Swept Away

“This doesn’t surprise me. It’s a real bummer. The woman’s standing in the community didn’t happen accidentally. She had to work her tail off for it, man. You’re going to make yourself a bunch of enemies.”

“I know, but I can’t help it. When I became head of Advocates for the Child, I took an oath to pursue vigorously every case in which a child had been put at risk. It’s my job, and I have to do it, but I…” He rubbed his forehead. “You don’t know how I hate the thought of jeopardizing that woman’s career.”

“Well fasten your seat belt, man. I’ve got some news for you.”

“Yeah?”

“Those foster parents have separated. I got it when I called my office just before you walked in here. You can’t lose this one.”

“Separated after twenty-three years? What about?”

“Seems she’s tired of doing everything in the house while he comes home at night, buries his face in a book or newspaper and cultivates his mind. She’s mad as hell and she’s not taking it anymore.”

Brian’s laughter grated on his ears. He didn’t find it amusing. “That doesn’t make it a bad home for a child.”

“Does if they argued about it a lot.”

Schyler nodded. “If the man’s such a lost cause, how’d she stand him for twenty-three years?” He finished his chocolate sundae. “Gotta go, man. See you in court.”

He hailed a taxi to his office at Branch Signal Corporation, where he worked as chief of electrical design. An engineer by profession, he’d gotten a law degree so that he could help underprivileged people, particularly children, who otherwise wouldn’t get competent counseling. He didn’t charge for his services to AFTC, and although he represented the foundation, he didn’t practice law.

He went to his drafting table and began working on a method of tapping electric energy in summer when it was cheapest and storing it for use in winter when it became more expensive. He was too disconcerted to work. Something…everything about that case bothered him. He walked over to the window and looked down at the crowds scurrying along Calvert Street like ants after sugar. He’d gotten one good look at her, and she’d poleaxed him. In all his thirty-six years, no woman had done to him what she did without trying. He wondered how he’d had the presence of mind not to stare at her. He lifted his left shoulder in a quick shrug. She wasn’t immune to him either. But he suspected she had the strength to put aside whatever she felt, to ignore it and him. Too bad. He’d give anything if he’d met her in more favorable circumstances.

Veronica walked into Enid’s office without knocking, something she never did with any of her employees. Allowing a person privacy was essential to good relations. She dropped into the chair nearest the door and, in a gesture uncharacteristic of her, folded her hands and dropped them into her lap.

“For goodness sake,” Enid exclaimed, “what happened? Don’t tell me he…he…Good Lord, I knew I shouldn’t have let you talk me out of going to that trial with you.”

Enid got up from her desk and walked over to her boss. “What? Did the judge rule against us?”

How could Veronica tell a woman who was her subordinate what Schyler Henderson had done to her? That her common sense didn’t function when she was close to him? That he was the Greek God Apollo incarnate? Well, maybe he wasn’t, but what difference did it make? If he had invited her to lunch, she would probably have gone with him.

“Did he?” she heard Enid ask in a voice that had become plaintive.

She straightened up. “No. No. It’s not that. His Honor decided to make us wait ten more days.” She rose from the chair, patted Enid on her arm and left. In her own office, she prowled around for a few minutes; then she shook her body as if divesting her clothes of chaff and her shoes of loose soil. On top of that sex-charged aura, he was a gentleman. He’d indicted the agency, but he hadn’t said a word against her personally. And he’d been sorry, almost apologetic about that. He’s a man I could spend a lot of time with and be happy doing it. If only I’d met him in more favorable circumstances. But she hadn’t, and she’d better stop thinking about him.

Before the week’s end, however, Veronica’s thoughts of Schyler were not filled with longing for him. Natasha Wynn had been apprehended, wan and emaciated while stealing food in a supermarket, and AFTC had indicted her as the head of the agency.

Enraged, she phoned Schyler. “What’s the meaning of this? Are you trying to destroy me? Why are you persecuting me?”

His long silence only served to heighten her annoyance. Finally he gave her an answer different from what she would have expected, all things considered.

“Ms. Overton, I am not your attorney, but I will give you some good advice. Please don’t appeal to my good nature. I have one, yes. But I place my responsibilities above my personal feelings.”

Her bottom lip dropped. She held the phone away and stared at the receiver. Talk about chutzpah! “Your personal feelings? Where do they come in?”

He let her have another pause. “You’re old enough to know the answer to that question. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll see you in court next Monday. And be prepared, because I’m duty bound to get a conviction in this case, though I may have come to hate the thought, and I’m warning you that you’re in trouble.”

“Wait a minute. I don’t know the answer to that question, and if you do, I wish you’d let me in on it.”

He expelled a long breath, and she imagined that he closed his eyes and prayed for patience. “I tell myself the truth,” he said, “even if I don’t mention it to anybody but me. You were right there with me when it happened, so you know what I’m talking about. But don’t let that lull you into complacency about this court case.”

So he acknowledged the electricity between them, felt it and would still do what he regarded as the noble thing. If she hadn’t been facing the fight of her life, she’d admire him for it.

“One doesn’t expect protection from one’s avowed executioner. Better look closely at your motives, Mr. Henderson. See you in court.”

She hung up, her nerves rioting through her flesh, making a mockery of her cool manner. The case against CPAA hadn’t been settled, and now AFTC had indicted her. That indictment was a death knell that filled her head with dislike for Schyler Henderson. Yet, his eyes, his smile, his masculine bearing raised havoc with her feminine soul. The moist telltale of desire dampened her pores, and her heart stampeded like horses charging out of a corral. She dropped her head into her hands as her warring emotions pitted her against herself.

The day of decision arrived, but before the judge ruled on the case against CPAA, Schyler presented to the judge his agency’s case against Veronica herself. Once more, she refused to answer questions but, instead, challenged Schyler and AFTC.

“My record is my defense. The whole of Baltimore, Maryland, knows what I’ve contributed to this community. Whose sins are you demanding that I pay for?”

Schyler knew that the effect of the blow she’d landed had to be mirrored in his face, telling her that she’d touched a nerve.

“I’m not being personal, so would you please try to resist it?” he said, deciding against a return thrust.

She countered his every point, fencing as skillfully as Errol Flynn or the great Olympians of the past. And he wanted her to destroy his arguments, prayed that she would, though he did nothing to help her. After she’d been on the stand for about an hour, Schyler conferred with the district attorney, who then asked the judge for a bench consultation, saying he wanted to withdraw the charges, that he could not aptly substantiate them.

Schyler knew without doubt that only once before in his life had he experienced such an overwhelming sense of relief. He’d finally lost a case, but he couldn’t be happier. AFTC would make certain that Natasha Wynn received all the support she needed, but her two weeks of pain on the streets of Baltimore had taught her and all concerned a lesson. Him, too, and maybe he’d needed it. He went out to face the reporters who crowded around him, their bulbs flashing and notepads bobbing in the air as they shouted for his attention. He was the man of the moment.

Over their heads, he saw Veronica walk out undisturbed. A fierce pain gnawed at his belly; her wings had been clipped, and he and AFTC had engineered it. Their intentions had been good, but as his father had told him dozens of times, the highway to hell was paved with good intentions. He watched her for as long as he could see her, her head high and chin up, and fought the urge to wade through that sea of reporters and take her into his arms.

Veronica made her way back to the office, called a staff meeting, gave them the outcome of the trial, packed her briefcase and left. Several blocks from the train station, at the corner of Reisterstown Road and Bock Avenue, she crossed the street to where she knew she’d find Jenny with her shopping cart full of useless things.

“You here early today, Ronnie.” Jenny claimed the gap between her front teeth made it impossible for her to say “Veronica.” “Ain’t a bit like you. You not sick, I hope.”

In spirit, maybe. “I’m all right, Jenny. Thanks. I have a few things to do at home.”

Jenny squinted at the sun and sucked in her cheeks. “I been sitting here every day it didn’t rain for the last almost two years, and this the first time you ever had anything to do at home. Well, I ain’t much to offer help, but ifn’ you need any prayers, you just let me know.” She rolled her eyes skyward. “He don’t always answer mine for me, but when I prays for other people, he do.”

Veronica pressed a few bills into Jenny’s hand. “Thanks, friend. I’ll take all the prayers I can get.”

“I sure do thank you, Ronnie. I know I’ll get something to eat every evening, ’cause somebody from Mica’s Restaurant across the way always brings me some fried lake trout and cornbread and collards. What you give me, I uses to buy soap, toothpaste, aspirins and things like that. I could use another blanket this winter.”

“I’ll make sure you get one. If you’d just go see that social worker, we might be able to get you a place to stay.”

She’d given up hope of getting Jenny off the street. What had begun as a solution to the loss of her apartment had become a matter of psychological dysfunction. Jenny no longer seemed to want a home; she had become inured to her hardships and accepted them as her way of life.

“Yes ma’am. I’m goin’ down to the shelter and get cleaned up, and I’m goin’ to see her. Yes ma’am, I sure am.”

Veronica waved her goodbye and struck out for the train station.

At home, Veronica watched Schyler on the local news channel, transfixed by the smooth manner in which he made it seem as though all parties to the litigation had won. Won? She’d had the carpet yanked from under her. She flipped off the television and took out her knitting, hoping to settle her nerves with the rhythmic movements of her fingers, and at the same time, to make some headway on the two dozen mittens and caps that she gave every Christmas to children at the homeless shelter. Schyler’s hazel eyes winked at her and refused to be banished from her mind’s eye. Reluctantly, she answered the telephone, hoping that the caller wasn’t from the media.

“Hello.”

“Veronica, I just saw Schyler Henderson’s press conference,” her stepfather said. “I hope the man will leave you in peace now. He can say what a great agency you’re running, but if he thought so, why did he do this to you? I feel like calling him and giving him a piece of my mind.”

She couldn’t help smiling. Sam Overton never failed to support her. Time and again he’d proved his boundless faith in her, and she loved him without reservation. “He was trying to make amends as best he could. I can’t deny that the case has done some damage, but the agency will survive, because nothing exists that can replace it.”