Page 83 of Finding Home

In a trembling voice, I describe exactly how I witnessed Ralph beating the crap out of his wife, and the few people sitting in the audience gasp and titter during my telling. “After that,” I say, “my parents wouldn’t let me go to Claudia’s house anymore. Which was fine, because I didn’t want to go back there, ever again.”

“Liar!” Ralph shouts at me, slamming his fist on his table.

“Quiet,” the judge hisses. She glares at Ralph’s lawyer. “Control your client, or I’ll remove him from the courtroom.”

“Did you tell anyone what you witnessed?” my lawyer asks.

“My parents. They reported the incident to the police,but nothing happened. Ralph was a police officer, and our town is very small, so we figured?—”

Ralph’s attorney barks out an objection, something about speculation, and after a bit more arguing I don’t quite understand, the judge tells my attorney to move on.

“Did you ever talk to Claudia about the abuse you witnessed?”

Another objection. This time, however, I’m told to answer the question.

“She said he did that to her mother all the time.” More objections. More waiting. When I’m allowed to continue talking, I figure it’s now or never: I have to seize my chance to say the one thing that needs to be said, above all others, or I might not get another opportunity. “Much later,” I blurt, “when we were living together in Seattle, we talked about how Ralph Beaumont sexually abused Claudia, countless times, during her childhood and?—”

Ralph and his lawyer both flip out, as people in the audience burst into hushed conversation, and the end result is another round of squabbling that leads to the judge personally asking me a question: “Did you have any reasonnotto believe Claudia when she told you these things about her father? Any reason at all?”

“No, your honor. Claudia wasn’t a liar, and she was sober at the time. She never, ever would have lied to me about something like that. I’m positive about that, your honor.” The moment I get my last words out, I burst into tears.

“Do you need a break?” the judge asks gently.

“Yes, please,” I choke out. “Thank you.”

“Fifteen minutes, everyone,” the judge announces with authority, before disappearing with a whoosh of her black robe through a door behind her.

“What’s your relationship to Mr. Baumgarten?” my lawyer asks, once I’m back on the stand and my tears have dried.

I glance at Caleb at our table, and a surge of love and affection for him overwhelms me. “He’s my employer.” That’s my practiced answer. The thing I’m supposed to say. But, suddenly, it feels like a lie to stop there. I’m under oath, after all. So, I add, “He’s also become a close friend, as we’ve navigated co-parenting the child together.” We’ve all been warned not to say Raine’s name in these proceedings to protect her identity.

My lawyer asks, “Do you consider yourself the child’s parent?”

“I do. Not by blood. But in all other ways that matter, yes.”

My attorney smiles, letting me know I’m doing great. “Let’s talk about your friendship with Mr. Baumgarten.” And off I go, explaining the history of my acquaintance with Caleb, the trust I’ve slowly developed in him, and the belief I’ve slowly acquired that Caleb would make a fantastic custodial father.

Unlike my mother earlier, I don’t bother to qualify my endorsement of Caleb with, “As long as I’m always in the child’s life.” Sitting here now, I trust Caleb completely. Enough to know he’d never screw me over in relation to Raine or anything else. Which means that qualifier simply isn’t necessary.

When my attorney finally sits down, Ralph’s silver-haired attorney gets up and levels me with cold, reptilian eyes. “You’re aware Mr. Baumgarten was in rehab until mere weeks ago, correct?”

“Yes. As I said, he employed me as his sobrietycoach.” I clear my throat. “He’s very committed to his sobriety, and I think that’s admirable.”

“You know what got him sent to mandatory rehab in lieu of jail?”

“I do.” He asks me to explain what I know about the incident in New York, and I tell him what I know, as heat creeps up my neck and into my cheeks. “Caleb was devastated about his mother’s death that night. He was overcome by grief.”

Ralph’s attorney stares at me for a long moment, like he thinks I’m full of shit, before moving on to his next question. For the next few minutes, he tries to get me to admit I’ve witnessed Caleb falling off the wagon. That I’m covering for him. Lying under oath. But of course, he gets nowhere, since none of it is true. Obviously, he’s got nothing and he’s simply fishing.

After looking down at his notes for a while, Ralph’s attorney switches gears. He asks how much Caleb pays me. Tries to get me to admit the amount is exorbitant. That I’m being paid to lie today. But my attorney prepared me for this tactic, so I’m able to shut him down with facts and figures about the high-end nanny market. Nobody would pay the amount Caleb pays me in Prairie Springs. But in LA, and especially on the “celebrity nanny circuit,” my salary, while exceedingly generous, doesn’t seemquiteas insane, thanks to Caleb being a rich, globally beloved celebrity.

With a snarl, Ralph’s attorney asks, “Miss Capshaw, are you aware of Mr. Baumgarten’s long history of violence?”

Shit. I didn’t see this coming. We didn’t practice this. “I’ve seen a couple old videos online of Caleb losing his temper, if that’s what you mean. But both incidents seemed justified to me.”

The attorney asks for details, and I describethe videos I’ve seen. In one, Caleb pushed a paparazzi guy, hard, after the photographer basically assaulted Caleb with a large camera lens. In another video, Caleb tossed a fan clear across the stage, after the guy broke free of security and came running at Red Card Riot’s famous front man, Dean Masterson. I try not to smile as I describe the second video, the one where Caleb protected his bandmate; but the attorney’s outraged reaction tells me I’m not successful.

“Mr. Baumgarten’s violence isamusingto you?” he asks righteously.

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