“Yeah, well, she made a mistake taking my son.”
Marks studied him for a moment. “Did you and Vicki love each other?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“It helps me anticipate the level of rancor. Some of my worst cases are when people were intensely in love — or at least one of them was.”
Jason shook his head. “We couldn’t stand each other.” He stopped, clearly pained. On the baseball field, he knew how to win; his marriage, however, had been a disaster. “We got married because of Rafe,” Jason added.
“You’re not the first couple that’s tried that and failed.”
“I don’t care about them. I just want to see my son.”
“You’ll have to undergo psychological testing first, and at least one interview with a court evaluator,” Marks explained. “You’ll also have to attend an anger management class if the court orders one. You’ll have to prove that you’re not abusive before you can see your child unsupervised.”
“Prove I’m not abusive? But I’m not abusive!”
“The court doesn’t know that. The burden is on you to demonstrate that you’re a loving, kind, considerate father.”
Jason couldn’t believe the irony. Here he was, the son of a man who never had time for his child, being forbidden to see his. All he could see was the small bundle of his son waving bye-bye from his mother-in-law’s car six days ago.
“She kidnaps Rafe and I’m the bad guy.”
“I know it’s hard. But the majority of these cases are eventually resolved with normal visitation rights for the father. You’ll get to see him two weekends a month — ”
“I’m his father, Mr. Marks. I want joint custody. I’ve read about that. I deserve that.”
Marks smiled patiently. “Let’s work on getting the restraining order lifted first.”
THE OPENING game of the PAC-10 Conference found the Oregon Ducks visiting Sunken Diamond, and Jason Thibodeaux pitching for the Stanford Cardinal. He took a 2-2 tie into the top of the seventh, and after his warmups, stepped off the back of the mound and looked around. The barbecues were damped, the concession stands closed, nearly everyone’s eyes were on him, number 47. Baptiste had taken the pitchers aside one night and shown films of matadors at work. “Look at their focus, the concentration, the control. He never, ever — ever — takes his eyes off the bull. He directs the bull, like you direct the batter. In, out, up, down, changing speeds, deliveries, looks …”
Jason stepped back on the mound as the batter settled into the box, and the battle began anew. His cleats gripped the dirt, his fingers squeezed the seams of the leather-bound ball. Ash called for a slider, outside corner — and a slider, outside corner is what he got. Strike one. He loved this feeling, just as the matador must love the feel of a 400 pound bull passing beneath his cape. He was in control. He could hold chaos at bay for as long as he held his cape — the ball — in his hand.
He struck out two men in the seventh inning and got the third to hit a soft liner to Corliss in right. Then everything changed. Baptiste removed him for a reliever, and Jason sat on the bench eyeing the clock. Today was the first day he was going to see Rafe in a month — twenty-nine days, to be exact — his first visit with a licensed chaperone in a court-appointed facility. The game wore on past the ninth inning, until Jason didn’t care who broke the tie. Just minutes after Seligman slid home with the winning run in the bottom of the twelfth, Jason took off running straight across campus, still in his uniform. The Palo Alto Family Center was in a large government structure just off campus on Page Mill Road. Sweat streamed down his face as he pushed through the front doors. His appointment was at five and it was already 5:30. He searched the directory for Room 117, then hurried frantically down one, then another corridor before taking a stairway to the right floor.
It was 5:35 when he found the room. A heavy-set woman with a blue denim dress sat behind a reception desk staring at a computer. “I’m here to see my son,” he announced, leaning anxiously over the desk. “I’m Jason Thibodeaux — Raphael Thibodeaux’s father.”
“Just a moment please,” the woman said, still staring at the screen. Jason leaned over the desk. “I haven’t seen my boy in a month. This is my only chance — ”
“Have a seat, please.”
She brought him three pages of forms to fill out. It was 5:50 before she led him down a corridor to a large, linoleum-floored playroom at the rear of an office suite. Rafe sat alone on the floor beside a small plastic slide, dressed in a white t-shirt and red cotton overalls. A young man in a blue security uniform sat at a desk just inside the door.
“Rafey!” Jason called out. When he reached him he saw the tears streaming down his cheeks.
“Mommy,” Rafe cried. “I want mommy!”
Jason’s heart sank. Rafe appeared to not even recognize him. He sobbed and sobbed, crying for his mother. Jason crouched and brushed the tears from Rafe’s cheeks, then hoisted him into his arms. Rafe’s voice wailed in his ear, his body trembling. “Rafey Rafey Rafey,” he cooed. “It’s OK, Daddy’s here. Do you want to go down the slide? C’mon, let’s go down the slide!”
Jason set him at the top of the plastic slide and Rafe just sat there, gripping the handles at the top. “Mommy,” he wailed. “Mommy mommy mommy.” Jason picked him up again and carried him to the couch. Rafe’s crying pierced his heart. Maybe Vicki was right — Rafe needed his mother more than anything. What the hell did he know — he was a baseball player. But then it flashed on him, what was he thinking — it was dinner time! Rafe was probably famished.
“Poor little Buddy,” he said, stroking Rafe’s back. Then, to the guard, “Is there someplace to eat in the building?”
“Cafeteria on the third floor. But they’re closed.”
“Vending machines?” The man shook his head. “Soda, juice, candy?” The man shook his head again.
Rafe stopped crying, intrigued by the litany of treats. Jason bounced him once or twice in his arms. “How about we get some ice cream?” Rafe’s eyes brightened. “Ice-ceam!” he squealed. Jason laughed and spun him around. It was ten after six. There had to be something in one of the nearby malls that would let them get back by seven.
He headed for the door, holding Rafe in the crook of his arm. The guard stood and positioned himself in front of the door.
“You can’t take the child out.”
“We’re just going for ice cream!” He glowered at the guard, who watched him warily. Jason was a good three inches taller, and in his baseball uniform seemed even larger. There didn’t appear to be any gun involved. He imagined a Randall P. McMurphy bust out, bowling over the guard and carrying his child to freedom. As if reading his mind, the guard leaned over and pushed a button on his phone.
“Aw, c’mon,” Jason groaned. “The little guy’s hungry, that’s all.”
The guard continued watching him. “Ice ceam!” Rafe shouted. He grabbed his father’s nose. Jason carried him back towards the play area. “Ice ceam!”
“I’m sorry, Buddy, no ice ceam today.” He slumped onto a low wooden bench and set Rafe on his lap. “Ice ceam, ice ceam,” Rafe cried. Jason reached into a trunk full of toys and picked out a purple Nerf ball and began tossing it up and down. “Play catch?” he said. “C’mon, let’s play catch!”
“I want ice ceam!” Rafe wailed.