Chapter 1
Continue Mae Turner’s story…
Compelled By Intent
Chapter I
Mae didn’t see Foster tucked around the corner of the Children’s Court entrance, didn’t know he had been waiting for her exit.
Mae had stuffed her arms into her coat and snatched up her purse.
If she could just get out of this building, she could escape the feeling of bile creeping up her throat. She was wrong.
The sunlight assaulted her eyes, and the cool air wicked at the perspiration in her hairline before the smell of stale smoke drifted to her nose.
Mae froze outside the courthouse.
“Good morning, Mrs. Turner,” a calm, deep voice sounded from her right. He reached out and touched her shoulder. The contact made her recoil.
The composure Mae had been trying to achieve evaporated as the undercurrent of chatter and horns sounded as if she were at a distance. She turned her head toward the sound, which only confirmed what she already knew. Foster.
“Mr. Foster.” Mae stated his name as both acknowledgement and defiance of cordiality. He was the reason Mae had failed to help so many of the children in her new position. His pieces were lined on the chessboard while hers still fumbled to create a competent defense.
“I see that you are getting on well in your new position. Five cases, five new children for the Foundling. Very efficient. Although I never doubted you.” His monotone voice grated on her nerves, though it held a note of appreciation.
Mae’s shoulders pulled back. “Not all of those cases should have been remanded. But you knew that.” She narrowed her eyes at him. Resentment had coursed through her body each time she had visited one of those children at the Foundling House, New York City’s largest privately funded orphanage.
Simon’s face flashed to her mind. Her son—her only son—was the linchpin that kept Mae in line.
Her fingers grew stiff as she touched the pocket watch through her blouse.
She remembered the hard granite of Henry’s headstone.
Henry had been thirty-eight, with enough names and dates to expose Foster’s scheme, when he died.
The coroner had called it cardiac arrest. Mae had never believed it. Not once.
His mouth quivered at the corner as he changed the subject. “I see that you’ve met Jan. She’s one of our top investigators. Very restrained. And very efficient as well.”
Jan was a part of this? No. She may not be the most feeling person, but she had nothing to gain—or lose—from Foster’s scheme. Jan had been training Mae as the newest investigator for the Children’s Court. Mae tried to give her the benefit of the doubt, but a knot formed in her stomach.
“I thought you wanted me to investigate? It seems there is only one outcome you would like from my investigations.” Mae turned her head away but continued to peer at him from the corner of her eye like a child trying to avoid attention when her actions were not desired.
She remained silent.
“Investigations are a necessary part of the process. You know that, Mae.” His voice took on its characteristic tone again. “This process ensures that everyone benefits.”
Everyone benefits—except the children, Mae thought. “I can’t understand why you would need more children than what is naturally necessary?”
“Demand exceeds supply, Mrs. Turner. We simply meet a need. Remember, there is a quota to meet each month.”
“Yes, but—”
“We are giving these children a second chance. Don’t you agree? Not every mother fights as hard as you did, Mae. Some practically surrender their children to us.”
Mae’s eyes widened and her nostrils flared with the stench of cigarettes, and she tried to breathe through her mouth.
Her stomach turned over. Mae knew what those second chances looked like.
She had seen firsthand as Simon had been yanked from her grasp at Grand Central Depot just weeks ago and carted away to Topeka, Kansas for his second chance.
In Kansas, she had been caught blackmailing the orphanage to retrieve Simon.
What she hadn’t realized at the time was that he had been in the next room as she had delivered her attack on the orphanage’s managing matron.
Foster had been aware of her scheme and had let it stand, knowing that it would provide leverage over her.
The large blocks of the building pushed at her back, drawing her body heat away while a chill ran through her. “I wasn’t aware that you would follow my investigations so intently,” she bit out.
His mouth turned slightly at the corners, but his eyes stayed fastened to hers. “Management must always control the quality of a worker’s tasks. Just keep doing your work. It’s been fabulous so far. Remember, drafting legal documents is what you do best.”
Mae’s jaw worked. While she had worked under her late husband, Henry, in his law firm, she had honed her skills as a legal paperwork expert by drafting Henry’s motions and forcing him to sharpen his legal arguments—all with ruthless efficiency.
Her mind went blank as she tried to grasp at a remark—any remark—to fling back at him.
As she opened her mouth to respond, he undercut her.
“How is Simon, by the way? I hope those bullies aren’t continuing to blacken his eyes.
Of course he has a few buddies now. They seem to protect each other well enough. ”
At the mention of Simon, Mae’s mind skittered.
“Why are you following Simon?”
“Simon is important to you, Mae. So now he is important to me. You know, priorities are a fickle thing, though. What one person views as important, another may not. Remember,” his feigned pleasantry shifted to a deeper politeness, “without paperwork, the system can’t function.
We need to keep it well-supplied to ensure that justice is served.
Of course, once it is filed, the system will proceed accordingly.
Unless one is lucky enough to have files misplaced.
In that case, Lady Justice remains blinded to the circumstances. ”
There it was—the reminder. She stiffened.
Foster had set up his moves to force her into check position.
Paperwork had been filed and buried to ensure that Mae would remain under Foster’s thumb.
The cost of disobedience was the reinstatement of paperwork that would cause Simon’s permanent removal.
She had originally thought that she could fight back—prevent the removal of children from their hardworking, disadvantaged mothers.
But so far, Foster had been coming out on top. Her hands fisted in frustration.
“Give my regards to Simon.”
Mae remained outside the courthouse entrance long after he was gone, the smell of his stale cigarettes eventually dissolving in the gentle spring breeze.
While she thought of each of the five children she had reported on, she recounted her actions—her thorough reports, what she could have done differently.
She wished she could ask Henry’s advice, but Foster had already ensured that option didn’t exist. Five children.
No Henry. No colleagues she could trust. Forcing herself to move toward the streetcar stop, she realized she had fewer options now than she’d had when she arrived that morning—but Simon was still waiting for her at the end of it.