When I arrived at the hospital, in the early stages of labor, a lawyer was waiting with papers for me to sign.

Carmen—I'd asked her to come along as my doula, to help me through the pain, and to run interference—told her to get lost.

"It's only to make things easier," the lawyer explained with a kindly smile. "So they can take the baby away as soon as—"

"Nobody's taking my baby," I objected. "I'm keeping her—or him."

"But you can't! It's all arranged—the parents are here."

Someone at the hospital must have called them as soon as I'd phoned to say I was on my way. Before I could respond, another contraction made me gasp and double over.

"Get out," Carmen told the lawyer. "Or I'll have somebody throw you out."

"I'll be back," the lawyer promised.

And, of course, she was. But she couldn't make me sign her papers—nobody could. And without my agreement, no one could adopt my baby. I had given birth to him, and he was mine, according to both natural justice and the law. At least he was more mine than anyone else's, besides Chelsea Mott, and it wasn't Ms. Mott who was trying to take him away from me.

Carmen saw Judge Arnold Jason and his wife conferring with the lawyer on the very steps of the hospital. That was the deciding moment for her. Up until then, I think she'd thought I was paranoid about Judge Jason, and that it was my "criminal mind-set" keeping me from accepting the fairness of the punishment he'd disinterestedly inflicted.

But if he wanted the baby I carried, how disinterested could he be?

Most women go home with their babies within twenty-four hours of giving birth, if there are no complications. In my case, the hospital wasn't willing to let my baby go. I knew there must be pressure on them from behind the scenes, because there was absolutely nothing wrong with him. They were eager enough for me to get out; but I wouldn't let them separate me from my baby. I could see perfectly well that possession, which had worked in my favor until now, could be made to work for someone else.

These early days were crucial, especially if the adoptive parents wanted their name on the birth certificate.

I toyed with the lawyer, who was eager to believe I could be bought. When I told her that I wanted to meet the potential adoptive parents first, before I made up my mind, we both knew her protest was just for show.

He wouldn't come, and she didn't want me to know her name. But I knew. Mrs.-Judge was not a publicity hound, but there were photos of her to be found on the web, anyway: on her husband's arm at a charity ball, or snapped, face bleached and startled by the flashbulb, in a restaurant. In life, she looked older than I'd expected, maybe because her husband looked so young.

"Did you want to ask me questions?" she asked, getting straight down to business as she came in. "We'll give the baby a good home, a wonderful life, so much love.…" she darted a longing glance at my little baby—still unnamed, except in my head—in his clear plastic hospital bed.

"Why do you want this baby?" I asked.

She looked startled by my question, but her halting reply seemed utterly innocent. This was the baby they'd been told they could have, that was all. And they'd been waiting for months, ever since they'd been told.… It was just too hard to be let down now.

"So there's nothing special about my baby?"

"Well, all babies are special." She stared at him so hungrily.… Did she know or not? I couldn't tell.

"Get yourself another baby, then," I said. When she looked at me I went on, "You don't have to wait for some poor sucker like me to mess up. I'm sure you've got plenty of money. Go hire somebody to carry one of the unborn for you. Plenty of women would do it if the price was right. Draw up a contract right at the start, everything spelled out, nice and legal, with most of the money to come on delivery, and then you won't get let down."

Her expression changed. "Oh, I see."

"What do you see?"

"The dollar signs in your eyes. Don't you know that buying and selling babies is illegal?"

I almost laughed. "Yeah, right. But forcing somebody to have a baby and then taking it away from her is perfectly okay. Just as long as you've got the law on your side." I shook my head. "It's a false economy, Mrs. Jason. You and your husband should have hired a surrogate mother, instead of trying to get it for free."

She backed away from me, towards the door. "It's a lost cause, trying to help people like you," she said, icily furious. "We would have given that little boy a good home, and you could have gotten on with your life. But you had to ruin it for everyone. Well, enjoy your motherhood."

"I won't blame you if I don't," I promised her.

Twenty minutes later, my baby and I were home.

If simple adoption had been their aim, they should have looked elsewhere. Taken my advice and hired a surrogate, or just waited until another newborn needed the home they could provide. I don't know if his wife knew the truth or not, but the Judge wanted his own son, and he wouldn't accept that his clever plan had failed.

I don't deny what I did. I know I have to take responsibility for that.

All the same, it wouldn't have happened if Judge Arnold Jason had just let us go. Had let me win. Hadn't been so determined to claim ownership of the child he'd forced me to bear.

A strange shadow-dance began. He sent his representatives to meet with me—meetings which he could later claim had never happened. We had unofficial discussions about hypothetical funding for work which I might do. To buy a human being is against the law. But gifts are not illegal, nor are loans. I could start my own business. Money need not be a problem, but it would be difficult for a single mother to devote enough time to this job or that.… If I felt I would be better off without this child—which, after all, was not really biologically or genetically mine—a good home could be found for it.

I never intended to say yes. But I didn't say no. Out of perversity or curiosity, I let them continue. Finally, when pushed to make a decision, to name my price (as it were), I said that I would need to meet with my child's father face to face. Alone, on my own ground. I would hand him over personally, or not at all.

What sort of vanity made him agree, I wonder?

The same, I suppose, which had driven him all along, making him think he was so much better than me, that he could use me, and ruin my life, and profit by it.

He came to my apartment for dinner.

I had the big pot simmering on the stove when he arrived. A rich, spicy, meaty aroma filled the air. Music was playing from the classical station—some opera; a wronged woman warbling away in the background. I poured him a glass of wine, red as blood.

Although he'd arrived looking wary, expecting hostility, he soon relaxed under the influence of the wine, the atmosphere, my own, slightly hectic, sexiness. My breasts were much bigger than they'd been when he saw me in court, and I was wearing an abreviated top to show them off. He found it easier to look at them than at my face. The baby was nowhere to be seen or heard, but he never asked.

"Dinner's ready," I said, and sat him down at the table. I leaned over him—giving him a good look—and ladled the ragout into his bowl.

"What is it?" he asked, frowning down at the little bones, the odd-shaped chunks of meat floating in the thick red sauce with tiny onions, potatoes and carrots.

"My own recipe," I told him. "Try it!" I pressed my breasts against his back before moving away. "Tell me what you think."

He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, and nodded as he swallowed. "It's good!"

"I'm glad you like it." I leaned against the wall and watched him.

He paused, mid-chew, to give me a puzzled look. "Aren't you eating?"

"Oh, in a minute. I want to finish my wine."

"Well, you'd better hurry up, before I eat it all!" When he grinned, I could see a piece of meat stuck between his front teeth. It made me feel quite ill.

"What's wrong?" He made as if to get up from the table.

"Nothing. I forgot the bread." I hurried over to the oven and took out the rolls I'd been warming, put them in a basket and brought them to the table. By then, I was able to smile again.

"Sit down, you're making me nervous, hanging around like a servant or something."

"Isn't that what I am to you?"

Something of my true feeling must have cut through his self-absorption. He spoke carefully. "No, not at all."

"I've done you a service—but of course, I've never been paid for it," I pointed out.

His eyes cut around the room at the mention of payment. I knew he would be thinking the place was bugged, that I'd brought him here to trap him, convict him out of his own mouth.

"Oh, never mind," I said, and sat down.

"Have some of this … what is it, exactly?" He gestured at the pot in the center of the table.

"Ragout," I said. "A fancy word for stew."

From the radio, the singers were reaching some sort of climax.

"You're not eating?" Now, too late, he was suspicious.

I smiled and shook my head. "I'm on a diet. Have to lose some of that weight I gained while I was pregnant, or no man will ever want me."

He pushed his plate roughly aside. "What is this? If you've poisoned me, I'll—"

"Don't be ridiculous."

But the fear had infected him; the wrongness of this whole setup had finally penetrated. He stood up. "I'll put you away forever, I swear! Where's my son? I'm taking him now."

I began to laugh. It wasn't funny, but I couldn't help myself. And once I'd started, I couldn't stop.

His eyes got bigger as he stared at me. He took a step towards me, and I thought he was going to hit me. But he didn't.

Instead, he charged away, shouting, "Where is he? Where's my son?"

I heard him in the bedroom, knocking over things. He broke a lamp.

It was a small apartment, with few hiding places. It didn't take him long to figure out that the baby wasn't there. He came back into the living room then, glaring at me.

"What have you done with him?"

I didn't say anything. I just looked at the stewpot, laughter still welling up, painful now, like hiccoughs.

He turned pale. He made a sort of grunting noise and swayed on his feet. For a minute I thought he would faint. He closed his eyes and shook his head, and then—

Carmen tells me I'm lucky he didn't kill me, knock me out, strangle me—he could have, so easily, and I had no kind of weapon to stop him. But he didn't. I think he was too horrified by what he thought he'd done to think of anything else.

He ran for the door, desperate to escape. I could hear him retching as he hurried away.

As soon as he was gone, I grabbed my coat and the bag I'd packed earlier, and headed for the airport. Carmen was waiting for me there with the baby, who was getting fractious, ready for his feed. We caught our plane with minutes to spare, my breasts leaking milk.

"Closure," I told Carmen as we buckled up. "I did the crime, I served the time, and I got my revenge—and my reward." Looking down at the little one on my breast, it was hard to imagine that I—or anyone—could ever have thought of him as a punishment. I felt like the hero with the golden fleece or something.

I still don't know what character I was playing at dinner with the Judge, what story we were acting out, but it must be a famous one, since he recognized it. I almost wish I'd asked him.