He Said She Said

Bob shut the door to his room in the bed sit and let his shoulders slump as he noticed, not for the first time this week, a rubber-tailed lodger hiding under the sofa bed. How could he have married someone he really didn’t know at all? For the first time since his divorce, shock and confusion filtered their way through his body as he dragged the terrible weight to the window. Lifting a leaden finger to the pane, which almost winced as it tried to move the stale lace curtain, Bob flicked the moulding material to afford him a view of the greying sunset in East London. And then he saw the light flickering and tearing up the corner of his eye. His answer machine had a message.

Hello Daddy. It is Sally. I am okay. I had my tea. Have to go now.

The sound of a receiver not quite latched was then followed by a voice which wasn’t his daughter’s. Have you put that phone back properly? Well? Um. Well bloody go and check it. Oh, for Fuck’s sake. That’s the last time you get to call your Daddy, you fucking waste of space. And don’t think you’re getting any tea, either. Go on, get out! Bob could hear the sound of footsteps marching closer over delicate and frightened patters fading. The phone’s receiver flatlined.

No-one told Dad she was going to call, Pete bellowed at the local authority social worker on the other end of the call. I’m sorry Bob missed Sally, we’ll try to set up another call and make sure he gets notified in advance. That’s what you should have done in the first place. Pete wasn’t finished. And the foster family you’ve got taking care of her are abusing her. They need to be investigated. Oh, that’s not possible, the foster family Sally’s with have been fostering for us for years. We have a voicemail recording. Are you going to take the allegation seriously or not? Look, it’s very easy to get emotional about these things, we just need to stay calm until we can find out what’s best for Sally. Don’t fob me off; if you’re not going to investigate my client’s concerns I’m going to go over your head. If you go over my head, Mr Hallot, you’re just going to make it harder for your client. What exactly do you mean by that? Hello? Hello?

Bob, it’s not good news. The LA are threatening to go for a placement order if we push on with the position that you haven’t abused Sally. Mum’s gone awol. One of Sally’s medical examinations has come back saying that her hymen looks like it may have been compromised, but the examining doctor says he can’t be sure as Sally was sent to him some time after mum made the allegations. Social services are treating this report as firm evidence of abuse.

And that I’ve abused her. Pete could hear Bob wilt through his mobile. Why won’t they have me analysed again? Why can’t we find Sally’s mother and ask the judge to order a report on her? Because it costs time and money the system just doesn’t have, not to mention the embarrassment it might cause the LA if they have to admit they’re wrong. The compensation in these kinds of cases can be massive. It’s not good for them, or their insurance policies. Are you saying that the LA would rather cover up a life-threatening situation rather than focus on fixing it just because they don’t want to be wrong? Oh, but there’s lots at stake, Bob. Forget the welfare of the child; it’s all about the welfare of the system.

Bob wished Pete wasn’t always quite so blunt. Is there any good news, at all? That depends on how hard you’re willing to fight. We might have to take the case all the way up to Strasbourg if we can’t get relief from any lousy decisions along the way. How long will that take? The European Court of Human Rights is jammed up with thousands of applications, the process is really slow. By the time we’ve made our way through the British courts and we’ve gotten to the point where we’re filing at the ECHR and assuming we get heard there, that could take anything from five to ten years. But Sally’ll be grown up by then.

Welcome to justice in the twenty-first century.

Practice Makes Profit

Can’t we just give them this report at the last minute?

Paula held the phone in her hand as if she was upset with it. Newell’s suggestion that the report she’d managed to get from a would-be challenger to Humbolt’s diagnosis couldn’t be slipped in to a hearing to set aside an interim care order at the last minute, hurt her.

The LA need to see this. I know you’re worried that they’ll find some way to discredit it and you don’t trust them because they’ve wrongly excluded you from meetings in the past and I’m not suggesting we should trust them, but they’re going ahead with a full care plan, which is going to mean an adoption order, and if we don’t tell them this evidence is out there they won’t hesitate to get into court. Okay, I’ll call them now.

Newell’s week went slowly, dappled with early morning coffees, thoughtful walks through a frost-bitten London and swirling cigarette dervishes. Sometimes he thought about his son so much, that his thoughts would bleed into one and the day would feel like a canvas cave. He carried his laptop over to the greying velvet sofa and sat down. He saw a message from Paula.

I don’t know what to do. It’s been a week and the LA still hasn’t called me back (I left a message because no-one picked up). I emailed them the reports and told them I was going to challenge the interim care order. I asked them to get in touch ASAP. No word. Where do we go from here? Newell tapped lightly on the keyboard; his smokey fingers setting an efficient pace. Let me call them up. They know I’m your McKenzie. I’ll see what I can do. Newell pressed send, and didn’t wait for a reply.

The social worker who answered the phone sounded guarded, busy and bubbly all at the same time. Hi, my name’s Newell. I’m Paula Ribeiro’s McKenzie. Can I speak to someone on her team, please? I’m on her team. My name’s Liz Smith. How can I help? It’s been two weeks since Paula’s heard from anyone. She’s sent documents through as well, but no-one’s gotten back to her. She doesn’t even know whether any meetings have taken place. Could you email me please with updated information and could you reply to Laura’s email? We’re going to be asking to set aside the interim care order. Liz’s voice stiffened. I’m sorry, are you Paula’s lawyer? No, I’m her McKenzie friend. Well, I can’t give that information out to you, I’m afraid. I don’t have a McKenzie authorised on this case. In any event, only lawyers and professionals working on this case can have access to a client’s details. Laura will have to get in touch with us direct.

Newell put down the phone. Well, he thought, there’s only one thing left to do.

You’re telling me the LA put in an application for a full care order the day I sent them the email with the reports in it? Paula’s Brazilian accent at top notch was like a formula one car travelling down the line at break-neck speed. Fucking bastards! Who told you? Newell sat back and looked at the Skype screen. He let Paula’s furrowed eyebrows relax before answering. I emailed the judge dealing with the application. They’re hard to pin down because cases just get bandied around from judge to judge, but the duty judge knew your case. He told me that he’d received the LA’s application. I rang up the court-house to confirm. So, what? They can just ignore the reports? Looks like that’s what they’re doing.

The playground was packed with children at tea time. A group of boys were leaning against the wooden horse, draping their swagger like accidental James Deans and a gaggle of girls were kicking their heels as they sat on the swings, each vying to be higher off the ground than the other. There were children excavating the sand pit and inspecting soggy-looking pieces of bark, but Newell’s eyes were focused on one of the boys in a mixed group, all waiting their turn to go down the slide. Pervert! A group of teenage boys entering the playground nudged Newell in the back and laughed as they made their way to the adjacent football field. Newell turned away from the playground and made his way home.

The court room was fraying a little around the edges. Black lever arch files propped the pine shelves up in the corner and rows of spindly chairs set one against the other acted as un-natural markers for the Local Authority’s team and Laura, who sat by herself, having been told by the presiding judge that Newell would not be allowed in with her, but would not give a reason.

In setting down this judgment, I am aware that another application by Miss Ribeiro has been made. That is not my remit, today. Having considered the powerful evidence put forward by Miss Smith for the local authority, in which she made it clear that Lucas would be best served by being placed for adoption and the report prepared by Dr Humbolt which is where these concerns stem and are indeed confirmed, I have no choice but to grant this application for a care order.

In arriving at this decision, I have considered Lucas’s rights under Article 8 and I believe the decision I have made is proportionate to Lucas’s circumstances and therefore, in his best interests.

Practice Makes Profit 

A swirl of smoke escaped from Newell’s chapped lips, curling past his extended fingers and over his cigarette as he watched the red buses spin dizzy around a stony-grey Trafalgar Square. The cafe was warm and empty, its burgundy seats stretching in the setting sun as he made his way back inside, putting the cigarette out with a grinding stub of his foot. The sleepy-looking waitress ambled over to his table. Can I get you anything? Newell pursed his mouth and stroked the unshaven edges with his hand. Yeah, I’ll have a black coffee please. The waitress momentarily hesitated before making a mental note of his order, as his sturdy Yorkshire accent hung in the air like an unfamiliar echo.

A dark, hunched raincoat and its scurrying legs appeared at the window, steadying itself as the cold bit through the flustered combination trying to get into the cafe. Paula shut the cafe door quickly behind her and met Newell’s gaze as he watched her cross the room. He lifted himself up and shook Paula’s hand. You must be Paula. And you must be Newell. Did I pronounce that right? Paula and Newell exchanged a cautious laugh. Near enough, sit down. Do you want a coffee? Yeah, that would be great. So, tell me about this Dr Humbolt.

I’m sorry, but the exercise required you to hold your baby whilst using the fire blanket. Julie sobbed quietly as her eyes pleaded with Dr Humbolt. But, the blanket was moving around in my hand when I tried to put it down and I couldn’t make it steady whilst I was holding ‘Livia. So, you know, I put her right behind me, away from the imaginary fire, to keep her safe. Julie looked more hopefully at Dr Humbolt this time. Dr Humbolt sat back in his chair and placed his hands on his lap. Don’t worry, Julie, I’ll be saying plenty of encouraging things in your report. Julie’s eyes wilted in relief. Thank you. That’s alright. Now if you don’t mind I have lots and lots of work to do. Nurse Elliott will show you the way out.

Nurse Elliot showed Julie out and returned to Dr Humbolt’s office. Yes, what is it Nurse Elliott? Dr Humbolt could feel Nurse Elliot’s shifting feet. Doctor, Julie’s been doing really well with Olivia. The fire blanket, well both Nurse Cook and Nurse Wayne had some trouble holding it with both hands after a night out. Nurse Elliott tittered nervously. I suppose yourself, Nurse Cook and Nurse Wayne are all trained psychiatrists with over twenty years’ experience? How silly of me, it must have slipped my attention. Would you care to have my office? No….. I….. I’m sorry, I just meant – mothers today have absolutely no idea how to take care of their babies or house keep. They have weak heads and weak hearts, as evidenced by the never-ending circus of single mothers parading through this practice. Now, I’m sure you and your pretty legs have something more constructive you could be doing? Yes, doctor.

Paula pulled a stapled document out from her bag. It’s from a psychiatrist I saw before I went to the women’s shelter. And this was before you saw Dr Humbolt? Yes, he came and saw me at the shelter, just before I had Lucas. She rustled around in her bag and brought out three more documents that looked very similar to the first. And these are three separate reports I’ve had done since seeing Dr Humbolt, which you advised me to do. Four different psychiatrists, all saying the same thing. Newell’s eyebrows raised slightly, his interest piqued by the unusual pile of papers and Paula’s dogged determination in plain view, on the table in front of him. It was a dedication he recognised.

My Lucas is living with strangers, Newell. I don’t even know who they are. Newell nodded. He flicked through the reports slowly. And then stopped. This one. He pointed at a report with his finger. Paula looked bewildered. This one. It’s written by a psychiatrist who holds as senior a position as Humbolt does. Widely respected. Experienced. I mean they’re all good, they’re all saying effectively that you’re a great mother and there’s nothing wrong with you. But this one. Paula leaned forward. I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me, Newell.

Paula, this report.

It’s a direct challenge to Humbolt’s authority.

Practice Makes Profit

Give me back my baby.

A policeman in full uniform winced as he felt Paula’s foot reflex up into his groin. You fucking bastards. Paula’s slurred speech was flecked with her Brazilian accent, as she flung the words at the three police officers, two nurses and four social workers standing haphazardly by her bed. The eggshell-coloured walls of the delivery room reflected the shifting patterns of black stab vests and white tunics and Paula’s blood seeping from the edge of a bucket, which was spattered with pieces of her warm placenta. She tried to focus on the shapes moving around her, still dizzy and disoriented from a long labour.

A little bundle with a squinting face was taken out of the room by one of the nurses and two of the social workers followed in quick succession, relieved to be leaving the scene behind. One of the social workers moved a little closer to Paula’s bed, making sure not to get in the way of the two police officers pinning Paula down by her arms. Look, you know why this has happened. When you’ve calmed down, maybe we can talk about it, I can explain it again. Paula swung hard against the police officers. I know what you said, you bitch. You’re taking Lucas because you think I have some kind of mental problem. It’s bullshit! I didn’t make the diagnosis, Paula, Dr Humbolt did.

The waiting room was filled with women looking drawn and dazed. At first, Paula thought they were all on the same medication, perhaps for anti-natal depression which made her wonder for a moment whether she was in the right office at all. Miss Ribeiro? Yes. Could you fill out this form, please? Dr Humbolt will need it before he can see you. Paula sat down gently with the form. She was still a little delicate from Lucas’s birth two weeks ago. As she answered the questions on the paper in front of her, she found herself listening in on a conversation between two of the mothers in the waiting room. He said I could have my ‘Livia back two months ago, he even said he was going to give me a glowing report, but what he’s written, it’s awful. He said because I make to-do lists that I’m obsessive, whatever that means. It just helps me, you know? Oh, Julie. I’ve heard some of the staff here talking about him. Apparently he’s going through a divorce.

Miss Ribeiro? Dr Humbolt will see you now. Paula made her way down the corridor and knocked on the large wooden door. The plaque read “Dr Hubert Humbolt, MRCPsych”. The letters looked like an impassable jumble and she started to feel anxious. Come in, boomed a deep, bouncing voice from behind the door. As Paula made her way towards the desk in the consultation room, she noticed Dr Humbolt did not lift his gaze or himself out of his seat but instead was focusing lightly on some notes in front of him. She wondered if they were about Lucas and her. Please sit down. Paula reluctantly sat down on the chair in front of the mahogany desk, and suddenly noticed the green carpet under her feet. It was monogrammed with the initials HH. Miss Ribeiro, I don’t see you on our residents list. Did you want to stay with us for a while? No. No, I came here to speak to you about a report you wrote on me and about my Lucas, my baby. Dr Humbolt raised his head and studied Paula’s face. A current of impatience flickered through him. I’ve read your files, Miss Ribeiro and it states quite clearly that you were a victim of domestic violence and that you presented most obviously with symptoms related to your history of abuse, including uncontrolled bouts of anger and that this has affected your ability to manage your life and your ability to be a parent. However, if you are referred to this centre, as I recommended after seeing you prior to writing my report, and you make progress, it’s very possible that you could start to see Lucas.

Paula could feel herself getting hot, and angry. There is nothing wrong with me, she said, in as calm a voice as she could manage, as she rose from her chair. What can you possibly know about me after one twenty minute assessment? Miss Ribeiro, I’m amply qualified to make such observations and it’s outbursts like these which confirm my diagnosis, not that any confirmation is needed. Paula knew she was being needled, but her desperation got the better of her. If you don’t get social services to return my baby, I’m going to go to the press and tell them you’re a quack and that the whole system is running a scam. She blurted the words out, throwing Dr Humbolt a scornful look as she went on. Miss Ribeiro, I’m not the one having trouble forming relationships. You clearly have difficulty communicating, but we can help you. I have difficulty with relationships? I left Lucas’s father after he hit me, once. And what about you? Aren’t you getting a divorce?

Dr Humbolt’s face suddenly turned from cream to crimson. My personal life is none of your business. I think this meeting is finished. Oh, I don’t think so!

Dr Humbolt put his fingers in his ears and shut his eyes. La, la, la, la, la. I can’t hear you.

White Sheets, White Lies

Where did you get this? Like all politicians, his voice was tinged with solemn concern. Never mind, I don’t want to know. This is genuine correspondence from my local authority. It seemed more like a question, asked in a flat tone of voice. Ira shook her head slowly. It also says in this report that Laura has a Vitamin D deficiency, which seems to be making up part of their verdict on neglect. Yes, you’re right, but I think we need to have Laura’s arm re-examined. By an expert in non accidental injuries. If I find someone to look at Laura’s arm and check into the deficiency, would you be able to look into her case?

I thought for a moment you were going to ask me to look into every case on the list. Ira felt the corners of her mouth rising. Well, I might have wanted to, but I don’t want to press you on that. I’m sure your office is very busy, but if I find out more about the injury itself, and it turns out that there’s a conflict of opinion, that Laura’s injury could have been an accident, I’d be so grateful if you could help. There’s another boy in your borough, on that list, with the same injury as Laura. But the stats speak for themselves, none of these parents have ever been pulled up on neglect, and the little boy has two older and two younger siblings, who are all fine. Now the local authority are pushing to take him and all of his siblings into care.

Fine. Come back with the evidence, if you can get it.

Ira picked up her telephone and dialled Steve and Jan’s number. Steve answered. Hello. Hi Steve, it’s Ira. I have an idea.

A week had passed and the agency was still receiving cases on a daily basis. Mariam, as the head of the agency, was now often out at court with parents and the other McKenzie friends were also dashing around doing the same. The agency had never seen anything like it, and as most of their cases came to them at the eleventh hour, they were often left with the unpleasant and hopeless task of trying to make a foregone conclusion and all the pain and heartache it would bring, feel like less of a shock. Ira opened the door to her flat and flicked on her stereo.

It was dark inside, so she turned her desk lamp on and impatiently flipped the space bar on her laptop. Wakey, wakey, let’s see what you got for me. The welcome screen blinked and gave way to her desktop, where her Gmail was open. There was an email from Steve and Jan. The title read “Expert Report on Laura’s Arm”.

We took your advice and contacted an expert in our borough on non accidental injuries. He managed to get the X Rays of Laura’s arm, we don’t know how. We’ve attached the letter. It says the injury could not have been non accidental, due to the nature of the fracture. It also says the fracture was probably caused by Laura’s vitamin deficiency, which probably is as a result of her being vegan, like us. We’re so relieved! What do we do now? We’re worried about the vitamin deficiency.

Ira breathed out, almost as if she had forgotten to breathe for the last week, and started to type. I’m so glad, that’s great news. I leave it to you, Laura and Steve to deal with the deficiency itself but in the meantime, can I take this report to your MP? Ira clicked send.

With Jan and Steve’s blessing, Ira made her way to their local MP’s office. There was a large chocolate cake, which looked like it had been attacked with a machete, sitting on his desk. Despite the missing chunks, Ira could make out that it had been some kind of campaign cake. Help yourself. No, thank you; chocolate makes me overly perky. I’ve got the report for Laura Loxton. The fracture was caused by a Vitamin D deficeincy. The family are practicing vegans. The Loxtons managed to get an expert to look at Laura’s x rays, but noone knows how he got hold of them.

I’ve been looking over the first sheet you gave me. Something’s very wrong. I made some enquiries and notified the local authority that I was looking into this case; I asked them to make sure the expert had everything he needed. They were very co-operative.  Now, I think, we need to locate Laura and allow the expert and her parents, to see her.

We Got Our Laura Back, read the email header as it sailed gently into Ira’s inbox. Filled with thank yous and updates on Laura’s health, the email was a happy one, with, unusually in this line of work, a happy ending. Another email, from the local MP, also a thank you for alerting his attention to a local authority gone rogue, who had decided a blanket care policy on all home-schooled children and who were now being investigated. But it was time for Ira to write a thank you letter of her own. She placed her fingertips on the tops of the black buttons of her keyboard, smiled and bit her bottom lip.

Dear Gary…..

White Sheets, White Lies

We’ve got another one, screeched the email’s subject box, as it appeared to slam into Ira’s Google in-tray. It was thirteen minutes after one, in the afternoon. God, that’s the eighth case in forty-eight hours. What’s going on? She scanned the email: 11 year old girl Laura taken into care, non-accidental injury, parents deny charges of abuse, whereabouts of child unknown, parents unable to get any information from the local authority, assigned social worker very hostile, statements inaccurate, parents don’t qualify for legal aid, can’t afford lawyers. So, what’s new, Ira thought, as she let her brown eyes travel off the computer screen towards a clump of yellow post-it notes, hazardously perched at the end of her desk. The clump was joined by several others, and together they looked as if they were melting over the table.

Would you be able to advise? We’re swamped with cases over here. Mariam’s emails were always warm and friendly, even in the face of emergency applications and distraught parents, all vying for her attention. Hers was the only agency of McKenzie friends for miles around people trusted. Yes, I’ll try to assist. Come to think of it, there’s something about this case which rings a bell. I think I have another family in the same borough who’ve also just had their son taken into care under similar circumstances. I’ll look into it. Ira clicked the ‘send’ button and opened her itunes. Seiji, for thinking.

Once she’d read the notes on Laura’s case, which had been prepared by the agency in the usual way (with elegant summary and neatly organised forms), Ira rang Laura’s parents. Hello? An anxious voice trembled at the other end of the line. Who is this? Ira’s stained red lips moved closer to the mouthpiece on the phone. Hi, my name’s Ira, I work for the McKenzie agency. Mariam gave me your details; I help the agency with their cases. Is now a good time to talk? Jan paused, and Ira could sense her relaxing. Yes, fine. Thank you for calling. We just don’t know what to do. We can’t afford a solicitor but the crazy thing is we can’t get legal aid because Steve has this property, but we can’t re-mortgage it and if we sell it we won’t have anywhere to live. We really need some advice.

Can you tell me a little bit about what’s happened to Laura? Well, we don’t know where she is. And they’re accusing Steve, her dad, of hurting her arm and although he has a temper, he’s not the most patient man, but how many are, really, Jan giggled nervously, Laura’s his little princess, he would never hurt her. Jan’s cracked voice finally bled into a sob, as she confronted the realisation, as she had done countless times already during the last 24 hours, that she had no idea where her daughter was and how scared she must be without her and Steve. Ira braced herself; the first call was always the hardest, for everyone. I’m so sorry. I know you don’t know where she is right now, but do you know if she’s still going to her local school? Jan answered cautiously, she doesn’t go. She’s home schooled. Well, she was until now. The social worker seemed really put out by the fact that Laura wasn’t going to a regular school. She even accused us of being bad parents because of it, but she’s very smart and quite frankly she learns more at home than her friends do at school, what with the shoddy curriculum on offer. The social worker even took issue with the fact that we were a vegan family. We can’t say or do anything right and when we try to answer her questions she muddles everything we say in her reports and even adds things we didn’t say. And noone believes us when we tell them that. On paper we look like the most awful parents. Steve and I feel like we’re going mad. And noone will tell us where Laura is.

Jan struggled to stilfle a sob as she tried desperately to keep a matter-of-fact tone. Ira caught herself thinking how elegant so many of the people she tried to help were, during what would, upon reflection, be one of the most traumatic times of their lives. I think we need to talk to your local MP. Have you tried to contact them? No. Can they help us? It depends who you get. I’ll find out who they are and get in touch with them tomorrow. I promise I’ll be back in touch as soon as I know more. Jan thanked Ira; phones clicked and receivers disconnected.

Ira noticed a new email in her inbox. This one was from Gary, and it read “I think you’ll find these stats interesting”. As Ira opened up the attachment, she realised she was looking at a confidential document outlining the number and names of children taken into care in Laura’s borough over the last five weeks. It looked like a crackdown operation; dozens of names cascaded down the list, all tagged with the diagnosis ‘neglect’, and heaving with information on medical examinations, IQ tests and curriculum-based proficiency scores with no mention of emotional abuse as a possible cause for removal. Every single child had scored above average on the tests and with the exception of Laura’s arm and the other little boy’s injury from the same borough which Ira was looking into, they were all fit and healthy.

Then Ira spotted another running theme in the attachment: every single child on the list was home schooled.

White Sheets, White Lies

The neon white hospital beds stuck out from the grey foam floor of the hospital, making them look like rows of mushrooms reflecting the glare of the cold rising sun. Jan and Steve Loxton stood at the entrance of the ward, staring like zombies at the lines of beds and bustling nurses. The hospital was busy, and three nights without sleep meant that everything in the ward was starting to merge into a shifting haze.

I can’t see her. Are we in the right ward, hun? Jan looked at her watch, as she considered the possibility that she and Steve had arrived too early to collect Laura, but couldn’t focus on the hands of her watch, which also seemed to have gotten lost in the thickening fog, as the sun flared through the ward’s curtains and lit the rising dust so that there seemed to be a wall between Jan, Steve and the rest of the patients in the room.

This is it. They’re probably just checking her cast and making sure she’s good to go. Steve peered into the bustle and tried to catch the eye of one of the nurses, who was passing a small plastic cup with pills in it to a stirring patient. Sorry, we’re looking for our daughter, Laura. She’s being discharged today, we’ve come to collect her. The nurse, a quiet lady in her forties nodded, let me get the ward doctor for you. Stay here. Jan sighed, didn’t that nurse seem anxious to you? I guess they’re all so over-worked now that they probably don’t ever get a good night’s sleep. She smiled at Steve, I’m glad she’s coming home. Binx will be glad to see her as well. Should we tell her that he’s been dating her fluffy slippers whilst she’s been away? Steve and Jan laughed for the first time in three days; no, let’s make that our little secret.

When the ward doctor finally appeared, it dawned on both Jan and Steve that they had been waiting for some time. Steve suddenly felt frustrated; are you the ward doctor? Yes, I am, my name’s Dr Sinha. We’ve come to pick up our Laura, but she’s not here. We were told she would be ready to go home. What’s going on? The doctor, who was clutching a clipboard, pulled the clamped papers closer to his chest and straightened a little at the tone of Steve’s voice. I’m afraid you won’t be able to take her home today. We need to do some more tests on her arm. But you’ve put it in a cast. What can you do now? Jan instinctively reached out to stroke Steve’s arm. No, Jan, where’s our daughter? Furrowing what looked like his entire body, the doctor’s reply was curt; you can’t take your daughter home today. Please come back tomorrow. We’ll have more information for you then.

Can we see her? Jan managed to ask, despite the overbearing finality of the doctor’s reply. I’m sorry Mrs Loxton, that won’t be possible. The ward now seemed to be listening to their conversation and the haze which had separated them from the patients and nurses in the room suddenly lifted. The doctor, sensing the sharp closeness in the room, cleared his throat; let’s talk about this somewhere more private. Mr and Mrs Loxton, follow me please.

Leading Steve and Jan into a consulting room in the hospital on the same floor, Dr Sinha closed the door behind them and motioned them to sit down. The table was large and the synthetic wooden surface felt clammy and cold under Jan’s wrists and fingertips. She could see Steve wasn’t going to be able to control his temper for much longer. Dr Sinha sat down opposite them and placed his clipboard on his lap, face down. It was hard to tell whether his eyes were motionless from the late shift the night before or because he had no compassion left, after ten years of tending to sick people who couldn’t wait to leave the clutches of the hospital. The fracture in Laura’s arm needs to be re-examined. We think it may be non-accidental.

Non-accidental? Steve bellowed. What are you suggesting? Steve leaned into the table. I’m not suggesting anything. All we’re saying is that the fracture needs to be looked at again. Yeah? Well, what does that have to do with us being able to see our daughter? Come on Jan.

I’m afraid you can’t. Why the hell not? Because she’s not here.

It’s been a hectic year for just about everyone we know, and we’ve felt the manic wave of work sweep over us too, which at times has meant that we’ve had to put some projects on the back burner, like the series we promised we’d write way back in January but never had the chance to finish. Well, not any more.

Our series, which we’re calling “Children In The Vine” and the name for which we have to thank one of our mentors for, as it came about after a long discussion on the subject (and stems, pardon the pun, from the plant Smilax australis, otherwise known as Lawyer Vine), will be a serial drama about children, parents and voluntary advocates in the family justice system.

It is a serial about the love, hate, anger, panic, occasional joy, dark humour, professional dedication and professional controversy at the heart of the family justice system. The stories feature an organisation of McKenzie Friends – lay advocates who help clients who are representing themselves in legal cases.

The dramas feature cases about public family law (where a public body like a local authority is involved in arranging the care of children), and private family law (disputes between parents, especially over children) .

The cases are controversial and life changing for the families.

McKenzie Friends are a relatively new phenomenon inside the legal system but over the last few years their presence has increased significantly. Today they sit uncomfortably in the court system with fee charging lawyers who sometimes view them as potential competition. But as the legal aid cuts impact on the family justice system and the economy worsens, the small office becomes inundated with requests for assistance. The team of four have to learn to cope with the increase in work and an unforgiving system which makes it almost impossible to resolve issues conventionally.

The team begin to resort to unconventional methods to get to the bottom of the cases they’re given.

Each McKenzie Friend has their own style of working through cases and their own personal motivations for getting involved, stemming from personal experience with the system. They work with limited resources which they share with each other. They learn on the job.

But the team find help and support in the most unusual places. Rogue journalists, renegade MPs and family lawyers come in and out of the agency’s life to help them solve their cases and help the families and children they work with.

This is a story about the next generation of lawyers, who work with the spirit of law as it was intended. Often discriminated against in the court system for not having legal qualifications they slowly infiltrate the system and expose corruption and malpractice as they try to help the families who come to them because they have nowhere left to go.

We hope you enjoy this series.