Childless: A Novel (3 page)

When his
shift ended, Matthew logged into the registrar’s system to confirm his fall schedule, something he had done at least a dozen times before. Like pinches to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, Matthew enjoyed reminders of his good fortune. With only fifty openings in Dr. Vincent’s class he had rushed to secure a spot two minutes after student access to the online registration system was opened. An hour later fifty other students, including three seniors, found themselves on a growing waiting list. He worried those seniors might do some last-minute jockeying to bump him out of his spot. That’s why he went online to check his status often.

Matthew entered his student identification number followed by a password. An error message appeared. Assuming a typo he reentered the information. Another error message. This time he bothered to read it.

Matthew cursed at the screen and the reminder of the university’s student loan policy. It would carry an outstanding balance within a single academic year, but not into the next. He hadn’t given the matter much thought back when he requested a loan, because he assumed the transition money would be freed up within a few short months. He’d fully intended to pay off the loan by winter break, then by the end of the spring semester, then by midsummer. With less than two weeks until fall classes began, however, he still hadn’t received a dime.

Matthew quickly phoned the number on the screen.

“You have reached the Office of Student Financial Services at the University of Colorado.” The recorded voice went on to offer Matthew more options than he could follow, none of which seemed promising. “If you wish to wait for the next available student assistance representative, please remain on the line. The current estimated wait is approximately ten minutes.”

He swore again, then considered his options. Perhaps he should call back in the morning. No. Some senior might have snagged his slot in Dr. Vincent’s class by then. He decided to wait, enduring the musical selection that sounded like a cross between a traditional Celtic folk song and a sleazy lounge-lizard ballad. Some music major must have landed a big break by convincing the university to use his laptop-produced album for hold music. Not a bad angle. What better way to reach a large captive audience?

Midway through the third near-identical song Matthew reached for something to occupy his numbing mind. He landed on a recollection that made his stomach tense. With all the excitement over planning his fall schedule, learning he had passed probation, and contacting Maria Davidson, he hadn’t even considered the possibility he might not return to school. He had convinced himself that all would be well. But what if it wasn’t? Would he be stuck in a pointless job for another year, waiting for his money to clear? What if it never cleared? How would he endure the embarrassment? How could he continue to justify his mom’s transition?

“Transitions are nothing more than suicide by a different name,” Father Richard had said. He called it a mortal sin, Satan’s attack on the very image of God. But Matthew refused to believe it. Matthew preferred the enlightened spirituality of Manichean philosophers to dogma he, like Dr. Vincent, had rejected. He reminded himself, yet again, that death brought freedom from the prison of the body. Spirit was pure and good. The body was bad. It decayed. So even if his mother’s money remained beyond reach it would take nothing from the majesty of her choice.

As much as Matthew hated to think her heroic sacrifice might have been in vain, he refused to accept the possibility that it had been a sin.

“Thank you for holding, Mr. Adams. My name is Juanita. How may I help you?”

The interruption rescued Matthew from his quandary.

“Hi, Juanita,” he began. “I just tried to sign in to confirm my fall schedule and got a notice that says—”

“I see that your account is past due,” she interrupted. “Do you want to settle the balance today?”

“Actually, I was hoping to get a short extension.”

“I’m afraid I’m not authorized to grant extensions into the new school year.”

As he’d expected.

“I understand. I’m sure I’ll have the money in hand shortly. But I’m concerned about losing my scheduled spots in several key classes. Is there any way to—”

“We don’t reopen scheduled slots until ten days before the start of the semester.”

Matthew felt a brief flood of relief followed by a rising panic. Classes were scheduled to begin on August twenty-seventh.

“So I only have a day?”

“Two days, actually,” she offered generously.

“Two days, then. Will my schedule be locked until, let me see…August seventeenth?”

“That’s correct.”

“Thanks.” He ended the call before she could recite her closing script and immediately dialed the number of the only man who could get him the necessary funds that quickly.

“Cedillo and Associates, how may I direct your call?”

It always impressed Matthew how professional Carol Cedillo seemed when answering her husband’s office number. She sounded just like an efficient assistant sitting in the downtown law office Benjamin Cedillo didn’t occupy and handling an appointment schedule he couldn’t fill. You would never know Carol was standing in her kitchen, walking through the aisle of a grocery store, or in any of a hundred other locations speaking into a tiny microphone affixed to her earpiece.

“Hi Carol. It’s Matthew Adams.”

“Oh, hi, Matty.”

Matthew grimaced, then smiled. He hated the nickname Carol Cedillo had given him while he was in diapers. A name he let only her get away with using.

“Is Ben around?”

“I think so. Hang on a second and I’ll check. He might be watching television.”

“Sorry to bother him this late in the day but it’s kind of urgent.”

“No worries,” she said. “I’m sure he would love to talk to you.”

Not likely
, Matthew thought. It had been nearly six weeks since the two last spoke. The conversation had gone badly.

“There’s nothing else I can do, Matt,” Benjamin had insisted. “Aspen House says they refuse to take any action until the NEXT appeal is settled.”

“Why can’t you pressure Chuck Kohl?” Matthew had pushed. “He told me he would be happy to co-approve Mom’s procedure.”

“Which you didn’t get in writing.”

“Can’t you say we had a verbal contract?”

“Sure, I can say it. But that would be next to impossible to prove. Your word against his.”

That’s when the conversation had turned ugly. Matthew questioned Benjamin’s competence before suggesting he hoped to pocket the money himself.

“Watch yourself, young man,” Ben had snapped back. “You know I won’t get and wouldn’t accept a penny of your mother’s estate.”

“Then you’re holding things up out of spite. You’re still upset over her decision.”

“You’re sure it was
her
decision?”

Matthew had resented the implication. “Of course it was her decision.”

“Charles Kohl told me he isn’t so sure about that.”

“He’s just covering himself. He signed off on the transition, for Pete’s sake!”

“He signed off on her mental competence, not on whether he thought she felt coerced.”

“I told you a hundred times, I didn’t coerce her!”

“I know you believe that. But I can’t prove it, nor could I get anyone at Aspen House to corroborate it.”

Matthew didn’t remember the rest of the conversation, only the cloud of anxious fury he’d felt when he left Ben’s home office. During the six weeks that had passed since the encounter Matthew had tried to remain optimistic. He’d chosen to believe the man responsible for his mother’s estate would find a loophole of some sort that would release enough money to pay off Matthew’s freshman loan and fund his sophomore year.

He’d also tried to urge things along on two fronts. First he badgered the receptionist at Aspen House, a process he stopped after the third visit because Aspen House threatened him with a restraining order. His second effort was much more creative and far less sensible. He delivered several handwritten letters to the federal judge overseeing the NEXT appeal. It couldn’t hurt to let the man who seemed to control his economic fate know the real-life ramifications of the court’s decision.

“Hello, Matthew.” Benjamin’s voice lacked its customary warmth.

“Hi, Ben,” Matthew said hesitantly. “How’ve you been?”

“Oh, you know, I’ve been out back rolling in the pile of money I’m earning from your mom’s estate.”

Matthew winced at the dig before swallowing his pride. “Look, Ben, I apologize for losing my temper, OK?”

He took Ben’s silence as permission to continue.

“Listen, I only have about a week left before fall semester starts and they tell me I can’t officially enroll until the balance from my freshman year is paid.”

More silence.

“Anyway, I was hoping we could figure out a way to release some of Mom’s money before—”

“Not gonna happen, Matt.”

“Look, Ben, I said I’m sorry.”

“Fine. I accept your apology. But this has nothing to do with what happened between us. Aspen House won’t budge. End of story.”

“So my money just sits in an account forever?”

“Not forever. Just until sometime in September.”

“What happens in September?” Matthew asked.

“Opinions on the NEXT appeal will be issued.”

“By Judge Santiago?”

Ben seemed surprised by Matthew’s recall. “That’s right. Judge Victor Santiago is the presiding judge. I forget the other two judges’ names.”

“Coates and Howatch,” Matthew reminded him.

“Right again. I’m impressed.”

Matthew decided not to tell Ben about the letters he had sent to Judge Santiago’s office. “It’s an important case to me.”

“I bet it is,” Ben said wryly. “Nothing gets people interested in the law like the risk of losing cold, hard cash.”

“I’m not just interested because of the money,” Matthew lied. “This case could determine the future of the whole transition industry.”

“It could. Probably won’t, though. I’m guessing they’ll overturn the ruling against NEXT and everything will go back to normal.”

“Including my inheritance?”

“If the Tenth Circuit Court decides in favor of NEXT I’m confident Aspen House will come around. Until then they’re like every other transition clinic in the country, worried about an avalanche of wrongful death lawsuits.”

Matthew found the whole legal mess confusing. How had a voluntary transition turned into a wrongful death case anyway? Why had a judge ruled against NEXT? Why had the court granted some dead debit’s brother so much money? And what had made that case prompt so much debate in Congress over the president’s Youth Initiative?

Whatever the reasons, the director of Aspen House had gotten nervous when Ben requested a digital copy of the neutral consent form after Matthew’s mom transitioned. One day Chuck Kohl said he would send it. The next day Aspen House said he was no longer an employee. The request should have enabled Ben to tie up a last-minute detail for Matthew’s inheritance. It had instead generated dozens of delay tactics and one large unpaid student loan.

“I can’t keep waiting for some court’s edict,” Matthew said tensely. “The semester starts in a few weeks.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Matt. Until that case gets resolved I simply can’t release the money.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Matthew hated to ask. “What happens if they decide against NEXT?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Yes, I do.”

“If they uphold the decision against NEXT then all bets are off. The state of your mother’s estate will most likely be decided by some judge using criteria on which I won’t even try to speculate.”

“Wait,” Matthew said. “Are you saying I might not get the money at all?”

“It’s a possibility. Remote. But possible.”

Matthew suspected Ben took silent pleasure in the prospect, his voice betraying a hint of smug condemnation. The eighty-one-year-old lawyer had never liked transitions. He mocked the idea that snuffing yourself out just because you’d passed your prime was in any way noble or heroic. A devoutly nonreligious man, Ben never called transitions a sin as Father Richard had. He just resented them for making anyone over seventy-five feel guilty every time he enjoyed dinner at a nice restaurant or took a leisurely vacation. He intended to live as long and comfortably as possible, blissfully callous to the growing economic crisis facing the younger generation.

He seemed even more callous to Matthew’s personal economic crisis.

“Selfish jerk,” Matthew said after ending the call.

Three heads turned in his direction.

“Sorry. Not you,” he said toward the trio. “I was talking to a stubborn old debit.”

Each nodded in knowing solidarity. The young, after all, must stick together in a world increasingly plagued by aging parasites.

It was
late. Jennifer McKay had wanted it that way—to avoid…notice.

Tyler Cain stood between the massive white pillars of the Byron White United States Courthouse. He’d entered much taller buildings in downtown Denver, but none that evoked such grandeur. An echo of pride accompanied the clack of his heels as they ascended the massive marble stairs that led to the public entrance. Tyler had once been part of the justice system. He had a legitimate claim to the sense of satisfaction he should never have taken for granted or traded away for spite or easy money.

“Only a few minutes to closing time, sir,” the security guard said as Tyler removed his belt and shoes before entering the body scanner.

“I’m meeting with—” He stopped himself.
Utmost confidentiality
. “I have a meeting on the third floor.”

“You’ll need to sign the register.”

No paper trail.

“Could I just leave my wallet instead?”

“Mr. Cain?”

“Why, yes. How did you—”

“Go on through. Ms. McKay said she is expecting a confidential guest.”

“Great. Thanks. Have a nice evening.”

The guard nodded. “You too, sir.”

After slipping into his shoes and fastening his buckle Tyler turned left down a marble hallway. He noticed a large portrait of an impressively dignified face. He didn’t recognize the name of the person who had no doubt played an important role in the 150-year judicial history housed within these walls.

Tyler continued walking until he noticed a sign marked
COURTROOM TWO
. He stole a peek inside, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness enough to admire an impressively manicured trinity of judicial benches elevated loftily above a duo of wooden tables and chairs. This room, like four others located throughout the building, was a theater that hosted some of the best and brightest attorneys who had ever practiced law. Each of them received a mere fifteen minutes to make oral arguments that might sway the court. Tyler considered the human drama that took place whenever the trio of shadowy benches held a federal judge who must decide whether to uphold or overturn some lower court’s ruling.

Moving past the clerk’s office on the right he found a spiraling stairwell that led to the second-floor conference rooms. He took the time to peruse a hallway nearly as long as a football field, where he read dozens of forgotten names on portraits too far down the pecking order of historic significance to warrant main-floor exhibition. He then climbed the final flight of stairs to locate the office of Judge Victor Santiago.

He pushed through the large doors and was greeted by a series of polished walnut desks, their occupants now missing in action. Even during his days on the force Tyler had never worked in such an opulent environment. He thought of his own “office” back home, a cluttered, secondhand desk that shared a corner of the extra bedroom with a box of old clothes destined for charity. He breathed in the rich aroma of importance he had never attained. Never wanted to attain. At least that’s what he told himself now.

“Hello?” he called out, glancing at a clock on the wall. Ten minutes later than agreed, part of his plan to appear disinterested. Now he worried the strategy might have backfired. Perhaps Ms. McKay had thought Tyler unprofessional and given up on him.

“Mr. Cain?” a voice said from behind.

Tyler spun around to see a thirtysomething woman, her tightly bound hair and crisp clothing working hard to conceal an otherwise natural beauty. She appeared to be the kind of woman bent on achieving success through no-nonsense precision rather than good looks. Tyler made a mental note:
Driven, but…insecure
.

“Tyler Cain?” she asked.

He nodded. “Ms. McKay?”

“I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting.” She ushered him past her vacated desk while retrieving a series of white business envelopes. Then she hurried through a nearby doorway. He followed her into the adjoining conference room. “Please, have a seat. Would you care for something to drink?”

Straight to business. Perhaps his plan hadn’t backfired after all.

“No, thank you. I’m good.”

She sat across from him, opened one of the envelopes, and slid the contents across the desk: one handwritten letter.

“This was the first letter Judge Santiago received.”

He glanced to the bottom.

“A Manichean?”

“No idea. I can’t find a record of the name in anything remotely associated with the NEXT case. Possibly an alias.”

Tyler scanned the letter, trying hard not to seem terribly interested. He picked up the gist, however. Whoever this A Manichean was, he—or she, Tyler reminded himself, although the handwriting didn’t exude femininity—seemed terribly concerned about the outcome of the NEXT Transition appeal, as though his or her own well-being hinged on the outcome. Tyler tossed the letter back onto the table. Jennifer slid him a second, then a third. In all three cases the writer asked the judge to correspond.

“I look forward to hearing from you soon,” Tyler read aloud. “Please post your response at the following private forum address: ANON.CHAT.4398.”

Tyler recognized the link format. ANON.CHAT sites were littered with titillating posts from illicit lovers trying to stay connected between trysts. The perfect forum to remain anonymous. The posting party controlled whether and how to reveal his or her identity. Very few ever did.

He rescanned the text of the final letter but found no explicit threat. All four of them could have been written by anyone interested in the case; possibly a snooping reporter or religious activist.

“It just sounds to me like a person worried the judge will make the wrong decision.”

Jennifer visibly bristled at the remark. “And which decision would that be?” she said accusingly.

Defensive. Or maybe…protective.

Tyler shrugged. “You tell me what the wrong decision would be.”

“Even if I knew Judge Santiago’s opinion on the case,” she said with brash self-importance, “I’m certainly not at liberty to tell you.”

“Ms. McKay, I don’t really care about where Judge Santiago lands on the specifics of”—he glanced back at the letter to jog his memory—“The specifics of the NEXT appeal. But you must suspect someone dangerous does care. Isn’t that why you asked for the best private investigator available?”

“I’m sorry. You’re right.” Jennifer seemed to welcome Tyler’s condescension. She seemed eager for someone to relieve her from an exhausting posture of strength. He sensed control moving to his side of the table.

“Listen, Mr. Cain. You’ve taken time out of your busy schedule to help, and here I am…well, I’m the one who asked you to come. It’s just, usually we receive this kind of letter and forget about it. People send hastily written notes crafted in a moment of anger or frustration or even praise. End of story. But this feels different.”

“You mentioned that on the phone.”

“This case has serious implications for a lot of people no matter which way the judge decides.”

“I thought appeals required three opinions. What about the other two judges?”

“I checked. No letters.”

“What’s your theory?”

“Both have published opinions in the past in transition-related cases. One leans for, the other against. I assume whoever wrote these letters knows enough about the judges to figure Judge Santiago’s opinion will be the tiebreaker.”

Tyler frowned at the unhelpful but likely theory. “Perhaps you can tell me who has the most to lose and gain from Santiago’s decision.”

“Well…” Jennifer hesitated. Tyler understood. He hadn’t officially accepted the case. She couldn’t risk saying much more. But he wouldn’t commit to this case, no matter how great the opportunity, until they reached an agreement on compensation.
Keep playing it cool
, he told himself.

“Listen, Ms. McKay…”

“Jennifer.”

“Fine. Jennifer. You don’t know me from Adam. I get that. But if you want me to help you, you’ll need to trust me.”

“I understand. I’m sorry. It’s just—”

“You don’t like private investigators?”

“I don’t have to like them, Tyler.”

“Mr. Cain.”

Her face reddened at the rebuff.

“Listen, Jennifer. I don’t have to be here at all. You called asking for help, and I’m only here because I owe someone a favor. But we can end this now, if you prefer.”

“No.” She took a deep breath. “But please be advised that everything I tell you must remain confidential.”

“Absolutely.”

Jennifer gathered up the three letters, setting them in a neat pile before continuing. “Jeremy Santos, the plaintiff. He has the most to gain or lose. He received a very large award in punitive damages.”

“For what?” Tyler preferred admitting ignorance in order to speed up the discovery process.

“He lost both his brother and his mother during a transition.”

“A double transition?”

“No. It was his disabled brother’s transition. The mother tried to stop the procedure and fell. Very sad.”

“A transition and an accident. Then why the large settlement?”

“The boy scheduled the appointment while a minor.”

“Oh. Let me guess. The mother hadn’t approved?”

“That’s right. The bottom line is that Jeremy Santos will lose a large sum of money if NEXT wins on appeal.”

“What about NEXT?”

“They have even more to lose. And not just the settlement money. Losing this appeal could force them to institute far more stringent approval requirements for all transitions.”

“Is that so bad?”

“It could cut deeply into their business. The more hurdles volunteers face, the more likely they will change their mind. Even a twenty percent decline in transitions would mean nearly a billion-dollar hit per year.”

“A billion? I had no idea,” Tyler confessed.

“There is a lot of money at stake in this case. Especially when you consider the impact on President Lowman’s Youth Initiative.”

“Such as?”

“Fewer transitions mean higher senior-care costs and a drop in transition estate taxes,” she explained. “Not a good time for either.”

“So the White House may be worried about this case?”

“To be honest, Mr. Cain, you’re the first person I’ve met who isn’t concerned about this case.” She seemed to enjoy the jab. “As you can see, the implications are enormous. Sooner or later this case will impact the household budget of anyone caring for an aging or disabled loved one.”

Tyler raised his finger pausing the conversation to steal a moment. He retrieved his tablet and pretended to type a few notes while absorbing the scope of the case.

“I don’t suspect NEXT incorporated itself. They’re too big to risk open retaliation. But I suppose it could be some rogue individual within the company with something to lose. Maybe a person who slipped up on the Santos case who fears losing their job.”

Tyler glanced at his empty page of notes before asking whether Jennifer could think of anyone else.

“Who knows? There are religious nuts all over the place who would love nothing more than to see NEXT take a serious fall.”

“Religious nuts?”

“Sorry. I shouldn’t call them that. But you know what I mean. There are people who would love to see the transition industry come to a screeching halt.”

“Do you think that might include murder?”

“Murder?” Jennifer’s gaze fell to the letters. “Do you think Judge Santiago’s life is in danger?”

“I don’t know what to think. I’m only exploring what you think, and what might be at stake.”

Tyler found it difficult to continue feigning disinterest in a case infinitely more important than jilted lovers and forbidden sexcapades.

“When we spoke over the phone,” he continued, “you seemed worried. Like a person fearful over something potentially…dangerous.”

“I’m sure it isn’t. At least…” Jennifer took another deep breath. “I don’t know. The tone in the letters is—”

“—disconcerting?”

“Yes. As I said, in the past, the judge has received many letters on various cases. Some of them from wackos and religious diehards. He’s maintained a strict policy of ignoring those letters. So it falls to me to decide what to do about them, if anything. Nothing’s ever come of any of them in the past. But this one seems less nuts and more…calculating.”

“I tend to agree with you,” Tyler said. “But the motive behind these letters isn’t clear. There’s no way we can come up with concrete conclusions without further investigation. As you indicated, it’s probably religiously motivated in some way, and perfectly harmless. But you never know.”

Tyler felt himself leaning forward to again scan the mysterious content of the letters. He imagined himself tackling a case far more intriguing than anything he’d seen since leaving the force. For the first time in years he felt a hint of excitement over what tomorrow might bring. But he still couldn’t appear eager. He flashed a purposeful glance to the clock on the wall above the door. Jennifer gathered the letters.

“So, do you think you can help?” she asked.

Tyler shrugged, then slipped a Cain Investigations, LLC business card from his jacket pocket. He jotted a number on the back and slid it across the table. “I’d be willing to do some preliminary investigation. My usual daily rate applies, of course.”

A daily rate he had just doubled.

She took the card, glanced at it, then switched back into professional mode. “Fine. But once again I must insist that you keep this completely confidential. I don’t want the police involved. No publicity at all. It could completely undermine perception of Judge Santiago’s neutrality when rendering his opinion. I can’t let anything happen that might force him to recuse himself from the case.”

“I understand. Now, I do have one request. I’d like to take a copy of each of these letters.”

“Of course. I’ve already made copies. You can take these. But please don’t make any additional copies, electronic or otherwise. I wouldn’t want anyone to get wind of their content until we know what…or who…we’re dealing with.”

As Tyler made his way out, he paused again to admire the building’s classic architecture and the inscriptions that made him wish he knew more judicial history. Then he noticed the massive bronze plaque displaying names of the former postmasters general. This building must have served as a major post office in early years.