Break and Enter (9 page)

Ernest told her thanks and motioned us outside.

“What’s the matter, Ernest?” I said. “You don’t look so hot.”

“That’s because Judge Albert Williams is the worst bigot in this entire courthouse,” he said. “Do you want me to withdraw the petition and wait for Judge Jordan to recover from whatever it is that ails her?”

“If I may speak?” Charles said.

“Be my guest,” Ernest said.

“I think we should charge right ahead as if there were no problems at all with this change,” Charles said. “To do any less would be a sign of extreme weakness and would show a lack of faith in our position.”

“George?” Ernest said.

“I’m with Charles,” I said. “Let’s get the show on the road.”

“Okay,” Ernest said with a grin. “Now you know why I wanted to enter the fray with the biggest gun in town.” He clapped Charles on the back. “Follow me.”

•
7 •

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us down another hall and opened a door. Letters stenciled on the glass identified the office as Judge Williams’s chambers. We followed Ernest inside and found yet another secretary sitting at a desk.

“Hello, Susan,” Ernest said. “I believe His Honor is expecting us.”

“Go right in, Mr. Rodgers,” she said, pointing at an inner door.

Ernest opened the indicated door and we followed him inside.

“Good morning, Ernest,” a voice said. I looked in the appropriate direction and saw a somewhat fat-looking man (it was hard to tell because he was seated behind a desk) with a bad case of male pattern baldness and an even worse comb-over. “You folks find seats, and we’ll get this procedure going.”

Ernest and Charles took chairs on the left side of the judge’s desk, and Ernest indicated that Mike and I were to sit in the chairs next to them.

The judge looked at the documents in front of him and said, “This case involves a petition from George Martin and Michael Foster. Are the petitioners present?”

“They are, Your Honor,” Ernest said, motioning to Mike and myself.

“Who’s the young man next to you, Ernest?” the judge said.

“This is Charles Barnett, senior partner of Chandler, Todd, Woodward & Barnett out of Atlanta,” Ernest said.

“What possible interest could a presumably high-priced Atlanta attorney have in this proceeding?” the judge said.

“The petitioners are personal friends of mine, Your Honor,” Charles said in an even and what I recognized as a tightly controlled voice. “I’m licensed to practice in Georgia, Florida, and both Carolinas. I have a summer home near here, and my friends asked me to sit in on this proceeding.”

“Whatever,” the judge said. “I don’t think this will take long.”

“I’m here for as long as I’m needed,” Charles said in that same tone of voice.

“This case involves the petition of two single men to adopt a five-year-old boy who was recently orphaned,” Ernest said. “The boy’s only living relative, his maternal grandmother, has given her consent, she being too old and ill to undertake the upbringing of a small child.”

“Yes, yes,” the judge said. “I read all that, but I just don’t see how I can grant this petition.”

“Why not?” Ernest said.

“Well, because,” the judge said, “if I understand it correctly, these two men are ho-mo-sex-u-als, and we just can’t have that sort of thing going on in this county.”

“What sort of thing would that be?” Ernest said, dropping the “Your Honor.”

“Ho-mo-sex-u-als raising young boys,” the judge said. “That’s not natural, or right, or proper.”

“You do understand, I hope,” Ernest said, “that Judge Jordan has already signed everything but the final order, and has agreed to everything asked for in the petition?”

“True,” the judge said, “but she isn’t here, is she? I understand she’s in the hospital right now.”

“Is that your final decision?” Ernest said.

“I’m afraid so,” the judge said.

“Then, Your Honor”—Charles sort of spat the word “honor” out of his mouth, and his voice had dropped several notches—“I respectfully suggest that it would be in your best interest to change your mind, here and now.”

“And why would I want to do that?” the judge said.

“Because, Your Honor,” Charles again spat the word out almost as an epithet, “if you do not sign off on this petition, my clients will appeal it to a higher court, all the way to the Supreme Court, if necessary, and that’s not all. I will immediately file the appropriate paperwork to have you removed from office for failing to follow the law in this case, which, as you know, is quite simple. This is a private petition between private and consenting parties. There are no issues of law on which you may rest such a decision.” Charles rattled off a series of what I knew were citations of case law, but couldn’t follow.

“Counselor,” the judge said, “I’ve looked at the documents in this case. Petitioners have a bunch of rental property and are obviously well-heeled, but they don’t have the kind of resources necessary to pursue this case all the way to the Supreme Court.”

“No, they don’t,” Charles said, “but he does.” He pointed at Philip.

“Who is he, and how is he interested?” the judge said.

Charles handed a business card across the desk to the judge, who picked it up and read it. “Integrity Foundation. Never heard of them.”

“For your information, Your Honor,” Charles said, again with that tone, “the Integrity Foundation was established to defend gay men and women from all manner of bigots, including yourself. The Foundation has in excess of ten million dollars at its disposal, and there’s more where that came from. That amount is more than enough to pursue this case through the courts for the next twenty years, if need be. Do you really think your county is going to back you with that kind of resources? And I should add, the Foundation has never—I repeat, never—lost one of these type cases.”

“Are you daring to threaten me in my own chambers, Counselor?” the judge said, getting more than a little bit red in the face.

“No, Sir, I’m not,” Charles said. “I’m stating the facts—and making you a solemn promise. You have absolutely no legal grounds on which to refuse this petition, and the Foundation, aided by my firm, will pursue it all the way, for as long as necessary.”

“I’d suggest you listen to this young man, Albert,” Ernest said, dropping the formal title of “judge.” “Let me tell you something about his track record. Decades ago, when I was a young lawyer in Atlanta, I knew Mr. Barnett’s grandfather, who was a highly respected federal judge at the time. There were people back then who said Judge Barnett would have gone to the Supreme Court eventually but for his untimely death. In any case, I’ve followed his grandson’s career with interest. In the past six years, Mr. Barnett has put the District Attorney of Fulton County, Georgia behind bars and gotten two or three Atlanta detectives fired. He then sued the DA, the city, the county, and the detectives for millions of dollars—and won. As part of that same case, Mr. Barnett is responsible for the public exposure and downfall of a television preacher, and he sued the preacher and his organization and won a few more millions, putting the preacher’s organization out of business in the process. More recently, he has had the sheriff of a county in the Atlanta suburbs removed from office and a couple of his deputies fired. He sued all of them, and the county—and won millions again. Those are just the cases with which I’m familiar, and they all involved discrimination against gay men or women. I rather imagine there are several more cases like that with which I’m not familiar. What I’m telling you, Albert, is that when this young man goes on the attack, he does not take prisoners.”

“So what?” the judge said, somewhat weakly.

“So what?” Ernest said. “My God, Albert, I’ve known you for a long time, and this isn’t worthy of you. Just last year you told me you were looking forward to retiring in two years and collecting your pension. If Mr. Barnett succeeds in having you removed for cause, and he will succeed, as he always does, that pension may well be in jeopardy.”

“My pension?” the judge said with a trembling voice.

“Yes, Albert,” Ernest said, “your pension. Good God, man, look at the facts in front of you. You have a little boy who was tragically orphaned and destined to become a ward of the county. You have two young men with sterling backgrounds and more than adequate resources to give the child every possible advantage. You have in front of you character references from the sheriff of Duval County, Florida; from Chief Bridges, one of three chiefs who run that department, and who is present in this room; from our own Sheriff Sutton; from Captain Plott of the Waynesville Police Department; from Martha Plott, head of Social Services for this county; all of whom are also present. What more do you need? You’ve got a choice here: do the right thing, or see yourself forced out of office in disgrace. Didn’t you hear the man? That Foundation is sitting on ten million dollars, and more is available. How long do you think this poor little county will back you against those odds?”

“But I just don’t like it,” the judge said.

“You don’t have to like it, Your Honor,” Charles said, in that same tone, “but you are honor-bound to follow the law, or your entire career has meant nothing. The law is clear in this matter, and you don’t really have a choice. I assure you, there isn’t an appellate court in the land that will stand behind you if you deny this petition. The choice is yours.”

There was a very long silence, and the judge’s face was a study in conflicting emotions. Finally, he threw up his hands, signed a document, and handed it to Ernest. “Okay, you win,” the judge said. “Now get all of these people out of my chambers before I change my mind.”

“Thank you, Judge,” Ernest said.

“Just go,” the judge said.

Ernest motioned us to follow him out of the room. He closed the door carefully behind him and said to the secretary, “I need four certified copies of this order immediately, my dear.”

“Yes, Sir,” she said. “Right now?”

“Right now,” Ernest said. “We’ll wait.”

She turned to a copy machine and made copies. Then she used a seal to stamp them and mark them all as certified true copies and handed them to Ernest.

“Okay,” Ernest said, “let’s go back to where we left the boy.”

Back in the room, Robbie jumped up from the chair he was sitting in and latched onto Mike and myself.

I said, “My God, Charles, that was an amazing performance. You didn’t even raise your voice. In fact, you lowered it a bit.”

“It’s what I do for a living, George,” Charles said, “although I have to say I don’t usually enjoy it quite this much.”

“Charles never raises his voice,” Philip said, “but when he lowers it and gets ‘that’ tone in it, look out….”

“You put on a good show too, Ernest,” I said. “I can’t tell you how grateful we are.”

“Just doing my job,” he said. “It’ll be on your next bill.”

“Did I hear what I thought I heard in there?” Chief Bridges said.

“Yes, you did,” the sheriff said. “Mr. Barnett called Albert’s bluff, and Albert blinked.”

“But to threaten a judge with removal from the bench and get away with it,” the chief said, “that’s amazing.”

“It’s what makes the system work,” Charles said. “There are checks and balances in place for these kinds of situations… and I took full advantage.”

Ernest looked at Robbie and said, “Well, young Robin Foster-Martin, are you ready to go home with your new daddies?”

“Yes, Sir,” Robbie said, still clinging to Mike and me.

“I don’t know about the rest of you,” I said, “but I think I need a drink. In fact, why don’t we take you all to lunch and celebrate? Mike and I will treat.”

“Sure,” Ernest said. “I never turn down a free meal. Where?”

“Is J. Arthur’s okay?” I said.

“Couldn’t be better,” Ernest said.

Martha’s helper started to leave, but I stopped her, saying, “Linda, you’re invited too.”

“Okay,” she said. “Thanks.”

We caravanned to the restaurant, arriving well in advance of their lunch rush, and the staff quickly set up a table large enough to accommodate all of us so that we could be seated. It took a while to get all of the drink orders placed, given that there were multiple conversations going on simultaneously. Finally, when everyone had a drink and had placed their orders, I stood up and rapped a glass with a knife.

“I’m not going to make a speech,” I said, “but a couple of things need to be said. This has been an extraordinary two weeks for Mike and me. Neither one of us ever expected, in our wildest dreams, to become parents, until this little guy entered the picture. We’re also deeply indebted to everyone at this table, as all of you played a part in the process just concluded, from our good friend Lucinda, who paved the way for us with Robbie’s grandmother, to the many friends in local law enforcement, and elsewhere, that we’ve made over the past two years or so that we’ve owned property here, and especially to Ernest Rodgers and Charles Barnett, two very different but equally extraordinary lawyers. I’ve never liked speeches, so I guess I’ll just say ‘thank you’ to everyone and sit down.”

Mike stood up, raised his glass, and said, “To the lawyers.”

Everyone else said, “Hear, hear.”

Ernest stood up for a moment and said, “I just want all of you to know, and I think Sheriff Sutton will back me on this, that Albert Williams is not typical of the kind of people we have in this county. Twenty years ago he was the norm. Today he is the exception. Maybe tomorrow people like him will be just a memory.”

“Well put, Ernest,” Charles said.

Charles turned to me and said, “When are you and Mike going home?”

“Early Sunday morning.”

“I hope you’re still planning on coming to Atlanta for the
Fourth of July and the Peachtree Road Race,” he said.

“Sure,” I said, “if you’ve got room for us and this little guy.”

“Oh, we have room,” he said. “You have no idea how much room we have. Even with six little boys of our own, there are very nearly always plenty of bedrooms available.”

“Six boys,” Sarah parroted.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he said. “Through a couple of lawyer friends of ours in Boston, Philip and I have each hired surrogate mothers on three separate occasions.”