Lawyer for the Cat, page 17
“He just wants to use Beatrice as a bargaining chip.”
“As usual, you sound pretty sure of yourself. But let’s review the case, Ms. Baynard. One: Randall abuses his first wife. Two: His second wife mysteriously disappears. Three, he steals money from his mother. Four: He’s furious because you’re taking his mother’s wishes seriously, doing your best to enforce the trust. Then he sneaks out to your boyfriend’s house in the middle of the night and leaves a threatening note on your windshield.”
“I can’t prove he did that, not without a handwriting expert.”
“You really are in denial, aren’t you? And now some guy who just happens to fit the description of Randall Mackay shows up at the vet’s office, flashes some piece of paper in front of the receptionist, and runs off with the cat—the very same cat who’s the beneficiary of a multimillion dollar estate and a plantation, the plantation Randall thinks he’s entitled to, which under the terms of the trust, he can’t have until the cat dies. You know anyone else who has a motive to off the cat?”
“He’s holding her ransom so he can make a deal. He threatened to challenge his mother’s competency unless we could reach an agreement that he can have the plantation now.”
“But the old lady wanted the cat to live there. So how would that work?”
“Mrs. Mackay named three people as potential caregivers. One of them lives on Edisto. She loves the cat, and the cat seems comfortable with her, but she doesn’t want to live in that big house. Randall knows her, and he agrees that she’d make a fine caregiver, but he says, why not let the cat live with Gail in her trailer? It’s not so unreasonable. A cat doesn’t need a plantation.”
“Except that’s not what Mrs. Mackay specified in the trust, and you have a duty to carry out the testator’s wishes, if possible,” Joe says.
“But it seems to me that the most important thing is Beatrice’s welfare. She’ll be perfectly fine living in a trailer, as long as she’s loved and cared for,” I say, trying to convince myself. “I’ve interviewed the other two candidates. The nephew won’t leave New York. The librarian would be willing to move to Edisto, but she’s married, and I don’t trust her husband.”
“This might be a purely theoretical discussion if the cat’s already gone to feline heaven. Anyway, it’s a nice drive. How’s your mother, by the way?”
“She’s got a boyfriend. An old friend from Columbia who just happened to move into the building.”
“I hope you didn’t leave them unchaperoned.” He laughs.
“I called the weekend sitter.”
“It’s nice that she’s got some love in her life,” he says.
“She could get hurt. I don’t think this guy has any idea what he’s gotten himself into.”
* * *
Randall Mackay’s house is one of the original oceanfront places, two stories with a cupola at the top, wraparound porches. It’s been updated, probably added onto over the years. There’s some expensive landscaping on the street side: palm trees, a fountain.
“You stay here,” says Joe. I watch him go up the steps and open the screen door. Then I lose sight of him.
This was a bad idea, I think. If he’s not back in five minutes I’m going to call 911.
But he doesn’t take that long. When he comes back, he shakes his head. “Nobody home. I nosed around the garage just to make sure. No cars in there. Guess you’ll have to wait until Monday, see if you can get the assistant probate judge to authorize an all-points bulletin.”
“I feel like I’ve really let her down.”
“Let who down?”
“The cat. I should never have left her at Tony’s.”
I can see him flinch at the sound of the name. “Let’s not get into that, okay? While we’re out here, we might as well have some lunch. I hear the marina restaurant’s pretty good.”
“But what about Carmen?” The beagle, who’s been sleeping, lifts her ears. “I can’t leave her in the car.”
“We can pick up something on the way back, then.”
“I’m really sorry you had to drive all the way out here for nothing,” I say.
“I wanted to talk to you anyway, about the Circuit Court judgeship,” he says. “I need your help.”
“Joe, you know I’m no good at politics.”
“If I want this, I’ll have to fight for it.”
“You sound like you’re not so sure.”
“I have to do it, otherwise I’m just sitting around in the Family Court until I retire. And Susan insists. It’s the next step.”
“Joe!” I’m yelling, and Carmen’s barking. “This is your life we’re talking about!”
“Shut that dog up, would you?”
“Come on,” I say to Carmen, and coax her through the space between the seats and onto my lap. “You could always go back to practicing law.”
“I don’t have what it takes anymore.”
“My point is, you don’t decide you want a circuit judgeship because you’re just putting one foot in front of the other.” As I say this, I’m suddenly thrown back to our old arguments. I’d criticize the way he seemed to follow the path his father and his grandfather had chosen for him; he’d defend his choices.
“I’m not asking for a lecture,” he says. “I just want to make sure, if I go for this judgeship, that you won’t say anything that would hurt me.”
“Of course I won’t.”
“It’s just that with the divorce, there might be some questions.”
“You certainly won’t be the first judicial candidate who’s divorced. And you aren’t a drunkard, a drug abuser, or a wife-beater.”
“That’s not exactly an enthusiastic endorsement,” he says.
“If anyone asks, which they won’t, I’ll say we were just too young, we were incompatible, and it was my decision to leave. That’s the truth, isn’t it? And of course nobody’s going to question your qualifications.”
“The word is, Cynthia Halleck is interested.”
“She’s too young, don’t you think?”
“Maybe, but she’s been practicing in Circuit Court for ten years, and meanwhile I’ve been stuck in the Family Court.”
“But you’ve got judicial experience.”
“Wayne Murrell’s pushing her. All of a sudden he’s a feminist. And he’s got his coterie of plaintiff’s lawyers up there in the legislature.”
“You’ve got plenty of connections yourself, Joe.”
“That’s why I was hoping you could help me line up some support among the women lawyers before Cynthia has them all in her corner.”
“I don’t know, Joe.” Now it’s clear to me why he was so accommodating about driving me to Edisto. “I’ll have to think about it. I’ve never gotten involved in a judicial race.”
“It was actually Susan’s idea. Maybe she thinks you owe it to her.”
I can feel the blood surging to my cheeks. “I haven’t done anything to Susan.”
“I know that, but she doesn’t.” We’re quiet the rest of the way back to the city. Just before he drops me off in front of my building, he touches the top of my hand. “So, you’ll let me know soon? Don’t let that dog get away from you, okay? It might ruin your reputation!”
He’s trying to be funny, but I’d like to slap him.
A Spot of Blood
“You look like hell,” says Gina on Monday morning. She’s brought the mail and a cup of coffee for me, which is always her invitation to talk. The beagle comes out from under my desk to greet her. “Who’s this?”
“Carmen.”
“Oh, this the one from Dr. Borden? You going to keep her?” I nod. “She’s a cutie. So, guess she must have kept you awake last night?”
“I can’t blame it on her. I had a terrible weekend.” I tell her about the missing cat, Judge Clarkson, the trip out to Edisto Beach.
“You sure he’s got her? Randall, I mean.”
“Pretty sure.”
“My weekend wasn’t so great, either. But we don’t have to talk about it now.” I can see she’s on the verge of tears. Before I know it, we’re sitting together on my sofa and I’m handing her a tissue. “I broke things off with Rick.” The tears I’ve been holding back come pouring out. We cry until Carmen begins to howl in sympathy, and then we laugh.
“He was pretty mad,” she says between sobs, “but I just didn’t feel good about the way things were going. And he was actually getting jealous of Mandy.”
“Ellen’s Mandy?”
“She’s a great kid. I’ve been talking to her about how she can make it work—you know, with the baby.”
“She likes you a lot.”
“I just don’t want to see her give up the college thing, like I did. She could go part-time.”
“Maybe.”
“I’ve got an extra bedroom at my place.”
“That’s a lot for you to take on, Gina.”
“Hey, you didn’t ask my permission when you got a new roommate!” She pats Carmen’s head.
When we’ve stopped crying, she points to the stack of mail on my desk. “There’s one I didn’t open, because it’s marked Personal and Confidential.”
There’s no return address. I slide my index finger under the flap, feel a sting when I rip it open too fast, and before I know it there’s a spot of blood on the letter. “Ouch!” I say. The beagle whimpers.
“You should use the letter opener,” says Gina.
The letter’s typed, undated:
My Dear Trust Enforcer,
You’re aren’t taking very good care of me, are you?
Surely Gail could do a better job. Let’s settle this case.
Trusting in your better judgment,
Beatrice
My hands are shaking.
“It’s Randall, isn’t it?” Gina says. “What are we going to do?”
“Let’s play his game. Call him—his number’s in the file—and tell him I received his letter and would like to talk to him. If he asks any questions, just say you don’t know anything more. And take notes, in case you have to testify later.”
“Should I tell him to bring the cat?”
“Just say I received the letter and want to talk to him.”
“The guy’s probably deranged, and you want to invite him to our office?”
“It’s a long shot, but I think it might work.”
“What might work?”
“I’ll explain it later. I’ve got the Farrell adoption at ten.” The truth is, I’m not sure what I’m going to say to Randall Mackay, if he comes.
She hands me the file. “By the way, I found that old man … the one who used to own the bookstore. He lives on Gadsden Street. I’ll leave the info on your desk. I told him you’d be calling, but he’s a little deaf, so maybe it would be better for you to talk to him in person.”
* * *
The waiting room at Family Court is filled with the aggrieved, the vengeful, the punitive plaintiffs versus the desperate defendants, and those who’ve resigned themselves to love’s limitless capacity to disappoint. Whether they win or lose, they’ll soon be as unhappy as they were when they came into the courtroom. I don’t recognize these faces, but I can imagine their stories. That woman there, clutching her pocketbook, may prevail in the custody battle for her kids, and she’ll get a piece of paper requiring her husband to pay child support, but on the bus ride home she’ll figure out that after she pays her rent, she won’t have much left over. The fellow next to her—the one with the trim goatee and the cashmere sports jacket—may escape his two-year marriage without financial obligations, but he’ll wonder, as he drives his Saab out of the parking garage, why he doesn’t feel like celebrating.
I’ve spent two decades as a lawyer in this court, and though I’ve won more cases than I’ve lost, I’ve rarely felt victorious. Sure, it’s gratifying to hear a judge rule in my client’s favor, but in your average divorce there’s not enough money to go around, and even when there’s plenty, the divvying-up is a depressing business.
I’ve been here myself as a plaintiff, in the case of Sarah Bright Baynard vs. Joseph Henry Baynard. I had no illusions. I didn’t come to court imagining that a divorce would be my ticket to happiness. I wanted it to be the official end to our struggle, so that we could quit our squabbling and blaming, but I’ve never felt more bereft than when the clerk handed me my certified copy of the Final Order and Decree of Divorce. There was nothing final about it at all.
* * *
This morning I have the rare experience of representing happy people. I spot them in the far corner of the waiting area, Allison and Tom Farrell, both in their mid-forties, a couple who’d given up on children until I got a call from an old law school acquaintance who remembered I handle adoptions. The daughter of one his one of his clients was six months pregnant, wanted to find a good home for her baby.
Almost twenty years ago I represented Tom Farrell in a juvenile case. He’d taken his uncle’s car for a joyride and wrecked it. Tom was sixteen, but the uncle was unforgiving. I can still remember how his whole body shook as I stood next to him in the courtroom, my arm around his shoulder. The judge gave him a lengthy lecture and probation. He stayed out of trouble after that. Now he’s got a good job at Boeing and he’s been married to Allison for ten years. Baby Suzannah is in her lap.
“We’ll never be able to thank you enough for this,” says Tom, who carries the diaper bag and the foldable stroller. “It’s the best day of our lives!” This has been a long time coming. I’d found a baby for them a couple of years ago, but the birth mother changed her mind once she saw her newborn daughter.
“Who’s the judge?” asks Allison.
“Beverly O’Neill. She has two adopted kids herself.”
“She won’t give me any trouble about the juvenile thing, will she?” asks Tom.
“The guardian ad litem’s not concerned about that at all. She thinks you hung the moon.” But where is she? Martha Query should be here already. “And Judge O’Neill’s very easygoing.”
But when we walk into the courtroom the judge behind the bench is Joe Baynard. I whisper into Tom’s ear, “They’ve switched judges on us, but it doesn’t matter.”
“Good morning, Your Honor,” I begin. “We’re ready to proceed, except for the guardian ad litem. I’m sure she’s on her way, if Your Honor would—”
“If she can be here in five minutes, we’ll proceed.”
I search the file for Martha’s number. It should be on the inside of the folder along with the Farrells’ phone numbers and addresses. “I’m looking for her number, Your Honor.” Could Gina have forgotten to notify her of the hearing?
“I suggest you try Information, Ms. Baynard. That is, if you haven’t lost your cell phone, too.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It isn’t like you to be disorganized, Ms. Baynard,” says Joe. “But this is such a nice-looking family, I won’t hold you in contempt!” It’s the kind of joke that isn’t funny to nervous clients. He addresses the next comment to them: “As I’m sure you’re aware, your attorney is highly respected in the Charleston bar, and now she’s developing a national reputation. Let’s hope the sudden fame hasn’t gone to her head!” Why is he acting like this? Is he angry because I wouldn’t commit to help him with his judicial race?
Tom Farrell sweats in his too-tight suit. Allison does her best to calm the squirming baby. Just then the guardian ad litem walks in, breathless. “I’m so sorry, Your Honor. I got stuck in traffic.”
After the hearing, I wait for the clerk to certify the adoption order so that I can present a copy to the Farrells. They’re ecstatic.
“We’ll never be able to thank you enough,” says Allison. “Here, you hold her for a minute so I can take a picture. When she’s old enough, we can tell her all about you.”
The baby feels incredibly light, as if she’s going to fly out of my hands. She opens her eyes, stares up at me with unfocused wonderment.
“There,” says Allison. “I think I got a couple of good ones.”
“Let me take one of you and Tom and the baby,” I offer.
“Isn’t it amazing?” says Allison. “She’s really ours. I just want us to be worthy of her.”
“Is that judge related to you?” asks Tom.
I could lie, but why bother? “He’s my ex-husband. We were married briefly, a long time ago.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t say it,” says Allison, “but he seems like kind of a jerk.”
I nod. Why do I feel guilty about not defending him?
“But nothing can spoil this day for us,” says Tom. “She’s an angel, isn’t she?”
A Preponderance of the Evidence
Back at the office, I try to concentrate on Gina’s draft of the interrogatories in the Carter case. No matter how well they’re crafted, how careful we are in asking these questions, Derwood will do his best to evade a truthful answer. He’ll object to some of them as “overly broad,” to others as “repetitive.” He’s trying to intimidate me with his premature request for a trial date, but he can’t have it both ways: If he wants a quick trial, he’ll have to cooperate with discovery.
But I can’t concentrate. I keep thinking about Beatrice, wondering what advice old Judge Clarkson would have given me. I can see him leaning back in his chair, rubbing his belly as he considers the problem. The cat’s been missing for two days now. If she were a child, and you were her guardian, what would you do?
Carmen’s as restless as I am. “Lie down,” I say, a little too sternly, and then, “I’m sorry. It’s not your fault.”
I call the Probate Court to schedule a conference with Judge Wilson. “Yes, it’s an emergency,” I explain. “She’s swamped, as you can imagine,” says her secretary, “but I’ll see if we can’t work you in sometime later this week, okay?”
I call Ellen. I need her steady voice, her reassurance. She’s in trial, says the receptionist, so I leave a message. My head is starting to pound, my mind spinning in a labyrinth of horrors: Turn here, a cat starving in Randall’s basement. There, my mother and Ed Shand, contorted like the couples I saw in those photos I stole so long ago.
