Lawyer for the Cat, page 11
I’m about to launch into my speech about prenuptial agreements—what they can do, what they can’t do—when I realize I have a way out. “Rick, I’m not comfortable advising you on this. I have a conflict of interest.”
“But it’s not like Gina’s your client.”
“She’s my secretary, and she’s my friend.”
“Maybe you could just answer a few questions, and then I could draft the thing myself, save some money.”
“If you want to talk about a prenup, you’ll have to see another lawyer. I can give you some names.”
“Jeez,” he says, pouting, “I didn’t realize I’d be losing my lawyer. It’s not like Gina and I are fighting about anything.”
“But I can’t do anything that might potentially hurt her,” I say.
“She’s big girl,” he says. “I doubt if she’d have any problem with a prenup.”
“You haven’t discussed it with her?”
“Like I said, I wanted to talk to you first.”
I scribble three names on a piece of paper. “These are all good lawyers, but if I were you I wouldn’t wait too long to talk to Gina.”
“But it wouldn’t be fair for her to end up with any of the money I inherited, right?”
“Rick, you’re not listening. I can’t advise you on this.”
“At least promise me you won’t say anything to Gina before I—”
“I won’t, because you’re going to tell her very soon. I won’t let her sign anything without having someone review it.”
“I guess that someone would be you,” he says.
“Probably not.”
“Because I just want this to be simple. I’m not trying to deny her something that’s rightfully hers.”
“No, I’m sure you wouldn’t.” I say this firmly. I give him a look that says, If you do anything to hurt Gina, I’ll hire a posse of lawyers to come after you.
“What was that all about?” asks Gina when he’s gone.
“He had some questions about the Order of Dismissal.”
“He’s just nervous,” she says. “I keep telling him, what’s to worry about? As long as we love each other, we’ll be fine. What … you think I’m being naive, don’t you?”
“I think you’re in love.”
“Mind if I leave now?” she asks. “It’s almost five.”
“Sure. I just need to make one call and then I’m done.”
“He’s so sweet I can hardly believe it,” she says. “I know it sounds dumb, but I’ve never had a man give me things the way Rick does. Little presents all the time. Wait a minute, I’ll show you something.” When she comes back she’s wearing a new suede jacket and carrying a huge red purse, the kind that shouts “Expensive!” She smiles. “I could get used to this.”
* * *
Tony’s still busy at the clinic. Maureen, his receptionist, insists on interrupting him despite my protests.
“It’s not an emergency,” I explain.
“But he said if you call, he wants to talk to you.”
I hold, listening to fuzzy Muzak. When he picks up the phone he sounds tense, hurried. “What’s up?”
“I just wanted to check on Beatrice.”
“She’s fine.”
“Getting along okay with the dogs?”
“She’s fine with the dogs, but I’m keeping her in the bedroom when I’m not there. She likes that big chair by the bed.”
“If you were on the list, I’d let you keep her.”
“What list?”
“Lila Mackay’s list, remember?”
“Right.”
“I know I told you I’d come back out there tonight,” I say, “but I forgot about the condo Christmas party. I promised my mother I’d take her.”
“Okay,” he says, in a voice that doesn’t sound okay.
“Maybe tomorrow night, if Shenille can stay with Mom.”
“Whenever you can work me in,” he says.
“Tony, I’m doing the best I can.” There’s a too-long silence. “You sure everything’s okay?”
“I had a break-in yesterday.”
“At the clinic?”
“No, the house.”
“How could you have a break-in? You never lock the doors.”
“Somebody left a note inside, on the kitchen counter. Wait a minute, I’ve got it in my pocket.… Here it is.” He reads it to me.
What’s a sensible man like you doing with a woman who won’t listen to reason? Maybe you should talk some sense into your girlfriend before she does something she’ll regret.
“Anything stolen?”
“That’s the weird thing—nothing.”
“Remember the other night, when I saw the car drive away?” Then I tell him about the note on the windshield.
“You should have said something.”
“I think it’s Randall Mackay. I’m surprised the dogs didn’t tear him apart.”
“My girls make a lot of noise, but they’re all bark and no bite. This guy sounds like a lunatic. I’m going to call the sheriff.”
“He’s just trying to intimidate me.”
“So I’m supposed to ignore somebody coming into my house?”
“The sheriff isn’t going to do anything except take an incident report. Nothing’s missing.”
“Isn’t an incident report good to have?” he asks. “In case something else—”
“You can call, but it’s probably a waste of time. If it’s Randall, he’s just trying to get to me through you. It’s a mind game.”
“I don’t like this kind of mind game. And what if he’s really after you. I mean, what if he—”
“I think he’s just trying to intimidate me into settling.”
“Maybe he’s after the cat. I could bring her here to the clinic during the day, but she won’t be very happy in the back there with a bunch of other animals.”
“If he wanted to hurt the cat, he’s already had his chance. That’s why I think he’s just trying to intimidate me.… Best thing to do is lock the doors, leave the TV on when you’re at work, the porch light on, a couple of lights inside. And maybe you could borrow an extra car? It would be good if you could leave one outside, so it looks like somebody’s home.… Okay, I’ve got to get home, but I’ll try to make it out there tomorrow night.”
“Whenever you can work me in.”
“I wish you’d stop that.”
“I wish a lot of things, but let’s not get into it.”
“You’re being petulant, but I love you anyway.”
“I’m glad you can stay so calm about all this, because it makes me really nervous.… Anyway, see you tomorrow, if you can make it,” he says.
What he doesn’t know is that I’m struggling not to panic, trying to tell myself that this really is a mind game and nothing more. But I haven’t forgotten what my ex-husband said: His first wife divorced him on physical cruelty. The second one disappeared.
* * *
Mom’s sitting on the sofa in the living room, her back erect, shoulders raised as if she’s trying to lift her sagging bosom. The little sequined purse she holds in her lap matches the short black dress, which is several sizes too small.
“We’re going to be late!” she says.
“You just hold your horses,” says Delores. “That party ain’t going nowhere without you.”
My mother looks me over. “It’s the cocktail hour, you know. If you don’t want to stand out like a sore thumb, you should change into something nicer.”
“She looks plenty nice,” says Delores. “Just a little tired around the eyes.” But I know better than to argue with my mother. I change into a black dress—nothing revealing or sparkly like Mom’s—add a string of pearls, brush my hair. The woman in the mirror looks back at me, trying her best to appear upbeat, but the shadows under her eyes betray her. I find some concealer in a bag of seldom-used makeup, lean in close to the mirror, dab it on. “Maybe some mascara, too, and some blusher,” I say out loud.
“Why don’t you come, too?” I ask Delores when I’m ready.
“Thanks anyway,” she says. “I can’t compete with you ladies. Besides”—she winks—“white people’s parties are boring. Nothing but a lot of standing around talking.”
The minute Mom and I step into the party room, it’s clear that Delores was wrong. The place is packed, the music—the Rolling Stones—vibrating the dance floor, the disco lights swirling on the ceiling. Mom shouts in my ear, “I don’t think this is our kind of party.” There’s a big Christmas tree in the corner, its white lights flashing in time to the music.
“We’ll have one drink and go,” I shout back to Mom. “You sit here while I get you something.”
While I stand in line at the bar I check on her a couple of times. She’s put on her social smile, that lips-closed smile that means she’s politely enduring a miserable situation. “Two white wines, please,” I say to the bartender. Why not let Mom have a little fun?
But when I turn around with the drinks in my hands, she’s gone. “I’m so glad to see you,” says Mrs. Furley. I recognize some other faces in this crowd—we ride the elevator up and down together, wave to each other in the parking lot—but hers is the only name I can muster.
“Have you seen my mother? She was right here—” Mom’s purse is on the chair.
“No,” she says. “But … oh, there she is! Look at her.… My goodness, isn’t she a marvelous dancer!” In the middle of the dance floor my mother is wiggling her hips, bending toward her partner—he’s white-headed, about Mom’s age, and he seems quite entranced with her breasts. “If I had a figure like that,” says Mrs. Furley, “I’d dance, too.”
All I can do is watch. I drink my glass of wine and when the music changes to a slow dance—“Moon River,” he’s holding her very close—I finish off the second.
“Who’s that man?” I ask Mrs. Furley.
“Edward Sand, or something like that.”
“Who?” I can barely hear.
“Edward Sand, or maybe it’s Shand. From Columbia. Nice man. He’s the one I was telling you about. His wife passed away a year ago, and he decided he needed a change. We have a lot of ex-Columbians here, you know. He bought the penthouse apartment, so he must be fairly well off.… Honey, you look like you need to sit down … you must be working too hard.”
I’ve never seen my mother look happier. She glides in his arms, her feet remembering dance steps from long ago.
The Whole Truth
Of course Natalie Carter isn’t the first client who’s lied to me—far from it—but the older I get, the more I resent being fooled. It’s not as if I don’t give all my clients fair warning. At our first conference I always repeat the advice Gordon Houck gave me when I was just starting out as a public defender. He was the most respected lawyer in Charleston, a fellow who’d earned his reputation as a tenacious trial lawyer, working his way up in the bar without benefit of family connections. By the time I met him—he was in his seventies then—he took only a few cases, the ones he found interesting or challenging, and left the ordinary work to his son and the rest of the young lawyers in his firm. But he was a font of wisdom for neophytes like me and welcomed us to his office when we were in trouble, when we found ourselves in an ethical quandary, or hopelessly confused about an evidentiary issue. He’d invite us into his library, offer a cup of coffee, tell a few jokes to settle us down, and then ask for a summary of the facts of the case.
He’d digest this information, maybe ask a few questions, then he’d reach up and pull down a volume of cases, Southeastern 2nd, turn to the exact page of the case he knew would help—he had a photographic memory. But he balanced his mastery of the law with common sense. Once I came to him, distressed that I’d planned my whole defense around a theory that depended entirely on my client’s version of events. Everything the client had told me was true; it’s just that he hadn’t told me everything, and I’d just discovered this mid-trial.
“Next time,” said Houck, “when you meet with your client the first time, before you ask him a single question, you look him in the eye and say this: For everything you tell me, I’m your lawyer. And for everything you don’t tell me, I’m not your lawyer. Ask him to repeat it back to you. Ask him if he understands it.”
Gordon Houck couldn’t save me from losing that case, but he helped me prepare for the inevitable sentencing. He’d gone to law school with the judge. “Ignore that gruff exterior—inside he’s as soft as a baby. Your client grew up in foster homes, right? So did Judge Wilcox. Not many people know that. You have to convince him that this kid deserves a chance. It’s his first offense, right? He’s nineteen. I think if you do this right you can get him a Youthful Offender sentence … probably not probation because he’s going to pay a price for going to trial … but you never know, you might hit Bill on a good day. Whatever happens, you get up, dust yourself off, get back in the saddle again. Believe me, I’ve landed on my ass plenty of times. Got plenty of bruises to show for it. You got to remember you’re a lawyer—and a good one, from what I hear—but you’re not a miracle worker.”
Now, as I sit in my office with Natalie Carter, I try to remember that. “We have a problem,” I begin. “Why don’t you tell me again about your relationship with Derwood’s law partner.”
She shrugs, brushes a stray hair away from her forehead. “I’ve already told you about that.”
“But you didn’t tell me the whole story.”
“Ken and I had a little fling, when I was still doing secretarial work for Derwood. Is he still making a big deal about that? We lived together for fifteen years afterward.”
“Derwood has a letter from Ken, one of those AA confessionals—you know, where they apologize to all the people they’ve hurt. Ken says he’s slept with you recently. Is that true?”
She bites her lower lip. “He promised me he wouldn’t say anything.”
“Apparently he had a change of heart.”
“If Derwood can screw around with his court reporter, why can’t I have some fun myself?”
“You can, but you won’t get any alimony.”
“It’s not fair.”
“No, it isn’t, but it’s the law in South Carolina. So, I want you to tell me again about your relationship with Ken.”
“Derwood intimidated you, didn’t he?”
“He caught me off guard, because you didn’t tell me the whole story.”
“It was just once, a couple of months ago. I swear, I think Derwood put him up to it.” She starts to cry. “I guess I’ll lose everything now.”
“Not everything. You’ll still have your share of the marital property.”
“So, you won’t give up on me?”
“Of course not. But from now on you have to tell me the truth. Remember what I told you when we met the first time? For everything you tell me, I’m your lawyer. And for everything you don’t tell me…”
* * *
I return some phone calls, put some finishing touches on a trial brief, and squeeze in a quick lunch at the coffee shop next door before my next appointment: Tina White, the mother who failed to show up in court for the DSS hearing. She looks even worse than she did the first time we met, so thin her bones seem to shine through her skin, her eyes dull with fatigue.
“Since they took my baby, I can’t sleep. Can’t eat neither.”
“Have you eaten anything today?”
“No, ma’am. I got a ride here with a friend, had to leave early.” The town where she lives, McClellanville, is at the northernmost reach of the county. “I been sittin’ in the park over there across the street, till it was time to see you.”
“I have some breakfast bars, some apple juice.”
“That would be okay, I guess.”
I can’t save her from her sad life, but I can feed her. I can give her fifty dollars so she can take the bus into Charleston for her parenting class, her appointment with the pediatrician, her weekly visitation with the baby. And when we’re finished I can accept her hug, hold her for a minute while she sobs, pat her on the back and say, “You’ll get him back, Tina,” though I’m not at all sure about that.
* * *
By the time I turn off the paved highway onto the dirt road to Tony’s house, it’s dark. I haven’t told him for sure that I’m coming—I want to surprise him—but as a rabbit darts in front of the car and I brake too hard, it occurs to me that if I veered off this road into the marsh no one would miss me until morning. I turn on the radio, not paying attention to the news, just taking comfort in the voices. Okay, okay, I say to myself. You’re almost there.
When I pull in front of the house there’s an unfamiliar car beside his truck. The door’s unlocked, no lights on in the living room or kitchen. “Tony?” The dogs bound toward me, barking: Susie and Sheba’s contrapuntal duet, Carmen’s nose-in-the air accompaniment. “Hush, girls. It’s just me. Where’s Tony?” I flick on the hall light. “Tony?” There’s a sound: a slow wheeze, a thwack. The door to the back porch.
“Shit!” he says as we collide in the darkness.
“Where did you come from?”
“I could ask the same thing,” he says.
“I told you I’d try to get here.”
“I just assumed you wouldn’t make it,” he says.
“What were you doing outside?”
“I thought I heard something.”
“So you go walking around in the dark?”
“I have a flashlight.” He turns it on. “See?”
“Whose car is that?”
“Belongs to my old girlfriend.”
“So I guess you’re busy.”
He laughs. “You think there’s another woman here? Sit,” he says, pointing to the table. “You eaten yet?”
I shake my head. “I’m not hungry.”
“I have some leftover eggplant parmesan—don’t worry, I didn’t make it.”
“Where’s the cat?”
“On the chair in the bedroom. Seems to be her favorite spot.”
“So, who’s the old girlfriend?”
“Oh, come on.”
“I didn’t realize you had any ex-girlfriends around here.”
“So I guess you’re the only one who’s allowed to have a past love life?” He’s turns his back to me, opens the refrigerator. “I can make a salad, too.…”
