A Work of Art (6 page)

I waited for his reaction—I pictured him sitting up straighter in his chair, grabbing a pen to make sure he didn't miss anything—but all I could hear was a woman's voice in the background, a phone ringing.

Maybe the reception was bad. “Hello?” I said. “Can you hear me?”

“Is that why you keep calling?” His voice was cold and flat, like what I was telling him wasn't the least bit important.

Which meant the police must have found the photo.

Which meant Dad could be in a lot of trouble. Five years in prison. The other prisoners beating the crap out of him, maybe even killing him.

I had to tell this lawyer everything, get it out in the open.

“There was a photo, too,” I said. “But it's not what you think.”

“No, I imagine not.”

“It's kind of a long story. I can tell you on the phone, or I can come to your office. I can come now if you want, or I can—”

“Miss Waters, let me stop you right there.”

I clamped my mouth shut. This was where he'd tell me how everything would be okay. I
so
wanted to hear him tell me everything would be okay.

“If you're really concerned about your father's welfare, the best thing you can do is let me handle this.”

He sounded like he was done talking, but I needed more. “I wanted to make sure you knew everything,” I said. “How the photo wasn't a big deal. So you don't have to have him plead guilty or anything because he's actually really innocent.”

“I have to go.”

“Wait!” That couldn't be it. If he hung up, I'd lose my only connection to what was going on. I tried to sound forceful, grown up. “I need to know how you're going to help him.”

“Did no one explain this to you?” Chase Hardy spoke slowly, like he was talking down to a child. “I cannot share with you—nor would I want to—the details of your father's case.”

“But I know how these things work. You won't have him plead guilty, right?”

“Frankly, it's none of your business what my client and I decide.”

Why was he pushing me away? All I was doing was trying to help.

He wasn't done. “And for you to tell me how I should handle his case is exactly why I can't deal with family members.”

“But I'm his
daughter.
” By that time, I was almost crying. “I have a right to be involved.”

“I don't have time for this. You cannot imagine how busy I am. And the more time I spend communicating with frantic family members, the less time I have to defend my clients. Do you understand what I'm telling you?”

He didn't wait for me to answer. He hung up.

I sat there on my bed, stunned, staring at the phone in my hand. Everything I had read about court-appointed attorneys was true. He had no interest in helping my dad.

All that research I'd done. Everyone said the same thing. If you wanted to clear your name of child pornography charges, you needed to hire a lawyer who specialized in sex crimes.

And if I hired a sex crimes lawyer for my dad, I wouldn't be going to France.

Fact one: The judge was not letting my dad out on bail.

Fact two: Mom was useless—more than useless, since she was basically fighting for the other side.

Fact three: Chase Hardy had no interest in getting to the truth. He wasn't going to fight for my dad.

And fact four: If I paid for a lawyer, I wouldn't have enough money for an apartment in France. Maybe not even enough for a plane ticket.

My scholarship to the Paris Art Institute paid my tuition for an entire year, but there were no dorms attached to the college. I had to live in an apartment, off campus, and that meant my living expenses weren't covered by financial aid. I already had an apartment lined up, just four blocks from the school and six blocks from the Louvre. If I did this for my dad, there was no way I could afford to go. Not this year, at least.

But I had to help him. He needed a good lawyer to stay out of prison. If he went to prison, the other inmates would beat him, maybe even kill him.

So in a way, my decision was easy.

The art institute's website said that, under special circumstances, you could postpone using your scholarship money. So there was no reason not to help him. And after I broke the plan into steps, it didn't seem that complicated. First, I'd get a deferment on my scholarship so I could use it next year. Second, I'd pay for a lawyer out of my Paris fund. Third, I'd get back my old job at Papa Geppetto's. And finally, after I saved enough for an apartment in Paris, I'd reinstate my scholarship. The last step would be easy, but I had a long way to go.

I spent an hour crafting an e-mail to the art institute's financial aid department, formally requesting a deferment on my scholarship. I stressed over the wording and made sure to include all the information they requested.

Step two was more complicated. I had to learn all I could about lawyers.

What to look for in a good lawyer. What kinds of questions to ask. How long the whole process might take. I found out that lawyers want to be paid up front—a retainer, they called it—and the retainer could run anywhere from ten to thirty thousand dollars. If my dad's case dragged on, I might need more than the twenty thousand dollars I had in my account. I needed to start working right away.

Just typing the words
sex crimes attorneys
into the browser felt sleazy, but at least my dad wasn't alone. Going by the number of attorneys who specialized in sex crimes, I thought there must be a sexual predator lurking around every corner. I liked how all the lawyers acted like getting arrested for rape or child pornography could happen to anyone. Maybe it could.

All the attorneys' webpages said the same thing. People got frantic when it came to child pornography charges. It didn't matter if the charges were bogus. The tiniest suspicion could trigger a witch hunt. And the longer you waited to hire a specialized lawyer, the greater your chance of being burned at the stake.

I felt time slipping away. A full day had passed since Dad's arrest. Everything I read said the other side was already hard at work, building a case against him.

I picked up my phone to call the first lawyer on my list. Then I noticed how my room had grown dark. No lawyer would be in the office on a Friday night. I'd have to wait. I turned off the light and tried to sleep.

Before all this happened, I used to lie in bed and think about art school and what it would be like to live in Paris. But that night, all I could think about was my dad in his jail cell. Sitting on a bare cot, his head in his hands. Pacing his cage, trying to figure out what had happened. Closing his eyes in that empty darkness, hoping to sleep, waiting for someone to rescue him.

• • •

The next morning, I stayed in bed and let myself pretend it was all a dream—that my dad had never gotten arrested, that I was still going to the Paris Art Institute. I let myself imagine the scenario I'd played over and over in my head, before any of this happened. Me sitting up late in my apartment, talking with my classmates about colors and technique, about professors and boys. Only now the imagining wasn't fun anymore. Pretending hurt too much. And I didn't have time for that anyway. I had to find my dad a lawyer.

I dragged myself out of bed and started calling the lawyers on my list, but none of them picked up. One of them had a voice-mail message that said to call back Monday during regular office hours. That's when I figured out lawyers don't work on Saturday.

I closed my eyes, frustrated. Already it had been two days since Dad's arrest. If I waited till Monday, the lawyer going against Dad would have a four-day head start.

Time to try something else. I pulled the computer onto my lap and typed,
24-7 sex crime attorneys, Decatur, Illinois.

Most of the links were junk, but one stood out. When I clicked on it, the words
Do Not Panic and Do Not Lose Hope!
marched across the top of the page. I kept reading.

If you have been accused of a sex crime, you are no doubt wondering how anyone could believe such outrageous allegations. You probably feel frustrated that the police are not being objective when looking at the so-called evidence. You may question why the authorities seem intent on convicting you without a full investigation. Undoubtedly, you feel frightened, discouraged, and alone.

That sounded exactly like what my dad was going through. When I scrolled down, I saw they offered free consultations. Their office was open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

I swept up my phone and punched in the number. A woman answered after the first ring.

“David A. Kaufmann and Associates. This is Linda. How may I help you?”

“Um, hi. I'm looking for a lawyer. For my dad, not me.”

“What's he charged with, honey?”

“I guess it would be . . .” I rubbed the back of my neck. “Pornography.” I couldn't bring myself to say
child
pornography.

“Well, you called the right place.”

I felt my shoulders relax a little. Someone was going to help me. Someone was going to help my dad. “I'm not sure how this works,” I said. “I think I have enough money to get started. And I guess I have to meet with him? The lawyer, I mean.”

“I'll set up a consultation. But you do understand. It wouldn't be
you
hiring the attorney. Your father would do the actual hiring.”

“But I'm the one with the money,” I said.

“I understand, but you'd only be acting as your father's agent. Would you like to set up a consultation?”

“Can I see the lawyer today?”

“Of course. How's eleven o'clock?”

“Perfect.”

I almost smiled when I hung up. Finally, things were happening.

• • •

I stepped off the bus and checked my hand where I'd scribbled the lawyer's address. Was I even in the right place? These were houses, not office buildings, and most of them looked rundown with their peeling paint and broken shutters. Then I saw a blue BMW parked in one of the driveways. That house had a fresh paint job, decorative stones lining the walkway, bushes shaped like perfect rectangles. Above the door was a plaque:
The Law Offices of David A. Kaufmann & Associates
.

For a split second, I wanted to forget about the whole thing. Go to Paris and let my dad deal with his own problems. But I knew I couldn't do that. Even if I hated this lawyer, I'd keep searching until I found someone else.

Inside, the office looked empty, but I heard a copier going, and I smelled burned popcorn. I stepped up to the front desk and craned my neck to see around a bookshelf. A blonde woman in a gray pantsuit stood at the copier.

“Excuse me,” I said.

She looked up, smiling when she saw me. “Can I help you?”

“I'm Tera Waters. I have an appointment?”

“Yes, we spoke on the phone. I'm Linda.” She pushed up her sleeve and glanced at her watch. “You're a little early, but I think Ms. Gross can see you now.”

She led me through a door to where a woman sat behind a big wooden desk, typing on her computer. She looked about my mom's age and wore a navy blue pantsuit with a string of pearls around her neck. Her hair was up in a bun.

Linda introduced us. “Ms. Gross, this is Tera Waters. Ms. Waters, this is Charlotte Gross, senior criminal defense attorney.”

I shook her hand. She had a French manicure. She probably had her nails done every week.

Linda left the room, and the lawyer pointed to one of the cushioned chairs that faced her desk. “Have a seat. May I call you Tera?”

I nodded and sat, clenching my purse. Through the fake leather, I could feel my checkbook.

“Can you tell me what happened?” she asked.

I had to clear my throat to get the words out. “The police arrested my dad.”

“And the charges? Did you hear why they arrested him?”

My fingers ached from gripping my purse so hard. I didn't want to say it, but I knew I had to. “For child pornography.”

I waited for the shocked pause, the gasp. But she didn't flinch, didn't even blink.

“But I know he's innocent,” I said.

“And what makes you say that?”

“The police found a drawing, but I'm the one who did it, not him.”

“A drawing? I don't understand.”

“He's an artist. We both are. I did a drawing of myself when I was a kid. I was just practicing—you know, drawing the nude form. But I guess it could be considered pornographic.”

I checked her face, but all I saw was concern. “You were there when they searched the house?” she asked. “Did they have a warrant, or did someone let them in?”

“They had a warrant, but I let them in. I'm pretty sure my mom called them.”

She made a note on her pad. “Did you see what they took?”

“His computer. My laptop. Some folders with a bunch of his sketches.”

“And why do you think they took all that?”

“Because . . .” I clenched my jaw. This was where I had to say it. “Because there was a photo of me,” I blurted. “At least I think there was. A digital photo. Mom said she found something on his computer. That's why she called them. So the police must have found the photo, too, on his computer, and then they took his hard drive and a bunch of other stuff hoping they'd find something else.” I rambled on, wanting her to stop me, but she was taking notes on her pad. “I think they were fishing because it's
not
a big deal. The photo, I mean. Or the drawing. That's what the police do, right? They fish. And you can't explain anything to my mom. There's something wrong with her. She takes medication for depression and anxiety. That's important, right?”

“It could be.” She scribbled something else on her pad. “But I need you to back up a little.”

“Okay.” I thought for sure she wanted to talk about the photo. Why was I in it? Why did he have it? But that's not what she asked.