Today, Lisa Robinson takes care of Lauren while her son Tyrone manages his business. The same court system that took away all five of her natural children has, in effect, handed the 42-year-old woman a granddaughter without so much as a cursory background check.
Lisa Robinson freely contradicts parts of her son's story. By her account, she took care of Lauren on weekdays while she was young and her son was in jail, but Zackery always took her on weekends. She thinks Zackery is a devoted mother.
Tyrone Robinson didn't tell the judge about his criminal
past.
Courtesy of Brandy Zachery
Brandy Zachery (shown with Chyna and Lauren) was
stunned at the ruling that took Lauren away.
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She admits that she's not even sure Robinson is Lauren's father. She has urged him to take a paternity test, something Caldwell and Zackery requested in their bill of review. But her son wouldn't listen: "I think he's scared of knowing the truth."
In her view, Judge Motheral overreacted badly. Zackery might benefit from parenting classes, she says, nothing more. "I've said to Tyrone, 'Do you remember how you felt when they took you away from me? Think about how Lauren feels.' "
She says she's not taking sides. But she loves her son, and she's proud that he takes such interest in his daughter. "It's not too many young black men who set out to do for their child. You see so many walking away."
He was angry at Zackery for leaving Houston, she says. "I think he brought that lawsuit in part to show her how it feels to have her baby taken away. And part because he loves that child."
The court battle depresses her: "If I could get those kids to grow up and quit bickering over her, I'd be the happiest person in the world."
In June, Caldwell and Zackery visited Robinson's parole officer. They pointed out his drug conviction, of which the officer claimed to be unaware. (The officer said he couldn't discuss the case with the Press.) They also claimed that Robinson was behind in making payments on his court-ordered fine.
Later that week, Robinson brought Lauren to Zackery's house. He said he wanted to work something out. Since then, Zackery has gotten to see her daughter -- and even though it's always on Robinson's timing, she's grateful.
But Caldwell won't drop the case. "An injustice has been done," he says. "And I plan on doing anything I can do to rectify that injustice."
He admits it won't be easy. "Somebody may need to be hit on the back of the head with a two-by-four to see that something's done about it -- but I don't intend to rest until someone does." For Caldwell, Zackery's getting to see her child is not enough: "I think he lied under oath, and I want to see his ass locked up in jail."
Police and prosecutors have been reluctant to act. HPD spokesman John Cannon told the Press that the police would be unlikely to get involved in a civil case. "It's her word against his," he said.
After several conversations, that position changed. A homicide investigator -- strangely enough, that is the HPD division assigned to perjury cases -- contacted Zackery in July, and Caldwell provided the officer with transcripts.
The police apparently referred the matter to Assistant District Attorney Bill Moore. He wrote Caldwell that he found insufficient evidence. He, too, seemed to believe that the only evidence against Robinson was Zackery's testimony. And, he noted, she'd once done 20 days in jail for theft; she was hardly a credible witness.
Caldwell submitted a more detailed analysis with eight instances where he thought Robinson had lied, and he pointed to public documents that contradicted Robinson. Moore responded with a one-page letter that dealt with just two of the allegations. He found the record muddled on both, and he refused to take the case to a grand jury. Caldwell fired off a response on August 17 but has heard nothing more from the prosecutor.
Robinson, sitting in Teal's office later in the summer, professes not to worry. He knows he didn't do anything wrong. Anyway, he's already called the Texas Attorney General's Office about forcing Zackery to pay the child support. "The money isn't a big thing," he says. It's the principle.
He can't seem to understand that there might be other principles involved. He's convinced that his story is true and his victory is already in the bag. To him, little old Bobby Caldwell is a joke. "Anytime he's at the courthouse, my friends there call me," Robinson says. "They say, 'He's here again!' " He rolls his eyes.
Robinson doesn't understand why Caldwell would fight so hard. He doesn't understand that the lawyer, too, sees a bigger principle at stake. He sits back in his chair, shaking his head. "He's really taken this case personally, hasn't he?" he says.
And then he laughs.
