At the Center. Dorothy Van Soest
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it.
“I won’t keep it for long,” I said, leaning toward him and reaching for it again.
Betsy placed her hand on my arm to hold me back, with a sympathetic wince. She was an attractive woman, the lines in her face framed by soft gray curls and her trim figure presented to its best advantage today in a tailored royal blue suit set off by a golden scarf. I liked her and had always admired her. Over the years she’d taken a dozen foster children into her own home, and adopted half of them. She’d never lost her ability to care, in spite of having risen through the ranks of an institution in which colleagues at each level conspired more ferociously than at the previous level to subordinate subjective human relationships to data-driven objectivity.
“With an investigation under way,” Brion said, “I know you appreciate more than anyone the importance of following agency policies and procedures.”
I was well aware of my reputation as a stickler for details. If any of my social workers were to ask for a case file under similar circumstances, I would tell them the same thing.
“Of course,” I said. “I have no intention of interfering with the investigation.”
“I knew you’d want to read it,” Betsy said. “And I understand why.”
“It’s for my own peace of mind, that’s all.”
“I know this has been awfully hard for you,” Betsy went on. “But you have to know that Anthony Little Eagle’s death was not your fault.”
I bit my bottom lip.
“There can be no doubt, Sylvia,” Brion said, “that you made sure everything was done properly with this case.”
He looked out the window at the green turrets on top of the Gothic stone courthouse across the street. Then he turned back to me with a benevolent smile. “Here,” he said as he pulled a thin folder out from under the Mellon file. “You can have a copy of Lynn Winters’s statement. I think your social worker’s report of what she did when she placed the boy will put your mind at ease.” He waved his hand in a gesture that I took as a dismissal, that as far as he was concerned the meeting was over.
I took Lynn’s statement from him and said, “But I’d like the case file, too, please. Just for a few minutes.”
“We need to follow protocol,” Betsy said.
“You know I can’t hold people accountable for their actions if I’m not fully informed, Betsy.” I didn’t mean to sound whiny, but I couldn’t seem to help it.
“After you read Ms. Winters’s statement,” Brion said, “you can talk to her yourself. You have my permission to do that.”
A flame rushed up my neck and burned into my jaw. Brion had just pulled rank on me, as if I needed his permission to talk to one of my own social workers. I didn’t understand what was going on. I knew they considered me to be one of the most highly respected supervisors in the agency. This was the first time they had ever questioned my competence.
“You don’t really care what happened to that boy, do you?”
“Now, Sylvia,” Betsy said. “It’s not Brion’s fault. He’s just doing his job.”
“I see. So since when is it his job to tell me whether I can talk to my own social workers or not?”
“The best way to get to the truth of what happened,” Betsy said, “is to follow our child death protocols.” She paused. “I know you are not responsible for Anthony Little Eagle’s death.”
I fought off the tears unexpectedly filling my eyes. “I wish I did.”
“That boy’s death was no one’s fault.” Brion said. “It was an accident.”
“The reporter from the Monrow City Tribune doesn’t think so,” I shot back at him.
Brion pulled a crisp white handkerchief from the pocket of his suit jacket and wiped his forehead with it. “You are not to meet with him again,” he said.
I couldn’t believe my ears. How dare he? I looked at my supervisor. “Betsy?”
Her shoulders moved up and stayed there like they were stuck. It wasn’t the first time I wondered if caution had become second nature to her after twenty-five years of directing the agency, or if she had been put in charge because that was the way she already was. But then, what difference did it make? What mattered was that Betsy and Brion, for some reason I couldn’t understand, were treating me not like a colleague but rather like someone they didn’t trust.
“Mr. Harrell said another child was injured in the Mellon home,” I said.
Brion and Betsy exchanged quick glances.
“If he contacts you again,” Brion said, “refer him to my office.”
“He said it happened on June 8, 2000,” I said.
Brion’s face turned beet red. He wagged his finger in the air. “This is what the media does. They lead you to think they know something as a way to get more information out of you. Now tell me, if you will, exactly what you told this Mr. Harrell.”
“I told him the truth.”
“Which was?” He sounded like he knew it was already too late, that whatever I had said to the reporter had already been said, and there was nothing he could do about it.
“I told him I wasn’t aware of any incident in 2000.” I stopped there. I knew better than to mention that I had been on leave that year. The less Brion knew about my history the better. I pointed to the folder on the table. “It should be in the case file.”
Brion looked at me for a long time. I glared back at him.
“What else did you say?” he finally asked.
“That we would cooperate with the police.”
“Good,” he said. “Are we clear now that you are not to talk with anyone about this case?”
I weighed my chances of striking a bargain. Maybe if I promised not to talk to J. B. Harrell or anyone else he’d let me read the Mellon file in exchange.
“Well? Are we clear?”
“I don’t understand what’s going on here,” I said. “Come on, Brion, we’ve worked together a long time. You know I take my job just as seriously as you take yours.” I heard the desperation in my voice but I didn’t care; I would have done anything, gotten down on my knees if I had to.
“This is the way it has to be,” he said. “Until the police conclude their investigation, no one can be allowed access to the evidence, and that includes the case file.”
“It wouldn’t be responsible of me to not even...”
“The way to be responsible is to stay out of it.”
“We have to do this by the book, Sylvia,” Betsy said with an apologetic smile.
I stood there, unable to move, clenching and unclenching my fists in rapid succession. I didn’t understand what was going on or what was happening to me.
“You’re covering something up, aren’t you? Something that might make our agency look bad. We most certainly wouldn’t want anything negative about us to appear in the newspaper, now would we?”
“Sylvia,” Betsy said. “I care just as much as you do about finding out what happened so we can make sure it never happens again. We’ll get to the truth.”
“I know your first commitment is to the children, Betsy,” I said. I turned to Brion. “And I’d like to think that your first commitment is to the children placed under our care, too, and not to the agency.”
“I don’t think there’s anything else to discuss here.” Brion’s voice was low and thicker with authority than before.
“Oh,