I didn‘t intend just to wait for ODJFS’ reply. I searched the Internet again and found it. A hotline telephone number: 888-313-3100. Well, that wasn’t too painful. I would call tomorrow from work. Meanwhile I researched the case law.
The landmark precedent for the statutes was Lehr v. Robertson (1983), 463 U.S. 248. In Lehr, the pregnant, unwed mother left the putative father and married another man who, two years later, adopted the child. The biological father had known about the pregnancy, but never got notice of the adoption. He also did not know about New York’s putative father registry. The U.S. Supreme Court held that the biological father had not needed notice of the adoption because biology offered a father an exclusive opportunity to develop a relationship with his offspring, and that a registry allowed the biological father to grasp that opportunity. Lehr, at 262. Otherwise, the constitution did not require giving notice to a father who could have protected his own interest. Lehr, at 262.
The theory struck me as odd. Not wrong, just one-sided. Were children just opportunities for their father’s to grasp? Didn’t a child have a right to his father’s input if timely obtainable? In any case, what had befallen Jonathan Lehr would not befall me. I was ready to grasp my opportunity.
At work the next morning I realized I had not brought the phone number with me. I tried information again.
“What city please?”
“Columbus.”
“What listing?”
“The Office of the Ohio Putative Father Registry.”
“The what?”
“Putative father registry. P-U-T-A-T-I-V-E.”
“Here’s your number, sir.” A machine voice: “...Area Code 6-1-4-4-6-6-9-2-7-4.“
Son of a gun, it was listed. What magical buzzword had I not used last time that had worked this time? I dialed the number. A woman answered.
“Ohio Putative Father Registry.”
“Yes, I need a registration form.”
“Are you representing the mother or the father?”
“The father.”
She offered to mail the form to me, but when I realized the office was downtown, as I was, I told her I would pick it up.
Arriving there, I found the facility was only five blocks from my apartment. I entered the building, marked by no sign, and approached the front desk, at which a guard was stationed.
“May I help you?” the guard asked.
“Yes, I’m looking for the putative father registry”
“The what?”
“Putative father registry.”
“I think you have the wrong place, sir.”
“Are you sure? I called their office and they gave me this address.”
“What is it you’re looking for again?”
“The putative father registry. P-U-T-A-T-I-V-E.”
He called upstairs. “Yes, someone’s here looking for the punitive father registry.” A pause. “Okay, I’ll tell him.” The guard hung up. “Yes, sir, it’s on the third floor. Now when you come out of the elevator...” He proceeded to give me directions that were impossible to follow without having the building‘s original floor plan.
The elevator doors opened on the third floor and I found myself looking at a long blank wall. Both directions led to large, open office areas with makeshift work cubicles. I went left and saw a sign, “adoptions.” I proceeded into the large office area, figuring soon to see a sign for the “Putative Father Registry.” No such luck. I realized the reason for some of the confusion I had encountered. The registry, and whatever “department” it fell under, had recently moved here. I approached the only person I saw, a man working at a larger table in front.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for the Putative Father Registry Office.”
“Hmm,” he drawled, “yes--that’s across the hall, on the other side of this floor. Go back past the elevators and you’ll see a front desk. Ask the person at the desk for ‘G_____.’”
I found the front desk easily. But no G_____, or anyone else. I waited. It wasn’t lunchtime, so someone should be back soon. But for ten minutes, no one came, though workers occasionally scurried by, too busy apparently to ask if I needed assistance. After five more minutes I decided to look for the person or office myself and ventured gingerly through the maze of office dividers. I heard a sound and peeked around a barrier. The woman at the desk looked busy.
“Excuse me,” I said, “can you direct me to the Putative Father Registry?”
“Yes, you need to speak to Ms. F_____. Follow me.” She led me deeper into the maze of offices until we came to a cubicle where three women were standing and chatting. “Ms. F_____, this man’s looking for the Putative Father Registry.”
Ms. F_____ smiled at me. “Yes, what’s your name?” I hesitated. Didn’t every putative father have a right to the registration form without giving his name? Well, in truth, I felt slightly embarrassed. I could only imagine a seventeen-year-old in this situation.
“I’m Erik Smith.”
