Fresh Kills Read Online Free

stopped smoking, ground into the glass by Marla’s efficient hand. She reached into her Coach bag and pulled out a badly folded legal paper. She handed it to me with a casual air that was supposed to mean she’d almost forgotten this little detail. But I’d known Marla a long time, and something about the move seemed calculated. I went on the alert.
    â€œWhat’s that?” I said brightly.
    â€œOh, nothing much. I like to get a consent to adoption before the birth, then firm it up once the baby’s delivered. Mrs. B. here is a notary, so—”
    â€œHow convenient.” I fixed Marla with a stare I hoped conveyed amused tolerance for her naive attempt at manipulation. “I can read, you know,” I pointed out. “I may have started this case not knowing much about adoptions, but there’s this really handy reference book. Maybe you know it—it’s called the Domestic Relations Law, and it contains everything you ever wanted to know about New York adoptions. Including,” I finished, letting my voice carry a touch of steel, “the fact that prebirth consents aren’t worth the paper they’re written on. Marla, dear,” I went on, matching her poisonous sweetness, “why are you asking me to have my client sign an unenforceable consent?”
    She leveled a stare that should have had my hair falling out. “ I know it’s unenforceable,” she said, spacing out the words. “ You know it’s unenforceable. But the little dears who give up their babies don’t know it’s unenforceable. It’s just my way of making sure they know what they’re doing is for keeps. If they really want to change their minds, they’ll find out soon enough the consent doesn’t matter until after birth—and by that time, they’ll have signed another, valid consent.”
    I’d started shaking my head in the middle of her speech, but it didn’t stop her making her case. Now I said it flat out: “No, Marla. I will not take that form to Amber. I will not pretend she’s signing a valid consent to adoption now when I know the consent is worthless. You brought me into this case as her lawyer, and that’s who I am. Amber’s lawyer. Not your patsy.”
    She shoved the paper back into her bag, then gave me an unexpected grin. “Hey, it was worth a try.”
    Mrs. Bonaventura asked us if we wanted anything to drink. I shook my head, and Marla muttered something about a neat vodka, cold, with a twist. She didn’t get it.
    Next thing I knew, Santa Claus was in the room with us. A young Santa, about fifty-five, with rosy cheeks and a tiny bud mouth hidden inside a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard, laughing blue eyes, and a smile that could have melted the North Pole. A well-dressed Santa in a charcoal suit cut to fit his bulk, and handmade shoes on his oddly small feet.
    â€œI’m Dr. Scanlon,” he said, holding out a plump hand. I shook it; he squeezed a second or two longer than politeness dictated or allowed, then turned to Marla.
    â€œShe’s okay,” he said. “Fetal heartbeat strong. No sign of premature labor. Just a little spotting, some high blood pressure.” He frowned and turned his attention toward the diminutive housemother. “She really should rest,” he pronounced. “I’ve told her to cut down on her trips to the mall until the baby’s born. It would be better if she stayed off her feet altogether, but—” He raised his hands, which were tiny compared to his swollen stomach, in a gesture of futility.
    Mrs. Bonaventura shook her head regretfully. “You’ll never get that Amber to stay in bed for two hours, let alone a week,” she said in a dark-chocolate voice. Her prediction rang as portentously as anything said on the streets of Troy by the original Cassandra.
    The mall we’d passed on the way to the group home was a huge complex