WHOLE

by Casey Flynn

In the sleepy suburbs, some distance from the average-sized, nondescript city, Lara Morgan threw her Ketchup-stained apron behind the counter. For quite a while it seemed, she stared out the window towards the street. When any remotely blue vehicle approached, her eyes narrowed and she momentarily stopped nibbling her nails, but when it didn't turn out to be her boyfriend's, she returned her thumb back into her mouth, and again anxiously nibbled. Her eyes obsessed again and again on the clock until concluding that he was twenty minutes late. While she waited, her manager made her consolidate ketchups.

The hand flicked the cards to three other men, whose thick, bejeweled fingers proceeded to pick them off the green table and sort them in their hands. The cigarette smoke collected around the red-and-yellow stained-glass light fixture in a private room on the second floor of the Mark Twain riverboat, which sat on a moot of water, adjacent to an industrial park. Due to the oppressive heat and lack of rain that summer, a good deal of the water in the moot had evaporated, so it appeared to the drivers of the freight trucks that constantly drove by that the riverboat had been run aground in a puddle of mud.

'Two cards,' Sam Spencer said upon discarding, and then slowly chewed on the ice in his Scotch and water as if he was remembering something. He glanced at his watch, cursing, 'Shit,' and stepped away from the table to make a phone call.

'Lara, I'm so sorry, I'm up three grand, I mean 300, it's going really well.'

'Dollars?'

'Mostly, there's some pesos, but what they lack in value, they make up in color. I'm kiddin', of course dollars, just one more hand.'

The pot had thickened. Sam felt good with a pair of fours and a pair of jacks. The middle-aged man from Oklahoma with his cowboy hat kept raising the stakes, but Sam suspected that he was just trying to impress his dental hygienist girlfriend. Whenever he could, he stole a glance at her pretty white teeth and smile.

'I'm gonna raise you,' the middle-aged man said, tossing in some chips.

Paling a little, his heart skipped a beat or two, thinking of the money, his girlfriend, and the whole situation . . . the money would get them both out of the mess. He slid the remaining chips forward, and then thought about pulling out, as he caught sight of her white, gleaming smile, but he was so close, and he liked his odds.

'So what do you got partner?'

Her legs thundered out of the diner; the ketchup residue all over her thin fingers, and paused before the car, her temper idling. As she loudly opened the door, she sat down, looking rigidly ahead through a lens of tears.

Sam turned towards her, and she to him, and her pale blue eyes, which had been for most of their relationship bright and welcoming, were narrowed and seemingly darkened. This was not a new look, but the way she had been frequently regarding him throughout the last year.

'I know your upset, but I got some great news. On that final hand of cards, I won '10,000. How 'bout that!' He paused, smiling broadly, attempting to resurrect those boyish dimples of his, and Lara turned and remembered his dimples, thinking those dimples were in many ways the real culprit that had lead her so unassumingly into this vulnerable and somewhat frightening situation.

Sam smiled receded with the apparent coolness of her expression.

'Well, okay, that's good to know that you're still pissed at me even though I won '10,000, which makes it a lot easier for me to tell you that I lost all of our rent and other money cuz either way you're ticked, so it takes the sting off of losing the money. But I look at this as an opportunity. I just called Rob up, and I'm gonna start cutting lawns with him again. That's right, Lara, this sleeping in all day, going to the boats, playing cards drinking alcohol all night, this is not a healthy lifestyle.' He slapped his protruding gut while saying, 'I look more pregnant than you. No, I need to get back working, I was thinking about maybe some light farm work. I use to always like to ride a tractor around, yeah the outdoors, clean living –' he reached over and kissed her on the cheek. 'I've got a great idea, are you still craving those jelly donuts, God knows, I am . . .' Without thinking, his hand threw back the gearshift, and his foot compressed on the pedal, as his stomach guided him to the smell of those sweet and succulent jelly donuts.

It was 2:30 in the afternoon, in the middle of her soap, a few hours before her shift that he came through the kitchen door. He was carrying a duffel bag that appeared full, and Lara's curiosity was sparked.

'One second, I've got to put something in the microwave,' he said, leaving from the room.

When they had first met in their freshman year, he was a little shorter, about 5' 9', and so thin, but with wiry strong muscles. He had the boyish grin, the dimples, and so adorable and earnest, though mostly clumsy, with his card tricks. By their sophomore year in high school, he had grown to about 6' 4' and took up weightlifting. He made the football team, and he played on the special teams because, as he explained to her at the time, he was special. By senior year, he was the captain of the special teams, so handsome, so funny, so good to her, so strong, the angular biceps, she was so proud to sit by his side during a poker game after the big game on Friday. He dropped out of community college, and a short time after, convinced her to do the same, because his Uncle Lenny had developed the Turbo H-7 seismic oil diviner, and they were all going to be rich. At the time, Lara had been excited as any initial investor would be in such a potentially promising new product, though thought it was odd that Uncle Larry but such emphasis on the fact that the oil diviner came in two colors: green and brown. Then when things didn't go well, Uncle Larry tried to re-package it as a back scratcher before disappearing for good back into some dark outreaches of a mobile home community.

Returning, Sam sat down beside her and pulled a brochure from the bag.

'Take a look at this.'

She glanced at the cover of the brochure: a gray fisherman's boat was docked at some harbor, and then back at Sam.

'I finally got a job on that boat, you can make up to '5000 a month, depending on the size of the catch, tax-free, if you don't report it.'

'Is this near here?'

'In Alaska! You know, where the Eskimos and . . . ah the Eskimo pies come from.'

She looked up at him with sudden severity, repressing her sigh. She had become suddenly aware how much his features had thickened, a slightly larger nose, the puffed out cheeks, the flabbiness of his chest and stomach, the double chin, the dimples, did he even have them anymore, or was it just something that she remembered . . . the hair was receding and growing thin, Alaska, and now with the baby, it was all just too much. At least, he's not going to prospect for silver like he and his Uncle use to talk about before.

'Well, what do you think?' he prompted.

'Well, when are you . . .'

'Leaving, right after my hot pocket gets finished in the microwave - it's one of those low-fat ones, so I'm starting to think healthy.'

'For Alaska?'

The microwave began to beep.

'One second,' he said, dashing to the kitchen.

Moments later, he returned, munching down the last few bites as he sat down.

Sam suddenly became very serious, gesturing to her barely noticeably pregnant stomach.

'I'm sorry, Lara I can't take this. I was watching that talk show, and that guy did his final thought, and he was talking about knowing your limitations, and being honest with yourself, and it really hit home –' he took one final bite, wiping the crumbs away with his sleeve –'

'-- but you were so excited about the baby, our baby—', Lara said with great emotion.

'I've worked as a substitute teacher at that grade school or even the high school, I hated those little monsters, spitball throwing gypsies, they all should be locked up –'

'— you're leaving me with our baby –'

'I had some thoughts on that. That baby is going to be of good German and Irish stock, do you know what a baby like that could be worth on the open market? Do you know what a Hollywood celebrity would pay for a childlike this? We can split it 30/70 because you have to do most of the heavy carrying on the deal –' her sobs became so loud that he decided to abandon that idea.

'Okay, I've got a better idea, just go to the clinic, and get it taken care of.'

Her sobs suddenly relented, as she protested, 'What do you care, you're leaving!'

Sam lowered his head into his hand and anxiously massaged his forehead. Her tears resumed, dramatically reddening her face, and he felt horrible, the shame and guilt twisted and burned deep down in his stomach, but he knew two blocks away, that his girlfriend #2 was similarly crying and likewise in great pain. It was girlfriend #2's idea to come up with the Alaska fisherman story; she was real good at seeing the big picture. Girlfriend #2 always told him that she had vision, thanks to her beliefs in the wicca religion.

Girlfriend #2 had just gotten him a job in the next town, working at the local high school in the audiovisual department. They had already put a down payment on their dream mobile home with a connecting shack that they planned to use as a crystal meth. Laboratory as well as for extra storage space. They were both still learning the trade, doing most of their research at how-to-crystalmethlab.com. Though he knew why he was leaving, the child, Lara's demands of marriage ('until death do you part . . .' he always thought that was a little medieval), a crying baby, a full-time job . . . Sam had never really thought it through, but he just instinctively knew that he had to get out. Whenever he was about to make the connection about what this reflected on his character, the desire for a chalupa or a cold beer rose to the fore, and he would then endeavor to sate this desire. Nevertheless, presently fighting back something resembling guilt, he leaned over and hugged her. He pulled back and listened uncomfortably as she wiped away her tears.

' . . . uhm . . . okay I'm leaving . . .'

Her eyes looked up despondently.

' . . . but what about your clothes . . . all your things . . .'

'Burn them, there's only one thing I need.'

Sam went over to the television, unplugged it, and proceeded to carry the television out of the house.

Lara had no intention of going to the clinic. But then a few weeks later, a friend had told her about Margo, and how she was seen leaving town with Sam. That's right, she thought, Margo who worked at the a.v. department at that one high school that Sam sub-ed at. It was almost too much. Were they leaving together for Alaska?, she asked one of his friends. And then she went back on the anti-depressants and then she was just generally confused about what was happening to her. She remembered the day they met, okay, the football games, the card parties okay, community college, the backstratcher, the occasional drug use, they opened the boats; her eyes watered emotionally, had it really been nine years? . . . and she took another anti-depressant, and he was gone, and she was pregnant, and her shift began in 20 minutes, and her ride, her only ride, was en route to Alaska, and she felt numb all over.

She stepped out of the car at the abortion clinic. She was about to cross, but a car was approaching. On the building 100 feet behind her, a scope moved in her direction, and then the eye behind a scope, focused in on her. The car passed, and the road was clear; the sign flared in red letters: WALK. Her head bobbed forward, leaving the sight of the scope, so the eye and the scope adjusted slightly, and then slowly lowered to Lara's stomach that revealed a barely noticeable belly covered by a baggy sweatshirt.

She began to cross the street. The sight of the focus the slowly moved back to the Lara's head. It was evident that she was heading to the abortion clinic. The scope was in perfect focus, and the eyes behind it narrowed, and then suddenly blinked when the convertible screeched into the sight of the scope.

Sam was driving the convertible that had abruptly cut Lara off. He quickly jumped out of the car and said dramatically 'Lara, I love you!' He proceeded to force wads of hundred dollar bills into her purse. He then gave her a great big hug and held onto her as if she were a life preserver in the dark Atlantic that was about to drift away because of the force of the shifting tides. After saying, 'Got to go!', he jumped back in the car and raced away.

The scope went in and out of focus; the brown-skinned fingers adjusted the knob. She sighed, watching his car speed down the two-lane road, mostly in the left lane as he passed the various cars. She murmured to herself, fighting off a smile, 'One crazy bastard.'

She turned towards the abortion clinic - an unassuming office space with tinted windows and names of doctors stenciled in gold. She noticed that most of the other offices had 'for rent' signs up. She continued towards the sidewalk

The sight of the scope was in perfect focus: her head squarely in it. But then the hand trembled in a momentary shake, as a police siren whirled suddenly up the street. As the police car sped on by, Lara walked in to the front door of the clinic. After receiving and filling out the necessary paperwork, she set up a time for an appointment.

When the day came for her appointment, she was called and told it was canceled because of threats to the clinic. She was referred to a different clinic for an appointment the next day. As she sat in her apartment and waited, she got all the news she could about Sam. He had been stealing, then e-baying and then selling computers for most of the schools that he had been sub-ing at to support his various addictions. He had set up a P.O. Box, where he received the checks. He was just coming back into town to empty out one of these bank accounts when the police had spotted him. As of that night, she had not heard whether the police had captured him are not, and inwardly prayed that he was making his way to Alaska. Her hopeful thoughts were not just for the benefit of Sam, but also for the surrounding community and even whatever prison he would be sent to. He was a handful, and she could just see him drive everyone crazy in prison. He was ADD, and constantly needed to be at the center of attention, and every five minutes, they would have to be doing something different. Sam would sit their in front of the television, downing ritalin with his bottle of Scotch as well as his two liter bottle of Mountain Dew, flipping through the channels from the talk shows like Jerry Springer to a sport's game that he had money on to the 24-hour news channels. Indeed, he was fascinated by news from the Middle East and was fond of using the word 'Knesset' - the name for the Israeli Parliament, and he always enjoyed explaining to her, like the substitute teacher he was, the various intrigues and alliances in the Middle East crisis, with one part of his body constantly moving, a tapping toe or finger. And she thought about this and other things about Sam and laughed, and as she laughed, she felt that this was a nice distraction from her growing anxiety about the procedure tomorrow.

The next day, she laid on the operating room table, practically draped in blue sheets. A Hindu doctor was scrubbing up in the sink across from her. The bright white light, the coolness of the table underneath her, and another Hindu-looking woman working on something just behind her head intensified her anxiety.

The Hindu-looking woman said:

'Okay, we're beginning the anesthesia,' and a mask was placed over her mouth. The anxiety slowly abated.

She woke up, as it from a bad dream, and struggled to orientate herself to the surroundings of her room. She thought and thought and vaguely remembered the abortion clinic.

A nurse approached.

'Where am I?'

'Here are your meds.'

She complied.

It wasn't until the next day, fully conscious, eating some solid foods, and keenly aware of the scar still healing on her stomach that she understood that she was in a hospital room.

The nurse came in and checked the level of fluid in a bottle. She looked over and noticed that a tube flowed from her to the top of this bottle.

'We'll probably take out the last tube tomorrow . . .'

Some days later, she was feeling more herself, sitting up eating regular meals, walking every three hours around the hall. That afternoon, the nurse informed her that a Detective Miller wanted to talk to her regarding what had happened to her. Her eyes widened with curiosity, and she sat up in bed, as he came into the room and sat down to the right of her bed.

'Ms. Morgan, I just have a few questions and hope it won't take too much of your energy.'

She smiled, comfortable with his friendly tone.

'I don't know whether you were aware of the assault, it's been on the local news in the papers –'

'Assault, I'm sorry?'

For about ten minutes, and to her continually growing astonishment, Detective Miller detailed what happened to Lara Morgan. Rev. Arun Naja something or other was the leader of the fanatical pro-life sect: Majarah something or other, which combined aspects of Hinduism, Jainist beliefs, the Methodist religion, and animism. Rev. Arun received his medical degree in a medical school on St. Martin's Island and then went on to specialize as an obstetrician in the United States. Later, back in India, he made his fortune by creating generic versions of American drugs and sold them in India and throughout the Third World at huge profits.

At some point, Rev. Arun had a conversion and founded his own church that essentially believes in the sanctity of most sentient beings. Rev. Arun's group has been going around the United States with its doctors and neonatal care machines and essentially they set up fake abortion clinics, trick pregnant ladies on some pretext ('because of threats, we referred your appointment to a different clinic') to come there, thinking it is an abortion clinic. If they believe the fetus is out of the first trimester, and into the second trimester, they do everything in their power to save the child. If the fetus is not that far along into the first trimester, they leave without an explanation to the pregnant woman and move on to the next town. If they deem that the fetus is savable, they do the procedure, secure the child in the neonatal care machine and transport the child to a local hospital that has the best neonatal care facilities.

At some point, Lara interrupted, 'I don't understand what you're saying, I know that I went to a clinic, but . . .'

'Your fetus, they deemed far enough along, so . . .uhm excuse me, I'm not sure technically what they did, I've got most of my information from the news and your doctors, but they put your fe-uhm . . . in some sort of the neonatal care machine and brought it to this hospital, this hospital, that you're in. I know it's pretty amazing, and to be honest with you I don't think I fully understand it all, but well –'

Her eyes opened wide with a sudden realization, while her hand reached over and touched his knee.

'The uhm . . . is it, a boy or a girl?'

'I don't think you should go there. I think it only has like a 50 percent chance of survival—'

She thought of Sam, racing away in the convertible, cops chasing him, selling those computers on eBay; she smiled slightly, they had survival genes in them.

Just then, the door of her room flung open. Lara was introduced to two prosecutors that were assigned to her case: Dale Richardson, a tall, dark-haired young man and Judy Wabash, a medium height woman with short-cropped hair.

'It's crazy out there,' Dale said, 'security is having a hard time keeping the reporters off the hall.'

'I called about twenty minutes ago for more backup,' Detective Miller replied, concerned.

'Well, let's hope they get here,' Judy said, taking a seat right next to Detective Miller.

For some time, the two prosecutors gave her comforting words as well as assurances that Rev. Arun and his fanatical group would be taken into custody and duly prosecuted.

She said with great determination, 'We're considering bringing attempted murder charges against Rev. Arun and his group, but we're going to need your assistance . . .'

Lara listened as Judy continued to talk, but mainly she listened for a pause in order to ask a question, and when the pause finally came, she did just that.

'Do either of you know whether it's a boy or girl?'

Lara was discharged from the hospital some days later. She subsequently went down to the police station and filed a report. Later that day, she sat through several interviews at the prosecutor's office. But she was for sometime unable to leave because of the pro-life and pro-choice demonstrators that at some point had converged around the building, hearing that she was there. While they planned her escape, she noticed that that day's paper was sitting on the coffee table before her. She could see from that distance that the bold caption was about her case, though was afraid to look any closer, thinking there might be some bad news about the fate of her child. But again she thought excitedly, was it a boy or a girl?!, and she couldn't contain herself, as the anticipation propelled her over to the paper. She anxiously ripped open the paper. She became breathless with excitement, the caption read: WILL BABY JOHN DOE MAKE IT? It was a boy! And she hurriedly read through the paper to find any information that she could about her baby boy.

Eventually two policemen snuck her around back and escorted her back to her apartment. She was supposed to return to the prosecutor's office for more interviews, but called back and cancelled chiefly because she did not have the energy to even get out of bed. A week later, she was hospitalized for depression.

During the several weeks of her hospitalization, she had one thought of her mind: would her baby boy make it? While doctors evaluated her and adjusted her medication, she had one eye always on the television in her room, frustrated that the hospital was not releasing a picture of her child. She had to talk to an endless series of doctors, sit through endless group sessions, and it seemed that her whole period of hospitalization was one big ordeal that prevented her from seeing her baby boy.

Finally upon discharge, she rushed over to the hospital, where they were keeping her child. At this point, most of the press had subsided and migrated back to D.C., as there was another missing intern of some politician. Nevertheless, security was still tight, and she could get nowhere near the neonatal care unit. But then she found an unguarded door, and walked into it, and she was just overcome with joy. She thought, how would I recognize him, but then thought happily, 'Well silly, he'll look like me or Sam'. And she turned the corner, and noticed a glassed-in room, with babies hooked up to various machines. She looked in through the window, and surveyed several pink faces, and a surge of maternal feeling caused her mouth to open and her eyes to widen, as she began to take a closer look at each face . . .

Just then, two security guards grabbed a hold of her and escorted her out of the hospital. She thought that they must have confused her for some female journalist, who had tried to get access into this wing because they kept saying, 'You again' or ' You'll do anything to get that story.'

When she got home, she called the prosecutor's office, but they were preoccupied with some big murder case. She asked someone that she wanted to see her baby, and she wondered whether the prosecutor's office could arrange this. She was told that they had put that file on hold until it can be determined whether the . . uhm . . would survive. After that was determined, they would make a decision about whether to bring criminal charges.

Upon hanging up the phone, she considered for a moment this last statement and decided that she had no idea what this meant.

O'Malley and Associates, P.C. (personal injury, traffic, probate, admiralty) was located on the third floor of the old Gas and Electric building, a few blocks away from the city courthouse. Rupert O'Malley had always fondly remembered Sam Spencer, biological father of baby John Doe. Indeed, two years ago, he had represented Sam, then an employee of a casino riverboat, in his slip-and-fall action against the casino riverboat, alleging under maritime law that it was unseaworthy because the slippery tiles used in the kitchen were unfit for that purpose, thereby triggering absolute liability on the part of the riverboat. It was still in the discovery stage. He also got a great deal from Sam with the new computers in his office.

Because of this relationship, he made a point to contact Lara, and when she brought up the John Doe matter, he immediately set up a meeting with her. He then sent out a memo to his associates which read as follows: 'Lara Morgan, potential client – cha-ching!'

Presently, he sat expectantly in the conference room in a freshly-pressed, gray corduroy suit with the precise part in his otherwise wiry, unkempt brown mesh of hair, and imagined somewhat fantastically about all the potential defendants and their large insurance policies hanging out of their deep pockets.

Lara was brought in by one of his associates. To break the ice, the effusive Rupert told anecdotal stories about his dealings with Sam in their pending litigation. He then became very serious and sentimentally emotional as he offered her many comforting words about her present ordeal. He as well related a story about how his hypothetical grandmother died in childbirth back in Ireland during some sort of famine.

Rupert then became very quiet, folding his hands and pressing his thumbs against his mouth, as he regarded her with his empathetic gaze.

'Lara, what happened to you was an outrage. This Rev. Arun and his organization damaged you in incalculable ways. This is both the very sinister and well-funded organization. Lara, I know that you're hurting, and you should keep a diary to document how and why you're hurting, but we need you to be strong. What they did to you, this act, this premeditated act was with conscious disregard to your life and limb, you could've died!' he said, gesticulating his hand out for emphasis. 'I do not know whether you're familiar with our system of civil litigation, it is about making you the plaintiff whole. How do you make someone in your situation whole? Every so now and then, I walk up to twelve individuals like yourself and ask this very question, and it's difficult –'

'—Mr. O'Malley, I came here to ask you about a different matter.'

'—absolutely.'

'I'm concerned about my son, and what will happen to him?'

Not missing a beat, Rupert looked down at some of his notes on his yellow legal pad.

'That's the second thing I wanted to talk you about, and the second cause of action that I'm thinking about bringing. If that hospital or any of those doctors breached the standard of care owed to your dear son, there'll be hell to pay. I should tell you, that from prior experience, that hospital in the area of obstetrics, has some serious problems—'

'—Mr. O'Malley, I want to get custody of my son if he lives, and I want to be able to visit him now at the hospital, especially if he's not going to make it.'

Rupert considered this a great length. He had sworn off family law since his latest divorce. He had moved his residence from one side to the other side of the river, depending on which state was trying to garnish his assets for child support. Nevertheless, the publicity of this case was too good and the potential for advertisement for his firm, and eventually he thought he could convince her to sue any number of potential defendants with meritorious claims. And with a handshake, he agreed to represent her in whatever capacity she wanted.

After leading Mr. O'Malley's office, Lara spent the next two days, glued to her television, mostly the 24-hour news networks or the Internet to find out what was happening with her son. The news varied, and at any hour of the day, they would report that baby John Doe was still on the respirator, was off the respirator, was alive, was dead, was grossly deformed, or even that baby John Doe was an alien.

She constantly called Mr. O'Malley's office and inquired whether he had set up her visitation at the hospital, but his secretary just informed her that he was out at deposition.

At 5:30 in the morning, Lara was awoken by the ringing phone.

'Hello,' she said, suddenly awake and thinking the worse.

'They are going to announce it in two hours,' the voice that she recognized as Mr. O'Malley's said, 'so sorry to wake you, but I thought that you might've wanted to know first.'

'Uh-huh,' she said, seized with a mixture of fear and anxiety.

'Lara, you have a healthy baby boy. He's going to make it. I play golf with a doctor, who's an administrator at the hospital, and he just gave me the good news.'

Lara's voice teared-up with happiness.

'I'm gonna name him Ryan Morgan, that was my grandfather's name.'

'Listen Lara, I'm going to go back to bed, and when I get up around ten, I'm gonna go have breakfast at the diner. But after that, I'm gonna go right to my office and have my associate draft up the papers for custody, and we'll get those on file at latest tomorrow.'

The happiness exuded from her voice, as she said, 'Oh thank you so much!'

How could it have been almost three years?, she thought, sitting next to Mr. O'Malley in the courtroom. She attempted to recollect as she waited for the rehearing of her case that had been remanded from the state Supreme Court. Instinctively whenever the door of the courtroom was opened or a sound was heard behind it, Lara looked back at the long imposing, brown lacquered doors, and when it turned out to be someone else, she turned back around, letting the expectation stir anxiously in her as she unconsciously chewed on her nails. Was it really that long?

Her original case for custody was proceeding, but then the inevitable delays came, and the press reappeared, and they dug up certain unsavory facts about her past, and the depression returned. Of course the breaking point came when she asked to go into the nursery to see her son. Mr. O'Malley had assured her that his friend in the hospital was going to set the whole thing up. And while she waited, she looked through the glassed-in room with the crying or sleeping babies, and she thought she looked over at this one little pink head with just a whisk of hair, and she turned to asked the nurse whether that was Ryan, but the nurse had left, and security was there and escorted her out the hospital, and then the paralyzing depression returned.

It didn't seem right, but the more she thought about it, that time she was hospitalized for depression for more than a year - perhaps her longest stay. During that period, Mr. O'Malley tried his best to argue for custody and that it was in the best interest of the child that Ryan or baby John Doe be with his biological mother. Meanwhile, the court had appointed a guardian for Ryan, who was a fairly elderly Aunt of Lara's that she really didn't know. Ryan was apparently still in the hospital nursery during most of this time, mainly as a precautionary measure regarding certain concerns about the strength of his lungs.

Eventually, maybe six months later, there was a hearing. The court determined that Paul and Leslie Evans, something like her second cousins, would be given temporary custody until the court was convinced regarding Lara's mental health. He was a lawyer that did defense work for energy companies regarding litigation concerning asbestos and corroding natural gas lines in residential areas, and she was a grade schoolteacher who taught phonics. On Sundays, they both taught Sunday school.

Mr. O'Malley thought that they could give temporary custody to someone more of Lara's liking until her doctors at the hospital could give her a favorable appraisal regarding her depression. Then Mr. O'Malley explained, 'We can get you out of the hospital, and you can start working on getting your life back together.'

The problem was the there seemed not to be any other alternatives in Lara's family. Her mother had died when she was in high school, and she had not seen her father since she was 18. He was reportedly somewhere in Florida, and not surprisingly had an apartment not far from a racetrack. During the hearing for temporary custody , her Aunt had testified a great length that the Evans were the appropriate parents for baby John Doe.

Her Aunt assured her that the situation was just temporary, and that the Evans were great people. Lara remembered that at this point she had gotten out of the hospital, and Mr. O'Malley had found her a very cheap, but all in all a nice and comfortable apartment. She read in the papers that the Evans had name the child Nathaniel, not Ryan, after some American Revolutionary hero. When she attempted to contact the Evans about this name that they were calling her Ryan, she received a summons for a court proceeding because the Evans wanted full custody as the nearest available relatives and because Lara was unfit to be a mother, and then there was some reference to a statute that had several numbers.

The hearing was postponed several times. The Evans had money and were connected. They did extensive discovery on Lara's background. Mr. O'Malley, on Lara's behalf, challenge this 'unfit' claim, and petitioned for full custody. Surprise surprise, Lara thought, shaking her head, and then looking back nervously at the long brown door of the courthouse waiting for the rehearing to begin, at about that time, Sam reappeared and petitioned for full custody. He did not have a lawyer, but represented himself, 'pro se' as Mr. O'Malley said. He apparently did a lot of his legal research on the Internet, something that he learned during his six-month stint in prison (for stealing computers) from the other prisoners, who used the resources on the Internet for their criminal appeals as well as their legal malpractice cases against their defense attorneys. His petition was to the point:

Comes now, Sam Spencer (hereinafter 'Sam' or 'I'), the biological father, and requests full custody of Baby John Doe (hereinafter 'my son') and states the following:

1. I am the biological father;

2. Lara Morgan is unfit to be the mother as she is mentally insane (See affidavit attached by Sam Spencer regarding this matter);

3. The Evans, who the hell are they, never met um;

4. The English common law is settled that biological parents have property rights in their children. See generally Blackstone, William; and

5. The Evans are not biological parents of 'my son'.

…

Count I

Full Custody

Count II

A claim against the Evans for unjust enrichment.

Count III

Tortious interference with a business expectancy, based primarily on Ryan or Baby John Doe's ability to be a child star.

WHEREFORE, plaintiff prays for an order and a judgment:

a. Full custody of my son;

b. Money damages;

c. Punitive damages;

d. Pre-judgment interest;

d. Such other and further relief which may in the premises be just and proper.

Before that hearing for full custody, Mr. O'Malley warned her that the Evans team of attorneys and experts were planning to focus chiefly on her mental health, but past drug use might come up. With this in mind, she took the stand.

Her testimony didn't go so well. She was questioned about a misdemeanor drug conviction five years ago. She claimed that she was carrying the drugs for Sam, but it turned out that Sam claimed that he was carrying the drugs for Lara as he was a gentleman, and his two other friends in the car at that time corroborated his story. On redirect, Mr. O'Malley pointed out that the other two friends were carrying cocaine, and Sam had Benzedrine that had been stolen from the drugstore, but Lara was not carrying any of these items.

From her point of view, it seemed that the questions were endless and exhausting. In the end, she admitted to occasional marijuana use over a five-year period and occasional ecstasy use at raves. They went through in great detail her psychological history, and finally she admitted that she was prone to depression.

After they had finished detailing the litany of everything that she had done wrong: the history of her drug use, her hospitalizations for depression, the broken home, her lack of a job, her inability to pay rent, she left her chair with eyes lowered to the ground, and in many ways, she felt as if she was not fit really for anything, let alone to be a mother.

She sat down by Mr. O'Malley, and as they proceeded to argue some motion, she did the best she could to quiet her sobbing with the tissues that the bailiff had given her. Little did she know, the worst was yet to come.

The next day, they called to the stand her boyfriend Sam Spencer. He sauntered up and sat down in the chair. The bailiff read the oath:

'Raise your right hand, do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God.'

Sam considered this at length, 'The whole truth - what does that mean? I do . . . think that it's a mind-boggling—'

Taking that as a sufficient answer, the bailiff returned to his place.

'—concept, can anyone really know what the whole truth—'

The lead attorney for the Evans, who had taken the podium, interrupted, 'Mr. Spencer, you are the biological father of Ryan?'

'That's correct, he's my boy, and wow having a son it's just a life changing thing—'

'Is it correct that you are presently on probation for the theft of computers from local public high schools?'

Sam became very quiet, and a flash of annoyance crossed his face.

'Yes.'

'You are married?'

'Yes, as of today, I am married . . . as of today, tomorrow, we'll see.'

'I believe that you and your wife were arrested for drugs?'

'It happens.'

'And you have two felony drug convictions?'

'That's totally incorrect. I have one felony drug conviction, and four misdemeanors, and one was for domestic abuse, and the other was for public indecency, so two had nothing to do with drugs.'

'As I understand it, you have been attempting to auction Ryan on eBay for '1 million.'

'That's total nonsense -- '1 million, try '10 million. Ryan or baby John Doe is a celebrity, and as the biological father, I have property rights in my kids. I've been doing some research on the Internet about this fact. And I would just like to tell everyone here, specifically the journalists, if they want to report it, the auction will be open on eBay until midnight tonight, and it opens at '6 million. You'll find that I have a four star rating as a seller.'

'Try to limit your answers to the questions asked.'

'Why? There's something called the First Amendment, freedom of speech, there's a reason why they made it the first one, and another thing –'

'You petitioned this court for custody of your child?'

'That's right.'

'The document you filed with the court, it's not made of paper.'

'No.'

'What is it made out of?'

'Hemp.'

'Do you have a website that advocates legalization of marijuana?'

'Yes.'

'On your Web site you advocate that he spoke marijuana on a daily basis.'

'Is that something to be ashamed of? Is that what your bourgeois culture has taught you? Guess what my shirt is made out of?'

'What?'

'Hemp.'

'Guess what my vest is made out of?'

'Hemp?'

'That's right, guess what my pants are made out of?'

'Would it be hemp?'

'No actually cotton, but that's not my point. My point is this, you ask me whether I smoke every day, but what are you really asking me, you're asking me whether I'm 'hi' right now, well I get news for you Atticus Finch, I'm 'hi' as a kite right now, if you go to my web site, they gets 400-hits-a-day, mostly unique . . .'

As Sam was giving his testimony on the stand, Lara glared, mostly witheringly in his direction, and when he uttered the words 'Atticus Finch', this observation branded painfully in her consciousness - this man, the man that she had loved, the man she had dedicated so much of her life -- this man, he is a human jackass.

The judge made a gesture, and the bailiff and a police officer moved to arrest him. The police officer asked, 'The jail?' Wincing, as if with a migraine, the judge said, 'Just get him out of here.'

As a result of that hearing, the Evans won custody. But Mr. O'Malley was incensed because, as he explained to her, if Lara was not a threat to the child, there was no basis to deny custody to the biological mother under existing law. Of course, the court had deemed that Lara was a threat to her son, and even visitation was denied

And then she thought, how could have the appeal taken so long? There was the eventual, though endlessly postponed (mostly because Mr. O'Malley was preoccupied with other cases) initial appeal, that they lost. Then the case was transferred to the state Supreme Court, the transfer was denied, there was a motion to reconsider the transfer, that was accepted, and the Supreme Court heard the case, took it under submission for several months; the case was reversed and remanded; Mr. O'Malley had a heart attack; it was literally one thing after the other.

The Evans moved to the other part of the state with Ryan, and she never knew nor was told the location. It was difficult not seeing Ryan. She was institutionalized again for some period of time, and she was very much vague on when she went in and when she left. Mr. O'Malley got her a receptionist job at a law firm, and the money was good. They had health insurance, and that paid for therapy, and she even met a nice man who worked as a security guard in the building. They had been dating ever since, but she was still keeping him at a distance. The other day, she met with the psychiatrist that Mr. O'Malley hired, and all of her drug tests were mostly good. The night before the hearing, Mr. O'Malley gave her a big hug, saying, 'Lara, you've made amazing progress. Tomorrow we're going to let the judge know that. Let's get your son back!'

At these words, Lara burst into tears; her pale face suddenly reddening.

The next day, she sat - more composed in the courtroom - next to Mr. O'Malley. She was a little beside herself because the judge had ordered the Evans to bring Ryan to the courtroom for an in chamber interview with the judge, and as well a chance to meet with Lara Morgan his biological mother. The judge also wanted to talk to Lara. Across the way from Lara, Mrs. Evans and their team of lawyers sat at their chairs.

More and more, Lara had inched herself around in order to keep direct watch of the long, brown door, and the flutter in her heart fluctuated with its periodic opening and closing.

Suddenly, the door opened, and she recognized Mr. Evans. Mr. Evans' arm fully threw open the door, and a blond-haired boy in a blue outfit guardedly walked in. Mr. O'Malley had told her that he was now about three-and-a-half, but Lara didn't fully believe that until she saw Ryan for herself.

As Mr. Evans, holding him by the hand, led him up the aisle to the opposing counsel's table. Mrs. Evans, now standing up, swung open the gate door that separated off the viewing sections.

The boy appeared entranced by the door. Bright-eyed, mouth slightly agape with amazement, he pointed to it, exclaiming, 'Door!' He turned slightly and looked up to Mr. Evans, gesturing more definitely to the door: 'It's a little door!'

'Right Nate, little door, go on thru to your mother.'

He turned to an older man, sitting in one of the aisles, and repeated, 'It's a little door!'

'I see that,' the old man said, grinning broadly.

Lara regarded him with equal amazement. She instantly realized that he had his dimples. But then her mouth widened, and she murmured, 'Oh my', as her hands folded over her parted lips as if in prayer when she made a further realization. Mrs. Evans stood up and said, 'Come here Nate' and reached down and picked up Ryan. Hugging the child, the baby boy looked up from Mrs. Evans' shoulder and confirmed Lara's realization: 'Ohhhh he has my blue eyes.'

Suddenly these bright blue eyes fixed on her, as before on the small door, and his voice declared, 'Hello mama."