Children's Rights War

The Children’s Rights War

Revised 2018

By Stan Parsons

ISBN 978-1-387-99549-3

This is a work of fiction. The characters, events, dialogue and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. The characters are fictional and are not based on any persons, living or dead. Any resemblance to any actual person or actual events and any similarity in characters’ names is coincidental.

This book is dedicated to my parents. They did their best, better than most, without the benefit of any training. It is also dedicated to those who made me think, including my college Sociology professor, NPR, and the Pittsburgh man who once asked me a question about my Virginia ancestors’ beliefs; I had no answer.

Copyright circa 2008 by Stanley W. Parsons. Copyright Office Registration Number TXu 1-572-615. Revised 2018. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission except for brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

ISBN 9781387995493

Retired banker Stan Parsons lives and writes near Ophelia in the Northern Neck of his native Virginia. This is his second novel.

Novels by Stan Parsons:

What Happened, Randi?

The Children’s Rights War

https://www.stanparsonsbooks.com

Prologue

What do you mean, there are no more families?

There is no hunger, unemployment, homelessness, or deficits.

But you said there are no families.

He smiled, spread his arms slightly.

There is no need for families. Socialization, nurturing, protection, all of the benefits the family structure sought to provide are taken care of while inequality, inadequate care, all of the detriments of many families are gone.

Joyce stared intently, silently, her lips moving slightly as if searching for words.

When and where is this?

North America, ninety-five years from what you know as the present.

She shook her head, stepped back.

I don’t want to talk to you.

I’m sure this seems strange, foreign, perhaps...

Not strange. Evil. Who are you?

A rude buzzing erupted, engulfed them. Joyce jerked her hands over her ears, grimaced, and stuttered, What’s that?

I must go. I will see you again. He faded.

Hey, she tried to shout.

But her throat was thick, her words muffled.

Hey…hey.

Each scream was a little more audible, a little louder. She waved her hands.

Hey!

Something grasped her arms.

Hey! at the top of her voice.

Honey, wake up. Babe!

Paul gently shook her shoulders.

Wake up.

Her eyes shot open, focused on her husband. She was soaked in sweat.

Were you having a bad dream?

He leaned toward the nightstand and turned off the alarm.

Are you ok, Joyce? What was it?

She breathed deeply.

Don’t remember. Bad.

She sat up, hugged him, and whimpered.

Very bad. Nightmare. But I don’t remember. I think it had to do with your case.

Oh, babe.

He squeezed her to him, rubbed her back.

It’s going to be ok, I promise. Everything is under control.

Part I: Siege and Surrender

1-Ante Bellum

Offices of Barton-Wright: 6 years from now

Barton-Wright was a petite law firm focused on upscale individuals and small corporations. It was efficient and modern because survival demanded that.

Except for two rooms. The R. Godfrey Wilgore Memorial Conference Room and the vacant former Senior Partner’s office were rancorous tributes to nostalgia.

An oversized table of hand carved mahogany sat regally beneath two ornate crystal chandeliers, surrounded by twenty-eight well-preserved plush leather conference chairs. A splattering of huge wing chairs circa 1910 with matching lamp tables was displayed in the room’s corners.

Built-in bookcases covered three walls, with imposing double six-paneled doors centered on each, all in rich, dark mahogany. The fourth wall was double hung nine pane windows dressed in elegant swags. The ceiling was sculptured plaster.

A few ancient law tomes were exhibited on the shelves, chronicling landmark cases in which Barton-Wright giants of the past played pivotal roles when the firm was larger and prestigious. The rest of the shelves had various relics of company lore, and marble busts of every senior partner Barton-Wright and its antecedent firms had ever had.

There were two sculpture exceptions. The present chief’s likeness wasn't there and never would be. The topic came up when Ed took over ten years ago. A man of minced words, his curt reaction was ‘horseshit.’ The subject was not brought up again.

The second involved the late divorce attorney for whom the room was named. R. Godfrey Goose Wilgore had never been the head man, never came close. His father had earned shelf space but the annals were dotted with progeny of founders and former chiefs.

Goose Wilgore was on these shelves beside his father only because he was the lifelong best friend of Wayne Bridges, the Senior Partner for the twenty years preceding Ed Stephens.

Bridges was the grandson of a founder. Had his tenure as Senior Partner been a quarter century earlier he might have been adequate. But he was hopelessly passé, and Barton-Wright suffered and shrank under Bridges, intently and visibly.

He had reluctantly admitted, during heated discussions among the partners twelve years ago, that the firm had to change. Earnings, size and stature had tumbled for twenty years. Something must be done. It was too late to go regional unless they merged into a larger firm, an anathema at B-W.

They had to modernize. And they had to move soon.

Bridges came to support that ostensibly, but emotionally he opposed B-W's new direction. He grudgingly did what he had to do, including taking a leadership role in planning for new facilities.

The project was at the final drawings stage months later when the office Business Manager asked to meet with Ed Stephens, at that time a 56-year-old member of the Building Committee. Ed was an extremely influential partner, and one of three potential heirs apparent to Bridges.

The Manager was very concerned about budget changes, and had compiled a list of numerous modifications and additions to the original concept. Ed recalled hearing about most of them but had no idea that the total projected impact on costs had reached this point. As they had individually come up, they each seemed insignificant compared to the lost production of a pouting lawyer.

Even more alarming was the cumulative effect on the core objectives: modernization, efficiency, and so forth. The manager had said we could spend a fortune and wind up where we are. That stunned Ed! He thoroughly reviewed his New Building file and by 3:45 had reached the same conclusion.

He called in the other two partners whose influence and weight paralleled his own. They worked very well together, were allies on this project, and joined Ed on the need to quash this threat to B-W's new strategy. They mapped out how to avoid a disaster.

One of their tactics involved what became the R. Godfrey Wilgore Memorial Conference Room. They agreed that Bridges could outfit it as he wished. It was much more than a decorating decision. It was a very significant policy pact.

They anticipated that Bridges would be in charge another five to ten years. The alignment of partners on modernizing was solidly in favor of the needed changes. But dumping the Senior Partner would not fly, not get off the ground. It was a Given that they had to work around Wayne Bridges, and gently. So:

There would be an immediate end to what Ed called the 'chicken-shit paneling war' by accepting Bridges' persistent offer to have his son-in-law move the mahogany, furnishings, everything from the old conference room, along with his Senior Partner office.

What if his rooms aren't finished when it's time to move? one of Stephens’s confederates had asked on that fateful afternoon.

Who cares if he drives the nails himself and takes ten years, was Ed's prelude to an explanation of why it didn't matter how long it took or what it looked like, and a practical application of their new pact on how to work around Bridges.

These two rooms would simply and only be Bridges' escapes into a world he sorely missed, and nothing else - - Wayne's bridges, one of them had called it.

They would be places to tuck the Senior Partner away as a figurehead for the next few years. When he retired, they would be redone into whatever expansion space was needed.

When Barton-Wright moved to the Hager Building about a year later - - four months after the tragic death of Goose Wilgore - - this room, and the Senior Partner's Office that lay next to it, became Bridges' retreats.

Evidently, they did not offer enough insulation from a world gone mad. He retired in fading health six months after the move, in his mid-sixties (senior partners typically ruled well past seventy) and died at home two months later.

Ed Stephens was handed the mantle. The other two, both older than Ed, did not want the very heavy burden of pushing, pulling, and dragging B-W from the past into the future. A former marine, Ed was clearly the best suited to do what must be done quickly, efficiently, continually and, when needed, brutally.

Stephens refused to move into the Senior Partner Office. A very practical man with a very big job in front of him, Ed knew the fireplace, Victorian furnishings, overkill of mahogany, and lack of modern equipment would be shackles, and he didn't want to bother with changing it. His own office, which was outfitted the way he wanted it and geared for production, would be just fine.

His militant management style began having an effect. The rapid loss of Goose Wilgore, the old building, and then Wayne Bridges, along with Ed's changes, were more than the remnants of the hard-boiled Old Guard could stomach and they soon retired. Ed's two powerful confederates stayed with him a few more years, and they each worked to develop young protégés hired two years in advance. One of the protégés, Paul Daniels, had proven to be a shining star right from the beginning, The other, Jeff Proctor, considered himself to be at least a shining star, if not the Messiah.

Other new blood was brought in, and prosperity returned. They were moving forward now, growing, regaining ground they had lost over the past several years.

The conference room, rarely used, was just as Wayne Bridges had left it and would stay that way. It was far too ostentatious for meetings with the firm's clients, and too dark and gloomy for anything else. They didn't yet need the space.

They had found one good purpose for it. Occasionally they wanted a cold, intimidating environment for scrimmages.

That is exactly what was happening late one summer night, with three partners seated near the end of the table with their backs to the windows, playing the roles of Supreme Court Justices. A fourth stood before them across the table, going through an oral argument and then whacking the curves, sliders and fast balls as fast as the others could hurl them.

The case involved a young boy named Connolly who had sued his mother and stepfather, the Elmores, and won. Elmore was directed to leave his home because his presence made it unfit for the lad. He was to continue to support his step-son financially

Connolly's attorney had argued that every child had a right to a 'normal' life. Connolly's norm was private schools, a very comfortable house, and other trappings of affluence, which was impossible under state care. And emotional normalcy was impossible with Elmore present.

The circumstances differed from most of the Children's Rights cases that had flooded dockets all over the country the past few years in the wake of new Civil Rights legislation. Under Title XII, Minors' Protection, of the Civil Rights Act of three years ago the Elmores could have won. But, the application of new law under the Children's Rights Act the following year went against them.

Mrs. Elmore had moved out with her husband, a strategic mistake. That, plus their general disappointment in their attorney, had led to their engaging young Paul Daniels for an appeal. To the astonishment of everyone, he had won! The Children’s Rights Title XII League then financed a massive and successful effort to get the case on a fast track to the Supreme Court.

Tonight's work had little to do with the meat of the issue, or briefs that had been filed, points that would be made. They had put much time on that, and it was right. This exercise concerned the Court appearance itself. Time would be put into handling every conceivable question the Justices could raise, and more.

They were concentrating on the individuals who sat on the bench, little things to do, and not do, in their presence - - inflections, tones, gestures. Leave nothing to chance.

The idea had been Mason Burles' and Ed had finally signed off on it, if not bought into it.

Just let the boy go in and kick ass, he'd protested.

But when it was suggested to Paul Daniels, he had been very appreciative of their willingness to help. Ed was determined to give it his best.

It had been about eight when they'd gathered in Ed's office and discussed the approaches Paul planned to use, and the assumptions they were based on. Details like who he would face when making a certain point, and why. They had come to the Wilgore Conference room later and started to role-play.

It was now 10:45 on this Thursday evening. Jerry Wallace was Supreme Court Justice Deavis Southern, Mason Burles was Justice MacDermott and Ed Stevens was Justice everyone else.

Mason Burles, Ed Stevens and Jerry Wallace had their jackets off, ties loose, sleeves of wrinkled shirts rolled up, and generally looked much the worse for wear after a long day. On the other hand, Paul Daniels, as always, was under control, squared away, his tie straight and tight, his jacket buttoned. He was the type who could probably sleep in his suit without wrinkling it.

Daniels was responding to another Deavis Southern question from Jerry Wallace.

Ed Stevens was frazzled, worn out, and even grumpier than usual. It was almost time to stop in his estimation. The others were tired, too.

But, tired or not, no one was prepared for what was going to happen in about ten minutes.

2-Attack on Wilgore

Ed closed his eyes, rubbed his temples and then held up a hand to stop Paul’s reply to Jerry’s Deavis Southern question.

What’s different, Paul?

Different?

Yeah, different. Is it me or has there been something different about your answers to the last two questions?

He looked at Mason Burles for confirmation. Mason clasped his hands, rested his elbows on the table, and nodded.

Something’s different: tone, gestures, something.

Paul spread his arms slightly and raised an eyebrow.

Ed drew a breath and shot an imploring glance at Burles.

Tell him what I’m trying to say, Mason.

Paul followed Ed's eyes to Mason and waited with patient reverence for clarification. Mason raised his head, peered at the engravings in the ceiling, placed his palms deliberately on the table and slowly lowered his gaze to Paul.

Paul, they're an awesome institution. But they're also people…damn it! He shook his head. I can’t find the words.

He puffed in exasperation for a moment, and then looked rather pitifully at Jerry Wallace. But Paul spoke before Jerry could.

I see what you're saying, he lied. I'm sending those signals, and I've got to control it.

He held Mason's eyes long enough to see relief, quickly glanced at Ed and saw cautious acceptance mingled with suspicion. He scanned Jerry and saw open skepticism.

I really appreciate your pointing that out, Paul smiled.

Jerry’s cheeks puffed out as he struggled to keep from laughing at Paul’s false air of reverent gratitude and sincerity.

While holding his gracious smile, Paul’s cold eyes dug into Jerry for a full second. Then he pointed to an ornate clock.

It's almost eleven. I've kept you poor guys for nearly three hours. I'm sorry. Why don't you go on home?

And he casually added, I might stay here a minute or two and video tape this. Then, I can see what you're seeing even more clearly, and clean it up. Thanks again.

Sure, Paul, we can tape it. But, first, one other thing.

Jerry had been with the firm twelve years. The balding, 5' 8", 240 pound teddy bear of a man was a good technician, great analyst. Empathetic, a peacemaker, uncanny at reading people, he could put complex intangibles into clear words.

Not a litigator because no matter how much he spent on his clothes he always looked like a fat slob. Ed had branded him as a rambler. And he was. Especially around someone he found intimidating, such as Ed Stephens, master of ‘The Look.’

Paul and Jerry were good friends and had been good buddies until about a year ago. Jerry not only knew what his more elderly partners were trying to say, but he also knew that Paul was patronizing them, and why. The question was whether he could express it in ten words or ten thousand. Nervous, but he had to try.

You're doing pretty well considering that the task is impossible. But, hey, if it were only difficult, one of us would handle it, right? he chuckled as he glanced at Ed, who did not alter his stern expression at all.

Jerry narrowed his eyebrows and leaned forward. Ed leaned forward, too. Wallace usually annoyed him, but when he was hot, he was terrific. He would give him a chance; see if he was hot.

We know their temperaments. We know their history. We know their philosophy. We've filed everything they need to reach the right conclusion. It is top notch, and we can safely assume that they've all studied it.

Then he raised one hand and pointed a finger for emphasis. Ed, impatient but eager, rolled his finger at Wallace, who nodded.

"What we don't know is which of our points have registered with whom. We know how they should have reacted if each justice focused on the tidbits that are there specifically for him."

He leaned back, put his hands on the arms of his chair.

Paul, next Thursday, you're going to have a precious few minutes to size it all up and score. You’ll have minutes, maybe seconds, to find out whether each mouse got his cheese. How will you know? Well, if....

The corners of Ed's mouth turned down, way down.

Damn it, we all know that, Wallace! Get to the point.

Yeah. OK. Strike one. Jerry's heartbeat picked up, his mouth got dry, and he talked faster.

We've got four we can count on, two we know we can't move. Of the three others, Southern is our best shot. Now, MacDermott is maybe a distant second. And, Davis may be...

Ed slapped the table.

"Hol lee Shit! Is that your point? That Southern's the swing vote? Is that your point, Wallace?"

Ed Stephens had The Look, in spades.

Jerry held up his hand in a plea for patience. Paul glanced at Ed with lowered eyebrows and a slight frown. Ed saw it. Jerry babbled. God bless him, he couldn’t help it.

Sorry. I know what I want to say, just...just give me a second. Strike two.

As Jerry took a moment to regroup, Ed acknowledged Paul’s discomfort at seeing him banter Jerry about with a slight wave of his hand and shake of his head. Then Jerry was ready.

Paul, you came across like you were trying to emotionally appeal to Southern's personal ethics. I really don't think that would bother him. He'd sort it out and do the right thing. But it will disturb a couple of the others, which in turn will distract Southern.

He stole a glance at Ed, whose narrowed eyes, pursed lips, and slight nod bolstered his confidence.

Ed’s right. It was just the last two questions. Paul, you know Southern isn’t asking these questions because he needs your assurance that he’s a good father. But twice you said 'you' when you were making a point passionately, and you opened your arms as if begging his clemency. Keep this professional. Stay away from personal pronouns and emotional gestures.

There!

He paused to read facial expressions. Mason had a closed mouth grin and, when he caught Jerry’s eye, made a clicking sound in his cheek and winked. Jerry smiled, nodded at Mason, and then peeked at Ed who gave him thumbs up and muttered good job, Wallace. Damn it, you should have settled this twenty minutes ago, but, good job.

Elated, Jerry turned to face Paul, whose expression was complex, as if ‘Mr. All Under Control’ might be experiencing a wavering of self-confidence. Might the young lawyer's analytical mind be digesting thoughts such as 'Is he right?’

‘Would I have picked that up on my own? Could it have affected the decision? Might it have effected how I am perceived in future dealings with the Court? Have I become cocky? Could I blow this case?’

Jerry saw understanding and gratitude gather in Paul.

Paul straightened his tie, which never needed it, and, his gaze fixed on Jerry, sat directly across from him, ramrod straight. His elbows on the table, he clasped his hands, extended his thumbs, rubbed them slowly together, and looked squarely at Jerry.

OK, Wallace. You're hot and I'm humble. Spell it out.

Jerry leaned over the table and looked into Paul’s eyes.

Paul, I'd like you to do one more thing. If we don't score with this, we'll try the video. I'd like you to forget, for a moment, who you are, and assume the char...

Jerry broke in mid-sentence and sat perfectly still. He was on a roll, and Paul waited for him to find the right word - - 2, 3 seconds. Paul glanced at Ed. He was transfixed, staring at his glasses, which he held near his face as if he'd just taken them off. Mason had crumpled up a page of his scratch pad and tossed it toward a wastebasket. But it wasn't falling...4, 5 seconds.

Paul Daniels?

Paul twisted in his chair and saw, behind him, a few paces to his right, a muscular man of perhaps thirty with black, curly hair. He was standing between two wing back chairs that flanked the double doors that led to the hallway. The doors were closed.

He was about six feet tall, dark complexioned with a thick mustache, and dressed in strange looking casual clothes.

My name is Mitch Harris, and I don't have much time. I must talk to you about the Connolly v Elmore case.

What?

Paul looked back at Jerry, Ed and Mason. No change, no change at all. What was going on? He swung his head back to Mitch, who was taking a cautious step toward him.

May I call you Paul?

Paul leaped up and sped to a window. There were cars, people, but no movement, no noise. Was he dreaming? He pivoted and saw that Mitch had come to where he had been.

No. Call me Mr. Daniels.

Of course, Mitch said politely. He pulled Paul's chair further from the table and sat comfortably in it.

Mr. Daniels, I know your reputation, and I have come to believe you are a good man. I don't know how much time I have so I’ll be brief. I'm a Children's Rights activist, and I'm...

Oh, perfect. Is this Scrooge-Marley, Elm Street, or what?

Mitch looked confused for an instant, then understanding.

I'm sure you're puzzled, he said.

No, Mitch, not a bit. A warning, though. If this turns nasty, I'll wake myself up. You know where that'll leave you.

Do you think you're dreaming? Mitch looked amused.

You’re damned right I'm dreaming, Paul sniggered.

Well, Mitch shrugged, we can work with that. As I said, I'm a Children's Rights activist. I'm also from the future.

Fine, Paul snickered.

Very soon, you will argue Family Rights in the Supreme Court. And you win.

I'm starting to like this better.

But, I can't let that happen.

Paul chuckled. I suppose I get a unanimous decision?

No, it's close, five to four. Southern is the swing vote, and it takes thirty years to reverse the decision. Landmark cases in five, twelve, fifteen and twenty-three years go the same way because of your groundwork.

Wow! Do you do dreams often? Lottery numbers?

Please, Mr. Daniels, I...

I like you now, Mitch. Call me Paul. Care for a drink?

Mitch’s expression hardened. He leaned forward, keeping his left hand in his pocket, and put his right elbow on the arm of the chair with a finger pointed at Paul. He lowered his voice.

Look, because of you, millions of kids will suffer vile abuses in their homes, Mitch sarcastically emphasized the word 'homes,' while millions more will grow up without ever getting half a shot at the opportunities people like you take for granted, and all because of your...

Whoa, now. Paul pranced like a revival preacher.

Isn't that a bit dramatic? What about the tens of millions of parents who love their children dearly, give them everything they can, do all they can. Just yank happy kids out of good families, huh? Is that it, Mitch? Just so we can be sure one son of a bitch out of ten thousand isn't slapping his boy around? I don't know, Mitch. Breaking up happy homes sounds pretty abusive to me.

Mitch composed himself.

Mr. Daniels...Paul...I can appreciate your position. It makes sense from your perspective. But, my God, I beg you. If only you knew what I know. Things just don't turn out that way. Within a very few...

Mitch jerked his head, looked pained, and half rose as he stammered, Have to go.

He vanished.

3-Rallying the Routed

...acter of..., Jerry picked up in mid-sentence.

Then he jerked his head from the empty chair to the figure in the corner of his right eye, and stared incredulously.

How'd you get over there? he gasped in amazement.

It took Paul a second to realize that he was not where he had been when his partners had tuned out.

I think I fell asleep, he offered lamely. He fumbled to straighten his tie.

OK. Jerry twitched his mouth. But how'd you get from here to there? He raised his eyebrows.

What the shit's going on here? Ed growled.

Answer him, Paul, Mason demanded. This room is spooky enough without this kind of carrying on.

With a nervous laugh, Jerry asked, Can you do that in court, in a jury trial? That’d be like lifting a toupee to scratch your head, just as opposing counsel is...

Paul had been walking back around the table toward his seat, one hand on his hip and the other running through his