Scratch a writer, especially a self-published writer, and you’ll find a dream about going Hollywood. We have these sugarplum-fueled visions of seeing our characters up on the big screen. Andy Weir got to see it happen with The Martian, and we recently interviewed Gavin Black on our podcast who may see his work translated to moving pictures. I could easily see some of my books turning into a series on a streaming service (Hello, Kevin Costner!).
One set of my books that will not, or maybe should not, go to Hollywood is my Emma Parks CPS series. Child abuse is horrible. It’s horrible to see, it’s horrible to hear about, and it’s a fucking tragedy. An avoidable fucking tragedy, at that, but it happens more than you know. I spent years working on an IT help desk for a child protective services agency, and our team had to read reports to assist the workers. Social workers are heroes.
When I set out to write Hope Knocks Twice and the sequels, I swore to be sensitive and respectful. I think I was successful, but more than ten years after Hope was published, I still debate on whether it should be a TV series. The subject needs more visibility, but I can’t imagine how.
Here is Chapter One of Hope Knocks Twice. This series has been compared to “Law & Order,” “Without a Trace,” and “Family Law.” Tropes: CPS, Newbie, Social Services, Urban, Pressure, Child Abuse.
It is on our online bookstore, and it is available through Amazon, Apple, B&N, Kobo, and Google.
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Today is the day!
I leap out of bed at the shrill buzz of the alarm and take the best shower of my life. I smile at my mirrored reflection as I pluck errant hairs off my eyebrows, happy and humming because I knew that today I would make an impact and save a child.
I won’t feel any kind of clean again for twenty-four hours.
After I graduated a few months ago from a small and little-known private college on the East Coast, Daddy arranged an internship for me in Hyannis Port to help me garner experience to go along with my degree, as well as earning a few continuing education units for my resume. I volunteered at a suicide hotline during the day, counting the days until I could leave home. Resumes went everywhere.
When one got a nibble, I didn’t think twice about interviewing for a CPS job at the airport.
Sue me for being naïve. A more experienced social worker would have visited the workplace to try to learn everything possible about potential supervisors, colleagues, and working conditions. Instead, the interviewer (a fellow alumna) sweet-talked me into accepting a bottom-rung job in the city’s Child Protective Services downtown unit.
I found a one-room efficiency in the same neighborhood not far from my office. On my first day on the clock last week, I hadn’t met my future boss or office mates (and still no internal alarm bells!) because I spent the previous week attending indoctrination at the Human Services Department on the outskirts of the city. They took my picture and gave me a little gold badge. Someone who had memorized the text lectured me about the local CPS procedures but couldn’t or wouldn’t answer any real questions. Everything was almost the same stuff from my senior-year practicum with the notable exception of the head of Legal telling us we couldn’t take weapons of any kind into the field, badge notwithstanding. If we found ourselves in a dangerous situation, we were to call the cops and get the hell out of Dodge.
It all made sense to me which should have proved that I had no clue what I was getting into. Stupid me.
On the last day of training, the previous Friday, my report time to the CPS unit on Mountain Street was spelled out on the papers laid before me: 8:00 am the following Monday. The administrative assistant watching me sign my life away “suggested” I take the bus if I wanted to keep my car. I agreed because, and I said this aloud, I wanted to get a better idea of the people I work for and with. The alarm finally went off in my mind when she smirked and rolled her eyes.
Eyebrows plucked and teeth flossed, I spend too much time picking out my clothes. Should I go with a pastel or a dark color? Which shoes would make the best impression? Pearls, gold links, or a pendant? Hair up or down? And how much make-up? When I can’t decide, I Google my favorite politicians and imitate their looks: a dark pant suit and two-inch heels. On a whim, I stuff my workout clothes in a bag, hoping to find a gym near the office where I can work out during lunch.
I grab a blueberry bagel on the way out the door and beat the bus to the front of my building by ten seconds. Elbow-to-elbow bodies pack the vehicle, radiating heat and humidity, so I lead with my knee to get some space. Sweat rolls down my ribs, and I would’ve removed my blazer if I hadn’t remembered my baby-blue silk blouse is see-through when damp.
As I chew my bagel, I drink in humanity. A couple of teenagers dressed in punk leathers explore each other’s tonsils, an exhausted lady in a fast-food uniform dozes in a plastic seat, a middle manager in a rumpled suit frowns at the office emails on his smartphone, and a grizzled old fart missing a few teeth and deodorant looks at me like a piece of uneaten candy.
I yelp at the feeling of a hand on my leg, and almost swat it away until I see it belongs to a little girl maybe six years old, with curly black hair framing her face and clothes I bet belonged to an older sister not long ago. Even her untied left shoe is cute.
“You’re pretty.”
I bend down as best I can to tie her shoe. “Thank you, sweetheart. What’s your name?”
“Kara. What’s yours?”
Children at this age are your instant friend without all the usual baggage or suspicion or judgment. “I’m Emma.” I point at the woman in the uniform. “Is that your mommy?”
“Mi abuela.” She shakes her little head, the curls bouncing. “My grandma. I live with her.”
I give the woman a second glance. If she’s forty, I’ll eat the designer portfolio under my arm.
Kara strokes my suit and eyes the nibbled bagel in my hand.
“You hungry, honey?” When she puts her fingers in her mouth, I tear off a small piece. “Eat slow, okay?” The first piece disappears in an instant. I feed her the rest in small bites, figuring I’ll get something else later. The color improves in Kara’s cheeks, and I smile inside.
Out of nowhere, the fast-food lady appears beside us. She grabs Kara’s hand and screams something in Spanish, too quickly for me to pick up from my high school classes. When the bus stops moments later, they disappear out the front door. Kara waves at me as the bus lurches away from the curb.
A hand cups my butt.
I turn to see the old man leering as he flexes his fingers.
I smack his hand away hard.
When he squeals, the bus driver shows me the open door. Standing on the sidewalk, I watch the vehicle drive away, fuming at the injustice, guessing the old man and the driver are buddies or just regular men, in general. Shaking my head to clear away the bad mojo, I see I’m in the general neighborhood from the address on the piece of paper in my hand. I pass the building twice before figuring out the door-numbering scheme. Among endless rows of four-story apartment tenements with ground-floor bodegas and other shops, I find a very small “DHS” painted on a door nestled between a hair stylist and a haberdashery.
I turn the knob and take a breath before climbing the dark and narrow staircase with the mandatory creaking steps heading up to the second floor. My nose wrinkles at the unpleasant smells, and I decide not to use the handrail for support because God knows what’s stuck under it. The door at the top of the stairs, illuminated by an underpowered bulb, is locked. Stumped, I look around for a few moments before finding a speaker mounted on a wall amid strips of peeling paint. I push the button.
“What d’ya want?” The metallic voice skirts the edge of rudeness.
“I’m Emma Parks. I’m supposed to start work today.”
“Why didn’t you come in the main doors?”
Ignoring her rudeness, I respond in as polite a tone as possible under the circumstances. “This was the address I was given.”
“Okay, wait a minute.” The static shuts off with a click.
Five minutes later, there is the sound of a bolt being thrown and the creak of unoiled hinges. I expect a middle-aged lifer on the other side but see a girl who looks younger than me wearing a red J-pop boy band T-shirt and short jean skirt, her bubblegum-pink pixie cut revealing a blue star tattooed below her left ear.
She looks at a clipboard. “Emma Parks? You’re not scheduled ’til next week.”
Of course. “I was told to report today at eight o’clock.”
She must think I’m some kind of an idiot. “Who’d you talk to?”
“I didn’t catch her name,” I answer in a voice stronger than I feel.
“See you next Monday.
” She starts to close the door.
I stop it with my hand. “Can I at least have a look around?”
She shrugs and steps back. “Whatever.” The look she gives me confirms the fact I’m an idiot. I can’t disagree. “Don’t get in nobody’s way. Lock and bolt the door behind you.”
After I do as she asks, I turn in time to see her disappear through one of the doors at the end of a short hallway, again illuminated with underpowered bulbs. Toilet paper rolls and office supplies line the shelves in the hall. I hurry to follow but take a step back inside the entrance as the noise and smell hits me from all sides. I can’t retreat because the lock clicks and bolts the door closed. The young woman is watching me from the counter at the other end of the room, phone to her ear, so I square my shoulders and sally forth into the chaos.
The large waiting room is full of screaming mothers and wailing children begging for attention. Thirty to forty people of all ages and sizes are packed elbow-to-elbow in government-bought, low-bidder-provided furniture. Kids seem to run or fall in my path on purpose as I maneuver around a broken tricycle, a half dozen empty strollers, and a toddler puking up his body weight in yellow vomit near an older teenager focused on her phone. I plop my bag with the gym clothes and portfolio on the counter and take note of the two other staffers sitting at desks behind the counter. They ignore everything around them, aided by whatever is playing in their ears via large white headphones as they stare at their computer screens.
“What’s going on?” I point over my shoulder.
“Today’s the first of the month.” She speaks in the contemptuous tone common to all teenagers as she hangs up the phone. “The foster mothers are here to collect their subsidy checks.” I want to ask questions, but she talks in run-on sentences with no punctuation. “I called Marsha. She says you can start today and are on the clock. She’ll fix the paperwork downtown. You won’t have a computer right away, but she’ll find you something to do. You okay with that?”
“Just put me to work.”
She stands on her toes and leans over to point to my lower leg. “You’ll want to clean that off. Bathroom’s over there.”
The puking toddler coated the outside of my lower left pants leg, and I just then noticed the wet feeling on my calf. Fighting a sudden wave of nausea, I say, “Thanks…”
“The name’s Jayce.”
“Thanks again.”
She sits down and returns to the clipboard she’d been studying.
The bathroom to the right of the counter contains one stained toilet, a cracked sink with a dripping faucet, and thin paper towels that disintegrate in the water. While I manage to clean most of what looks like oatmeal mixed with glue from my slacks, the smell of dying fish lingers. With no idea of what else to do, I use a spritz of perfume.
Jayce’s nose crinkles as she waves me behind the counter and points to an empty desk with an open binder on top. “Marsha wants you to read desk manuals. Start with that one.” Her voice continues to drip sarcasm, perhaps a defense mechanism to put me off and leave her alone.
“Thanks.” I won’t let this teenager get under my skin.
The offered chair-desk combo seems older than my parents, battered and beaten from years of use. The two-inch binder contains pages created on an ancient line printer, and I struggle to keep them in place since many of the holes have ripped. “Man, this stuff is ancient,” I mutter under my breath.
“What’d you say?”
The new voice belongs to an older woman. Handsome and fit with more grey than black in her hair, she wears a dark-blue windbreaker with “CPS” embroidered in bright-yellow letters above the heart over clothes typical of a big box store. A smile would’ve gone a long way to make her pretty, but she looks like she’s forgotten how to make the pleasant expression. She holds one of Jayce’s clipboards in her hands and squints as she makes notes while leaning against the counter.
“I was just saying there’s some old stuff in here.” I give my best smile and stand, offering a hand. “I’m Emma Parks.”
“Yeah, okay.” She looks over at Jayce, ignoring my hand. “Who’s she?”
The girl shrugs and responds in an adult tone, almost the opposite of how she’d spoken to me. “Fresh meat who’s supposed to start next week.”
I drop my hand. “I’m ready now.”
The woman turns back to examine me with her dead eyes. “I’m sure.” She returns to scribbling on the clipboard.
I decide to try one more time to make a good impression. “I’m happy to be here.”
The clipboard drops on the counter with a sound like a gunshot. The children in the waiting room look around with scared eyes.
The woman glances at Jayce again. “Anyone talk to her?”
“Not yet, Barb.”
“Figures.” When her eyes fix on me, I freeze, seeing no light or life in them. “Listen, Emma Sparks, you’re new and know next to nothing, so you get a free ride today. First off, save the perky Sarah Lawrence act for people who care, which means anyone five miles from this shithole. Second, you’ve got a lot to learn, so don’t talk when people are busy unless someone asks you a question and has the energy to pretend they care about your answer. And for the love of God, don’t do anything until you’re told you can.”
“Uh, Emma Parks.” My voice comes out meeker than I meant. “And I didn’t go to Sarah Lawrence.”
Her eyes narrow. “Did you hear what I just said about talking, Sarah Lawrence?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Anything I said that you don’t understand?”
“No, ma’am.” I feel like a second grader.
“One more thing.” She points at the desk. “That’s my manual you just shit on.” She speaks to Jayce without turning her head. “Has she seen Marsha yet?”
“Ten minutes.”
Barb gives me a wicked smile. “I recommend you do something about the vomit smell in that time, Sarah Lawrence. You know what they say about first impressions.”
Jayce catches the clipboard Barb slides across the counter without looking up from her PC. The older woman walks past me and out the back door. When the door slams shut, the kids in the waiting room start screaming again.
I shake my head. “Who was that?”
“Barb Walsh, supervisor on the CPS side.” Jayce pops her gum.
“Is she always like that?”
“She was okay today.” She looks down at the clipboard and shrugs. “You should see her when she’s pissed.”