Baby vs. the Bar
M.J. Rodgers
I wish to thank Attorney Richard L. Peterson, from the law offices of Crawford, McGilliard, Peterson & Yelish, Port Orchard, Washington, for his expert advice. Any errors or stretching of legal procedures that may appear in this story are this author’s sole responsibility.
Richard Peterson doesn’t need to stretch the truth to see that justice is done.
For Elinor and John Paulk, the best neighbors anyone could have.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Remy Westbrook—Her sperm-bank baby is turning out to be one in a billion.
Marc Truesdale—He’s an attorney defending an eighteen-month-old client.
Louie Demerchant—He isn’t overlooking any opportunity to get custody of his great-grandson.
Colin and Heddy Demerchant—They want custody of Remy’s son, too, but is it for love or money?
Gavin Yeagher—He’s the financial wizard who took a few measly millions and turned it into a billion-dollar fortune.
Norma Voyce—She seems more interested in plants than people.
Brian Pechman—He stands to lose a lot if Remy’s baby gets the money.
Steve Lyton—He’s Marc’s courtroom adversary, very high-powered, very high profile and very hard to beat.
Contents
Prologue
David Demerchant didn’t know his plane was diving directly into the sparkling silver waters of the Pacific Ocean.
A shaft of sudden, piercing light penetrated his closed eyelids, cracking them open, coaxing him back into consciousness. David squinted into the setting sun reflecting off the sea into the cockpit. He snapped to shocked attention, bolted upright and pulled back on the control wheel. The plane’s nose shot up, its engines singing from the sudden thrust that sent it soaring skyward.
David’s eyes became riveted on the climbing altimeter, his heart pounding in his ears as he realized he’d been a few hundred feet away from a watery grave.
Hot sweat broke out on his brow and under his arms. Icy sweat poured down his back. He continued to grip the controls until the plane had climbed to nine thousand feet. Only then did he ease the wheel forward to level off.
He swallowed the thick, cloying phlegm that had collected in his throat. He let out a relieved breath as his heartbeat began to slow to normal. That was close. Far too close.
The monotonous fatigue of the long, lonely flight had come on so gradually that he’d never realized he had been falling into a deep, deadly sleep. That was the first time he’d lost consciousness while at the controls. He was lucky it hadn’t been his last.
He glanced at his watch. Eleven hours had passed since he’d taken off from Seattle. Damn. He had overflown Honolulu, his first stop. He really had been asleep at the controls. He checked his magnetic compass and automatic direction finder. It was worse than he had thought. Looked like a strong southeast wind had taken him hundreds of miles north of his heading. Why hadn’t he noticed and compensated for the wind? Where had his mind been?
It would be too easy for him to drift off again into a sleep born of fatigue. He was going to have to put down soon and get some rest.
David verified his location on his aircraft position chart. He had already crossed the international date line. Great. Just great. Not a whole lot out here in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, except for the Midway Islands just to the southeast of him. And the only airstrip there was military.
Still, it had to be Midway. He had no choice. He folded his position chart and laid it on the empty passenger seat. He banked his plane into a slow left turn to take him southeast. The nose of his plane headed into the darkening sky. Only the droning engine and numbing fatigue surrounded him.
He reached into his pocket for his caffeine pills. They’d better help this time. He grasped his lucky gold flask lying on the passenger seat and unscrewed the top.
“A little tardy, but here’s to once again safely crossing the international date line and eluding King Neptune’s wrath,” he said, holding up the flask in formal salute.
David normally didn’t drink while flying, but ever since his first successful flight over the Pacific, the wine toast had become a tradition every time he crossed the international date line. He meant to keep it—and his luck— going.
For David knew that when a pilot was all alone in the air and over an ocean, he needed all the luck he could get, regardless of his competence or the plane’s safety.
He downed the caffeine pill along with a small swig of sparkling wine from
