Tasha held up the forms with a gloved hand. “These aren’t signed by the mother,” she said. “And I heard her say the daughter was waiting in the car.”
Vivian’s whole performance slipped for a second. Not long. Just enough.
A labor-floor supervisor arrived first, then a social worker, then two Chicago officers Ruiz had already called. The room filled with radio static, soft shoes, and the sour smell of Vivian’s perfume.
I knew Chief Ruiz from a courthouse security hearing six months earlier. He had testified in my courtroom after a threat against a witness. He had looked nervous then.
Now he looked angry.
“Get a statement from the nurse,” he told one officer. “And nobody removes those babies from this room without their mother’s consent.”
Vivian snapped back to life. “My son authorized me to be here,” she said. “Ask Evan. He knows his wife is unstable.”
