Sufficient Ransom (3 page)

Ann’s own mother had divorced her father when Ann was twelve. Ann stayed with her father in the same house they had shared as a family,
in that little town on the Hudson River, full of memories of what had been. Evenings, she would sit in her bedroom waiting for her mother’s phone call. Homework hastily completed, teeth brushed, pajamas donned, Ann hoped her mother wouldn’t forget her promise to talk. And then, long past her normal bedtime, the terrible ache in her chest and the bewildering disappointment when it became clear that she had.

Her mother had promised to bring Ann to her studio apartment on the Upper East Side of Manhattan and show Ann her new life. Those promises, like the many she had made before, were soon broken. The dance recitals she promised to attend but never did. The little lies she told when she cancelled a lunch or a movie date. Ann soon learned that her mother was so absorbed with her new boyfriend and social-climbing life she no longer had time for her daughter. Ann’s introverted, awkward father had little to offer in the way of comfort. He had a hard enough time taking care of himself, let alone his twelve-year-old girl.

Sadly, Ann’s parents died young: her mother from cancer when Ann was in college, her father from a heart attack when she was twenty-five. As flawed as they were, Ann loved her parents and would have wanted them in her son’s life.

When she got over the shock of her own perceived abandonment as a child, a fierce determination took root in Ann’s soul to not repeat her parents’ mistakes, should she ever have her own children. Yet, for reasons that were unclear even to her, Ann couldn’t shake the feeling that she would end up betraying her family the way her mother had betrayed her and her father.

She checked her phone again. Richard still hadn’t emailed.
What’s he doing?

She leaned over and looked at Travis. His face was turned toward the window, his arms thrown over his head. He had insisted they sleep with the curtain open so when he woke up he would see the sunny sky. The moonlight imbued his skin with a soft glow. He looked so beautiful.

Ann was thankful her son hadn’t picked up on her anxiety. Checking into the hotel, getting ready for bed—she had worked hard to seem
upbeat and unconcerned. After Travis brushed his teeth and donned his pajamas he curled up beside her and fell asleep.

She imagined what life would be like if Kika Garcia were successful: Travis taken from her and living with another family. How long would he remember her?

Travis stirred.

Her hand over her mouth to hold back her sobs, Ann thought of her husband. If only he would call back, she wouldn’t feel that their problems were hers alone to carry.

C
HAPTER
2

Monday, October 1

9:30 A.M
.

T
he next morning, Ann and Travis were in their hotel room having breakfast when her phone rang.

“Hold on a minute, Stewart,” Ann said to her attorney, thankful he had gotten back to her so quickly. To Travis: “Honey, I’m going into the bathroom to talk to my friend. After you finish your pancakes you can read your book.” She patted his backpack. “Your things are in here.”

The bathroom door locked, Ann said, “Last night was the third time Kika came to the house, Stewart. Remember how she crashed Travis’s birthday party last week? And how I saw her at the coffee shop on Prospect Street, and at the grocery store?”

“She lives in La Jolla, Ann.”

“I never see my neighbors around town. I’m telling you Stewart, she’s stalking us.”

“I’ll talk to her supervisor and straighten everything out.”

“What about the restraining order against her?”

Stewart’s sigh was deep. “Judge Nolan denied it. I told you it was a long shot. Look. I’ll call you as soon as I know more.”

It was that hippie throwback, Travis’s new teacher, Amanda White, who had called CPS. “Your son had bruises and scratches all over his lower body,” Amanda had said when Ann demanded to know why a stranger had interviewed her son at this private school without her knowledge.

Four days after the police came to her house over her screaming incident Travis bruised himself by apparently jumping repeatedly off his new swing set, an early birthday present. An active, physical child, Travis’s exploits never seemed to pain him much. A babysitter—a junior at La Jolla High with stellar references whom Ann had hired to watch Travis while she and Richard attended his company party—had let it happen.

When Ann confronted the sitter about the huge purple bruises and scratches on her son’s body, the girl denied having anything to do with it. Ann imagined a cell phone attached to the girl’s ear, a self-absorbed jerk of a boyfriend on the line distracting her from the job of watching Travis.

After explaining the situation to the girl’s parents, Ann asked if they would get their daughter to describe to CPS her part in Travis’s injuries. The father had hung up on her.

When Ann explained all this to Travis’s teacher, Amanda had tapped her foot impatiently.

“Do you really think we beat our child?” Ann had asked, horrified that anyone would think that of her. “Do you have any idea how that feels? To be accused of child abuse when it’s the farthest thing from the truth?”

Amanda’s long gray hair had quivered with each vehement shake of her head. “When I questioned Travis about those horrible marks on his body he said they were nothing. When I asked if there was trouble at home he said the police came to your house the week before because you, Mrs. Olson, had ‘freaked out.’ Things weren’t adding up. I had to call a social worker in to investigate the situation.”

Feeling ashamed and misunderstood, Ann had tried to clarify what had happened that day. “I wasn’t shouting at Travis. Can’t you understand
that it was one bad moment? How would you feel if someone thought
you
were an abusive mother?”

The accusations had unleashed Ann’s insecurities. Her husband had never blamed her for anything—for the bad babysitter or her screaming fit. But somehow her husband’s approval of her wasn’t sufficient. The gnawing feeling that Ann was letting Travis down persisted. Ashamed and angry, her trust in the school violated, she withdrew her son.

The situation escalated.

Four days later, on September 18, Kika Garcia, the CPS investigator appointed to the case, came to the house to check on Travis. After questioning Ann and Richard, Kika made it clear she didn’t believe a word they said. When the social worker suggested they accept services to help them “manage their anger” Ann hired a lawyer. CPS responded by opening an investigation into child abuse against Ann and Richard.

It was their attorney, Stewart Thompson, who enlightened Ann and her husband as to CPS’s real motives. “Since a few of the agency’s high profile failures hit the news recently,” he had said, “CPS has started cracking down on the slightest infractions. The old cover-your-ass principle in action. It’ll take them some time to work through their investigation. In the end, they’ll end up with nothing. In the meantime, don’t worry, Ann. Pigs will fly before they can take Travis.”

That CPS had accused Ann of the very thing she secretly believed about herself—namely that she was a bad mother who didn’t deserve Travis—made her struggle with Kika Garcia all the more personal.

4:00 P.M
.

W
ith Ann and Travis holed up in their hotel room, the day seemed like it would never end. When her attorney finally called back, Ann jumped from bed where she had been reading to Travis. “I’ll be back in a minute, honey.” She flew into the bathroom.

“Say that one more time, Stewart.”

“Kika’s supervisor, Cathy Winckle, had no idea Kika came to your house last night. Apparently Kika acted on her own. And Winckle claimed not to know that Kika had requested a warrant to remove Travis to foster care. That, by the way, was denied.”

It sounded too good to be true. “So you’re saying CPS can’t take Travis?”

“They cannot. There’s more good news. When I threatened a huge lawsuit over this bungled job, Winckle assured me they would drop the abuse charges against you and Richard.”

Ann felt vindicated, but she was still afraid. “I don’t trust Kika. She’s clearly unbalanced.”

“Winckle said Ms. Garcia’s been assigned to another department. Don’t worry, Ann. You won’t be seeing her again.”

Ann looked up at the ceiling. “Thank God it’s all over.” She was so relieved she started to cry.

Seconds after she hung up the phone, it rang again. She could see from the caller ID that it was her friend Nora March. Nora had left an earlier message inviting Ann and Travis to her house for lunch. She probably wanted an update on the new painting Ann had acquired for her. Ann debated whether to answer. Nora had an interest in the whole CPS business because she was Ann’s closest friend and because she also knew Kika.

Before starting at CPS, Kika had worked as a volunteer at San Diego County Orphanage, where Nora was trustee. When Ann confided her recent troubles with CPS to Nora, Nora offered to talk to Kika. “She seemed like a nice person when she volunteered,” Nora had said. “I’ll
call her and tell her you would never dream of hurting your child. Don’t worry, Ann. We’ll straighten everything out.”

Kika had refused Nora’s calls. When Nora tried to see Kika in person at CPS to discuss Ann’s situation, she was told Kika wasn’t there, though Nora saw her car in the parking lot. Even Nora’s emails to Kika went unanswered.

Ann’s phone had stopped ringing. She let out a sigh of relief. She really didn’t want to talk to Nora. All she wanted to do now was celebrate her son’s safety and her freedom from worry here at the hotel pool.

Ann settled into her lawn chair at the edge of the children’s pool and watched Travis splash in the water. A cluster of spindly palms at the far edge of the grass-fringed area swayed in the light afternoon wind. It was warm for the first day of October. The sun on Ann’s face felt so good. Luckily the hotel gift shop was well equipped—a swimsuit, goggles, a dinosaur float for Travis. A prepackaged sandwich, diet soda, and a newspaper for her. She stretched her bare legs and wiggled her toes, happy for the first time in weeks.

After finishing her food, Ann unfolded the newspaper. More on the Villarreal child. Apparently the child’s nanny had kidnapped her. Three children missing since the beginning of the year. Reading on, she noted that the Mexican-born Villarreals lived in an oceanfront home in Point Loma. The father managed a manufacturing company in Tijuana, a few miles south of the border. There was speculation that the missing children cases were related to the Mexican narcotics trade and that the cartels were targeting families in San Diego with drug affiliations.

Looking up, Ann anxiously sought Travis. He was in the pool jumping on his float. Her gaze returned to the news pages spread across her lap. Her heart ached for the little girl and her parents. Losing a child was the most devastating thing she could imagine.

C
HAPTER
3

Tuesday, October 2

1:30 P.M
.

T
he next day, after lunch at the hotel café and few hours more swimming in the pool, Ann and Travis checked out of the hotel and headed for downtown La Jolla. “The Jewel by the Sea” was known for its spectacular views of the Pacific Ocean, intimate beaches, and quaint homes, both historic and modern.

Her assistant, Eloise, had begged Ann to come to the gallery. The new shipment of paintings needed hanging; Nora’s latest painting had arrived. Bills were piling up and the gallery’s website was getting bombarded with hostile comments. Ann’s scathing blog post on artist Chuck Blackmart’s latest installation had clearly angered a lot of people.

Heading north on the freeway, Ann spotted a huge banner hanging from a bridge.
Help New Way Evangelical Find Sabela Villarreal
. Ann wished there were something she could do to help the missing girl and her family.

In La Jolla, Ann navigated her car through the narrow roads bustling with tourists shopping the designer boutiques and enjoying the open-air restaurants. Down the hill from Prospect Street, she skirted the winding
park overlooking the Pacific Ocean, spotted a free space in front of her gallery, and pulled up.

The gallery door shut behind her and her son, Ann paused to take in the park and the ocean through the floor-to-ceiling windows. She never tired of this view, which itself was like a painting.

Eloise’s round face crinkled with amused irony as she emerged from the back to greet them. “Like I mentioned over the phone.” her assistant said as she leaned down to hug Travis, “the Olson Gallery looks more like the Olson Warehouse.”

Glancing around at the space, Ann sighed. Since CPS had invaded her life, she had neglected her work here. After hugging her son and reminding him to be careful around the art, she let him take off to explore; something he never tired of doing though he visited frequently enough.

On the way to her office at the back of the gallery, Ann stopped. She had spotted the latest issue of
Channel Art Magazine
on a coffee table by the back office. Chuck Blackmart’s smirking face alongside a snapshot of his monstrosity, the infamous
Contemplation
, marred the front cover. Ann tossed the magazine in the trash bin. “Eloise! Please remind me not to renew this subscription.”

Hailed as a landmark piece, Chuck Blackmart’s outrageous “corpse” art was said to have single-handedly revived the fortunes of the San Diego Museum of Modern Day Art where the installation now resided. Admirers from all over the world came to see “The Blackmart Dummies,” as
Contemplation
was dubbed. Ann had little patience for such trash.

She turned to her assistant. “Where’s Nora’s painting?”

“It’s in the back. I’ll get it.”

Eloise returned with the painting, a small watercolor of a man at work in fields the color of honey. Holding the piece at arm’s length, Ann smiled. “Nora’s going to love it. Please call her and tell her I’ll bring it by tomorrow.”