Preview of The Children's Rights War

“What do you mean, there are no more families?”

“There is no hunger, unemployment, homelessness, or deficits.”

“But you said there are no families.”

He smiled, spread his arms slightly.

“There is no need for families. Socialization, nurturing, protection, all of the benefits the family structure sought to provide are taken care of while inequality, inadequate care, all of the detriments of many families are gone.”

Joyce stared intently, silently, her lips moving slightly as if searching for words.

“When and where is this?”

“North America, ninety-five years from what you know as the present.”

She shook her head, stepped back.

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

“I’m sure this seems strange, foreign, perhaps...”

“Not strange. Evil. Who are you?”

A rude buzzing erupted, engulfed them. Joyce jerked her hands over her ears, grimaced, and stuttered, “What’s that?”

“I must go. I will see you again.” He faded.

“Hey,” she tried to shout.

But her throat was thick, her words muffled.

“Hey…hey.”

Each scream was a little more audible, a little louder. She waved her hands.

“Hey!”

Something grasped her arms.

“Hey!” at the top of her voice.

“Honey, wake up. Babe!”

Paul gently shook her shoulders.

“Wake up.”

Her eyes shot open, focused on her husband. She was soaked in sweat.

“Were you having a bad dream?”

He leaned toward the nightstand and turned off the alarm.

“Are you ok, Joyce? What was it?”

She breathed deeply.

“Don’t remember. Bad.”

She sat up, hugged him, and whimpered.

“Very bad. Nightmare. But I don’t remember. I think it had to do with your case.”

“Oh, babe.”

He squeezed her to him, rubbed her back.

“It’s going to be OK, I promise. Everything is under control.”

Part I: Siege and Surrender

1-Ante Bellum

Offices of Barton-Wright: 6 years from now

Barton-Wright was a petite law firm focused on upscale individuals and small corporations. It was efficient and modern because survival demanded that.

Except for two rooms. The R. Godfrey Wilgore Memorial Conference Room and the vacant former Senior Partner’s office were rancorous tributes to nostalgia.

An oversized table of hand carved mahogany sat regally beneath two ornate crystal chandeliers, surrounded by twenty-eight well-preserved plush leather conference chairs. A splattering of huge wing chairs circa 1910 with matching lamp tables was displayed in the room’s corners.

Built-in bookcases covered three walls, with imposing double six-paneled doors centered on each, all in rich, dark mahogany. The fourth wall was double hung nine pane windows dressed in elegant swags. The ceiling was sculptured plaster.

A few ancient law tomes were exhibited on the shelves, chronicling landmark cases in which Barton-Wright giants of the past played pivotal roles when the firm was larger and prestigious. The rest of the shelves had various relics of company lore, and marble busts of every senior partner Barton-Wright and its antecedent firms had ever had.

There were two sculpture exceptions. The present chief’s likeness wasn't there and never would be. The topic came up when Ed took over ten years ago. A man of minced words, his curt reaction was ‘horseshit.’ The subject was not brought up again.

The second involved the late divorce attorney for whom the room was named. R. Godfrey "Goose" Wilgore had never been the head man, never came close. His father had earned shelf space but the annals were dotted with progeny of founders and former chiefs.

Goose Wilgore was on these shelves beside his father only because he was the lifelong best friend of Wayne Bridges, the Senior Partner for the twenty years preceding Ed Stephens.

Bridges was the grandson of a founder. Had his tenure as Senior Partner been a quarter century earlier he might have been adequate. But he was hopelessly passé, and Barton-Wright suffered and shrank under Bridges, intently and visibly.

He had reluctantly admitted, during heated discussions among the partners twelve years ago, that the firm had to change. Earnings, size and stature had tumbled for twenty years. Something must be done. It was too late to go regional unless they merged into a larger firm, an anathema at B-W.

They had to modernize. And they had to move soon.

Bridges came to support that ostensibly, but emotionally he opposed B-W's new direction. He grudgingly did what he had to do, including taking a leadership role in planning for new facilities.

The project was at the final drawings stage months later when the office Business Manager asked to meet with Ed Stephens, at that time a 56-year-old member of the Building Committee. Ed was an extremely influential partner, and one of three potential heirs apparent to Bridges.

The Manager was very concerned about budget changes, and had compiled a list of numerous modifications and additions to the original concept. Ed recalled hearing about most of them but had no idea that the total projected impact on costs had reached this point. As they had individually come up, they each seemed insignificant compared to the lost production of a pouting lawyer.

Even more alarming was the cumulative effect on the core objectives: modernization, efficiency, and so forth. The manager had said "we could spend a fortune and wind up where we are." That stunned Ed! He thoroughly reviewed his New Building file and by 3:45 had reached the same conclusion.

He called in the other two partners whose influence and weight paralleled his own. They worked very well together, were allies on this project, and joined Ed on the need to quash this threat to B-W's new strategy. They mapped out how to avoid a disaster.

One of their tactics involved what became the R. Godfrey Wilgore Memorial Conference Room. They agreed that Bridges could outfit it as he wished. It was much more than a decorating decision. It was a very significant policy pact.

They anticipated that Bridges would be in charge another five to ten years. The alignment of partners on modernizing was solidly in favor of the needed changes. But dumping the Senior Partner would not fly, not get off the ground. It was a Given that they had to work around Wayne Bridges, and gently. So:

There would be an immediate end to what Ed called the 'chicken-shit paneling war' by accepting Bridges' persistent offer to have his son-in-law move the mahogany, furnishings, everything from the old conference room, along with his Senior Partner office.

"What if his rooms aren't finished when it's time to move?" one of Stephens’s confederates had asked on that fateful afternoon.

"Who cares if he drives the nails himself and takes ten years," was Ed's prelude to an explanation of why it didn't matter how long it took or what it looked like, and a practical application of their new pact on how to work around Bridges.

These two rooms would simply and only be Bridges' escapes into a world he sorely missed, and nothing else - - Wayne's bridges, one of them had called it.

They would be places to tuck the Senior Partner away as a figurehead for the next few years. When he retired, they would be redone into whatever expansion space was needed.

When Barton-Wright moved to the Hager Building about a year later - - four months after the tragic death of Goose Wilgore - - this room, and the Senior Partner's Office that lay next to it, became Bridges' retreats.

Evidently, they did not offer enough insulation from a world gone mad. He retired in fading health six months after the move, in his mid-sixties (senior partners typically ruled well past seventy) and died at home two months later.

Ed Stephens was handed the mantle. The other two, both older than Ed, did not want the very heavy burden of pushing, pulling, and dragging B-W from the past into the future. A former marine, Ed was clearly the best suited to do what must be done quickly, efficiently, continually and, when needed, brutally.

Stephens refused to move into the "Senior Partner Office." A very practical man with a very big job in front of him, Ed knew the fireplace, Victorian furnishings, overkill of mahogany, and lack of modern equipment would be shackles, and he didn't want to bother with changing it. His own office, which was outfitted the way he wanted it and geared for production, would be just fine.

His militant management style began having an effect. The rapid loss of Goose Wilgore, the old building, and then Wayne Bridges, along with Ed's changes, were more than the remnants of the hard-boiled Old Guard could stomach and they soon retired. Ed's two powerful confederates stayed with him a few more years, and they each worked to develop young protégés hired two years in advance. One of the protégés, Paul Daniels, had proven to be a shining star right from the beginning, The other, Jeff Proctor, considered himself to be at least a shining star, if not the Messiah.

Other new blood was brought in, and prosperity returned. They were moving forward now, growing, regaining ground they had lost over the past several years.

The conference room, rarely used, was just as Wayne Bridges had left it and would stay that way. It was far too ostentatious for meetings with the firm's clients, and too dark and gloomy for anything else. They didn't yet need the space.

They had found one good purpose for it. Occasionally they wanted a cold, intimidating environment for scrimmages.

That is exactly what was happening late one summer night, with three partners seated near the end of the table with their backs to the windows, playing the roles of Supreme Court Justices. A fourth stood before them across the table, going through an oral argument and then whacking the curves, sliders and fast balls as fast as the others could hurl them.

The case involved a young boy named Connolly who had sued his mother and stepfather, the Elmores, and won. Elmore was directed to leave his home because his presence made it unfit for the lad. He was to continue to support his step-son financially

Connolly's attorney had argued that every child had a right to a 'normal' life. Connolly's norm was private schools, a very comfortable house, and other trappings of affluence, which was impossible under state care. And emotional normalcy was impossible with Elmore present.

The circumstances differed from most of the Children's Rights cases that had flooded dockets all over the country the past few years in the wake of new Civil Rights legislation. Under Title XII, Minors' Protection, of the Civil Rights Act of three years ago the Elmores could have won. But, the application of new law under the Children's Rights Act the following year went against them.

Mrs. Elmore had moved out with her husband, a strategic mistake. That, plus their general disappointment in their attorney, had led to their engaging young Paul Daniels for an appeal. To the astonishment of everyone, he had won! The Children’s Rights Title XII League then financed a massive and successful effort to get the case on a fast track to the Supreme Court.

Tonight's work had little to do with the meat of the issue, or briefs that had been filed, points that would be made. They had put much time on that, and it was right. This exercise concerned the Court appearance itself. Time would be put into handling every conceivable question the Justices could raise, and more.

They were concentrating on the individuals who sat on the bench, little things to do, and not do, in their presence - - inflections, tones, gestures. Leave nothing to chance.

The idea had been Mason Burles' and Ed had finally signed off on it, if not bought into it.

"Just let the boy go in and kick ass," he'd protested.

But when it was suggested to Paul Daniels, he had been very appreciative of their willingness to help. Ed was determined to give it his best.

It had been about eight when they'd gathered in Ed's office and discussed the approaches Paul planned to use, and the assumptions they were based on. Details like who he would face when making a certain point, and why. They had come to the Wilgore Conference room later and started to role-play.

It was now 10:45 on this Thursday evening. Jerry Wallace was Supreme Court Justice Deavis Southern, Mason Burles was Justice MacDermott and Ed Stevens was Justice everyone else.

Mason Burles, Ed Stevens and Jerry Wallace had their jackets off, ties loose, sleeves of wrinkled shirts rolled up, and generally looked much the worse for wear after a long day. On the other hand, Paul Daniels, as always, was under control, squared away, his tie straight and tight, his jacket buttoned. He was the type who could probably sleep in his suit without wrinkling it.

Daniels was responding to another Deavis Southern question from Jerry Wallace.

Ed Stevens was frazzled, worn out, and even grumpier than usual. It was almost time to stop in his estimation. The others were tired, too.

But, tired or not, no one was prepared for what was going to happen in about ten minutes.

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