouse, and ten fifty by the time I parked, wound through the metal detectors, found the right floor, and finally found the heavy wooden door of the hearing room-closed.
The deputy standing outside held up a hand. “They’ve already started.”
“I’m supposed to be in there,” I said. “Please.”
He sighed. “All right, but I warn you she’s in a mood… ”
Judge Maria Guiterrez was a young brunette with a long sweep of bangs that came down over one eye. She couldn’t even have been my age, but a crackling energy flashed in her face when she saw me enter. “Bailiff-” she began, then stopped. “Miss Frost, I take it.”
“Yes,” I said. One table held Margaret Burnham; the other held Helen Yao, my attorney with Ellis and Lee. Helen glanced in surprise at my outfit-cream turtleneck sweater, tailored jeans jacket, and long flowing black skirt-but quickly motioned for me to come sit down.
“I said tone it down, not turn it off, ” she hissed. “Your hair doesn’t go with-”
“Miss Frost,” Judge Guiterrez said sharply. “We were scheduled to start at ten.”
“I’m very sorry,” I said, coming to join Yao. “I was unavoidably detained-”
“That will not be good enough, Miss Frost,” the judge began. “In my courtroom-”
“I had no choice. I was kidnapped,” I said. And sat down at the table, shaking.
The judge’s mouth just hung open. “Did-did you report this, Miss Frost?”
“No,” I said. “I came straight here, because I was supposed to be here. ”
Her brow furrowed. “Did you escape?”
“No, I did not escape,” I said. “People don’t escape when they’re kidnapped. That only happens in the movies. They’re let go or they die . I was kidnapped, terrorized, and left to kick my way out of the trunk of my car on the side of the highway. In Conyers. ”
A glass of water was suddenly in front of me, and I took it in my shaking hands. “They tore up my clothes. My clothes! Even my vest. I had to shop at a fucking Mervyn’s-”
“Do you have a receipt, Miss Frost?” Judge Guiterrez asked coolly.
I looked up sharply at her. She was leaning her head on one hand, finger climbing to her temple. She would have been great at poker, I couldn’t tell whether her expression held sympathy or disapproval. Scowling, I dug out my wallet and started rifling through it.
“What happened to your wallet, Miss Frost?” the judge said.
“A truck ran over it when they threw my pants onto I-20,” I said, tossing a receipt on the table. “Eighty-nine fifty-seven, counting the manager discount because they took pity on me.”
Judge Guiterrez beckoned, and the bailiff took the receipt to her. “This morning. Nine-fifteen,” she said, rubbing her forehead. “In Conyers. And you came straight here-”
“Driving like a bat out of hell,” I said.
“Well,” Guiterrez said, and then a slight smile quirked her face, which she quickly tried to suppress. “Well. This isn’t a traffic court, so I’ll ignore that. Miss Frost, you’ve clearly had an, an experience, and if it’s left you shaken, we can reschedule this hearing-”
“No,” I said. “No, please, I came all the way here to get Cinnamon back. I don’t want to wait. All that matters is that I get Cinnamon back as soon as possible.”
“That won’t happen today,” the judge said. “But I will hear your case- after you have a chance to calm down and report your story to the police.”
“But-” I began.
“No buts, Miss Frost,” Guiterrez said, with quiet finality. “Bailiff, bring Miss Frost and counsel to my chambers and call an officer down here to take her statement. Next case… ”
So they dragged me off-not literally-to the judge’s chambers, where a sympathetic female APD officer took down the whole story. After she left, Helen came in and plopped her briefcase down on the table with a weary, wary look. “Damn, Dakota,” she said. “I’m so sorry, but I hope this wasn’t a stunt-”
“Helen!” I said, then stopped. Then I extended my hand. “Smell that?”
She stared at my hand like it was a snake, then cautiously leaned forward. “That smells like… rubber gloves? Baby powder? Mildew?” Her eyes furrowed. “What-”
“The sick fucks tore up my clothes and put me in a rubber suit because they were scared of my magic tattoos,” I said. “No, I’m not making this up.”
“Well, your tattoos are pretty fearsome,” Helen laughed, a bit forced. “And I believe you, I guess, but this makes things more difficult. We missed our slot. Even with a good explanation, their first impression is that you were late and they had to reschedule. It doesn’t look good.”
“But-” I said. “But that’s not fair. ”
“Dakota, let me tell you something I’ve learned,” Helen said. “I’m a defense attorney, so I’m biased, but a child custody hearing isn’t a criminal trial or a civil suit. It has its own twisted logic, and anything and everything can be used against you. If your child is retarded, then they’ve been neglected. If they’re gifted, then they’ve been coached. If they’re acting up, then you haven’t been setting boundaries. If they’re polite, you’ve been repressing them.”
“Then how does anyone keep their child?” I said.
“Basically, the judge and the prosecution will decide who they think should have the child and twist everything to fit their prejudgment,” Helen said bitterly. “That may not be the law, but it is what I’ve observed from doing this for the last seven years. That’s why it is absolutely, positively critical that you present the best possible picture to the judge.”
“All right,” I said. “All right. What do we do?”
“First,” Helen said, “we’ve rescheduled to Monday. Try not to get kidnapped, ill, or even disheveled between now and then. Make sure you arrive on time, dressed nicely, and that you’ve gone over all the materials we went over yesterday. Hopefully, this will blow over quickly once we get a chance to present our case. If not… well, then we can talk about that then.”
“Don’t keep me in suspense,” I said. “What’s the worst case scenario?”
“Oh, hell, I can’t tell you what the judge is going to ask,” she said, rubbing her forehead. “Who knows what they will want you to address? It may be as simple as documenting a fixed abode, or settling with the Valentine Foundation to show you have a good source of income.”
“I have a good source of income,” I said. “Fifty thousand dollars a year tattooing.”
“Well… ” she said, tilting her head, “that may not be good enough for the court.”
I just stared back at her. “What are you saying?” I said. “You can’t mean-”
“Magical tattooing is an unconventional profession,” Helen said, “and you’re not Cinnamon’s biological mother. If you want to keep her
… you may have to give that up.”