Family Tree (9 page)

Now

A
ll rise. The court is now in session,” the bailiff announced, “the Honorable Fletcher Wyndham presiding.”

“Please be seated,” Fletcher told the room as he took his place at the bench. The courthouse was a venerable old building, its chambers drafty with echoes that seemed to whisper a sense of gravitas to the setting. Not so long ago, Fletcher used to walk past the place on his way to school or to his dad's garage, never imagining this would one day be his domain.

There was a general shuffling and scraping of chairs, a thumping of briefcases, and murmured conversation as people settled in. As he arranged his papers and gavel, Fletcher scanned the courtroom—clerks and lawyers, a few nervous-looking clients, Natty Gilmore from the
Gazette,
the court reporter and deputy, an observer or two. All eyes were trained on him.

When he'd first taken the bench, Fletcher used to feel massively self-conscious, entering the courtroom in his robe, knowing he was the center of everyone's attention. Knowing he sometimes had the responsibility of changing the direction of someone's life. Who would he help today? Who was hurting, angry, frustrated? Who had done something completely stupid and needed a way out? What fine shadings of the law would he interpret?

He felt his mobile phone vibrate in his pocket, but ignored it. His rules
for mobile devices in the courtroom were strict, and he adhered to them, too. Friday-morning court was a grab bag. He and his secretary had already reviewed the day's administrative matters and routine proceedings. Today's schedule yielded the typical variety of business—a status conference, hearings, requests—with one possibly interesting twist. Earl Mahoney was suing some guy from Texas for selling him a breeding bull that had turned out to be sterile. The seller allegedly knew the bull couldn't perform, but sold it anyway. Trouble was, Vermont had no jurisdiction over Jimbo Childress, the Texan, because Jimbo had never been to Vermont or done business there. Earl, never one to give up, had arranged it so Childress “won” a free leaf-looking trip to Vermont last fall to view the glorious colors of autumn. As the unsuspecting Texan settled into his cozy B&B in the charming town of Putnam, a process server had delivered the summons to him.

Tag, Jimbo, thought Fletcher. You're it. He allowed the suit to go forward. And then he thought, Damn. I love my job.

Although he worked methodically through morning court, Fletcher never allowed himself to get bored or impatient, even though a good number of cases were tedious. He never allowed himself to check his phone, which had been vibrating with text messages every few minutes. He kept his attention on the cases before him. Some were frustrating or impossibly petty, like the woman claiming damages for emotional distress caused by visiting a haunted house at Halloween, or the man suing the school district after his son was cut from the hockey team for skipping class. Others involved ridiculous amounts of paperwork. A seventy-five-page motion was not uncommon, and Fletcher was one of those judges who read everything.

That was his job. And he knew from painful personal experience that a person's day in court might just be the worst day of his life. The least a judge could do was pay attention.

Today, Earl Mahoney left, satisfied that his sterile-bull issue would be
resolved. A couple of motions were granted, a subpoena quashed. After the lunch recess, Fletcher endured a two-hour debate from opposing lawyers over a property-rights dispute. More motion hearings. A status conference. A merits hearing. In a small town, a judge had to wear many hats, dealing with whatever came through the door.

The bailiff passed a note to him. Fletcher looked at it briefly, and instantly felt a knot tighten in his gut.

“We're going to take a fifteen-minute recess,” he said, punctuating the statement with his gavel. He exited through the side door and went down a short hallway to his chambers.

The door was ajar. Inside, a boy wearing Fletcher's extra robe was standing on an upended wastebasket so that the robe draped to the floor, making him look freakishly tall. He brandished a letter opener like a weapon. No, like a wizard's wand. He was working his way through the entire Harry Potter series, and dreamed of going to wizard school.

“Hey, Teddy,” Fletcher said.

The kid turned in startlement, and the wastebasket tipped over.

“Whoa,” said Fletcher, lunging for him. Too late. Teddy hit the floor, and the letter opener flew from his hand, skittering across the hardwood planks. Fletcher sank down next to Teddy. “Hey, are you all right?”

“That depends,” Teddy said in a small voice, “on how much trouble I'm in.”

“You could have broken your neck.”

Teddy rolled over and sat up. “Sorry, Dad.”

“Hang that robe up,” Fletcher said, grabbing the letter opener and the wastebasket. “What if you'd fallen on this letter opener, huh? What if it stabbed you in the liver and you bled out before the ambulance could get here?”

“Then you would have a giant mess to clean up,” Teddy said with a fake-serious expression on his face.

Fletcher watched the boy carefully putting the robe on a hanger. “What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you were going to your mom's after school.”

“I am,” Teddy said. “She told me to meet her here, because she's coming to talk to you.”

Oh, joy. “I've got court,” said Fletcher. As if she didn't know that.

“I'll be quick,” said a voice from the doorway.

“Hi, Mom,” Teddy said, going over to give her a brief hug.

She brushed his sandy hair out of his eyes. “Hi, baby.” Then she turned to Fletcher. “I want to move.”

“I don't,” Teddy protested.
“Dad.”

Fletcher clenched his jaw to keep in the words he really wanted to say to Celia. “Teddy, go grab a snack in the break room.”

“But—”

“We'll be done here in a few minutes,” Fletcher said. “I'll see you later, okay?”

Heaving a sigh, Teddy picked up his backpack and left the room.

Fletcher turned to face Celia. She looked gorgeous and perfectly groomed, as always. Shiny yellow hair and shiny red nails, flawless veneered teeth. His trophy ex-wife. “Did you really have to say that in front of him?”

“Teddy knows I want to move.”

“And you're welcome to do that. But Teddy stays with me.”

“You know very well I'd never abandon my son,” she said.

“Then move after he's grown.” Yes, he thought. Move to Timbuktu.

“He's only ten. I don't want to wait until he's grown. There's nothing for me in this town. Everything here sucks.”

“Jesus, do you hear yourself? What brought this on?” Shit, was there another boyfriend? One who didn't like the commute to a small Vermont town?

“I can't keep living like this,” Celia said.

“Like what?” he asked. “Like someone who doesn't want to get a job because it interferes with all that shopping and travel?”

She sniffed. “Fletch, can't we all move to Boston? We were happy there when we first married, right? You could join a big firm with a partner track, or—”

“I'm not moving to Boston.” He spoke quietly, even though he felt like yelling. “Teddy's life is here.”

“What about
my
life?” she asked.

Fletcher's patience ran out. “What the hell do you want? You ended up with everything you said you wanted in the divorce, remember? The house, the Florida condo, both cars, shared custody, the retirement plan, half of all the assets—”

“Don't reduce me to a cliché. I wanted a truly meaningful life with you, Fletcher.”

“You found meaning in shopping.”

“Very funny. Did my happiness ever really matter to you?”

He didn't reply. He honestly didn't know the answer. What he had come to understand about Celia was that she would probably never be happy. There was always something more for her to want—a better house, a country-club membership, a vacation home in South Beach, expensive jewelry, a more prestigious social life—but attaining it never brought her joy. Her anger swirled in the atmosphere like a toxin.

She loved Teddy. That was something he'd never dispute. Everybody loved Teddy, the way everyone loved a new puppy on a sunny day. Their son was affectionate and funny and smart, the kind of kid other parents approved of and teachers complimented.

It was particularly gratifying for Fletcher, because he himself had never been that kid. He'd been the outsider, the newcomer, the motherless boy, an object of suspicion. He never wanted Teddy to feel that kind of pain, so he'd made a commitment to raise his son in the most stable,
secure place he knew—right here in Switchback. Initially, Celia had agreed, but her contentment hadn't lasted. She always seemed to need something that hovered just out of reach.

He reclaimed his patience with an effort. “I need to get back to the courtroom. Can we finish this discussion another time?”

She glared at him, her beautiful sky-blue eyes turning cold. “There's nothing to discuss. I don't know why I thought you'd open your heart and your mind to me.”

“My focus is Teddy. He needs us both.” Fletcher softened his tone. “If you absolutely have to live somewhere else, you're free to do that. Just—please—find a way to stay in our son's life.”

Her glare turned to sadness. “You know I can't live without Teddy.”

“And he can't live without his mom.”

She looked at him for a long moment. He could see the fight go out of her as she turned toward the door. “Tell Teddy I'll see him later, okay?”

Fletcher took a moment to get his head back into the law. The uneven wooden floor and wavy glass windowpanes of his chambers bore testament to the age of the building, which dated back to the 1880s. His framed credentials hung on the wall, and there was a plaque with engraved nameplates of all his predecessors, men and women who had walked these floors and deliberated the law for decades. These chambers had once housed Emerson Gaines, who had gone on to serve on the Supreme Court.

Fletcher had the distinction of being the youngest judge in the state. Some days, however, the youngest judge in the state didn't feel so young. A lot of life had happened to him while other people his age were still revving their engines. He hadn't planned it that way. But he hadn't been given a choice either.

Most people looked forward to Friday nights. Fridays were for decompressing, kicking back, activating weekend mode. Pizza and movies. Games at the high school—football, hockey, or basketball, depending
on the season. Happy hour or dinner with friends. Fletcher was not most people. He had no particular fondness for Fridays when he had to surrender his son to his ex.

After work at court, a bunch of the guys went out for a pickup game of hoops, then pitchers of beer afterward at the Switchback Brewpub. When Teddy was with his mother, Fletcher often joined them. Then he would return home to an empty house, with the empty weekend stretching out in front of him.

This was the arrangement he had agreed to in the divorce, and he was obligated to stick to it. Life was better since he and Celia had split up. He had a house in the village, close to Teddy's school and to the courthouse. He'd dated, but nothing serious developed. Deep down, he probably didn't want anything serious. He was good at a lot of things, but making a relationship last didn't appear to be one of them.

Court business was just wrapping up at the end of the day when Gordy Jessop rushed into the courtroom, his ill-fitting suit jacket flapping, his breath coming in agitated huffs. Despite his disheveled appearance, Gordy was a good lawyer who had built a vibrant local practice over the past few years. In the days when he'd been with a rival firm, Fletcher had gone against him plenty of times. And Gordy had handled Fletcher's divorce.

“It's late, I know,” said Gordy. “Sorry, Your Honor.”

Fletcher glanced at the clock over the courtroom door. Shoot. He didn't want to keep his staff late on a Friday.

“What's up, Counselor?” he asked Gordy.

“I've got a petition here to revoke a power of attorney,” said Gordy. He submitted the documents, which had been stamped by the clerk. The ink scarcely looked dry.

Fletcher didn't relish reading through the long sheaf of documents, but he couldn't very well make a ruling without doing that.

“Is it an emergency?”

“Um, no. Not really. But it's urgent.”

“Have Mildred schedule it for Monday.”

“Your Honor.” Gordy shuffled from foot to foot as though he had to take a whiz. “If you could just give it a look . . .”

Gordy wasn't usually this insistent. Fletcher set his jaw. He glanced down at the motion, then blinked, not sure he could trust his own eyes.

The action was being taken on behalf of Annie Rush, FKA Annie Rush Harlow.

Annie Rush.

Despite the passage of time, the memories and feelings had never completely faded. Now, seeing the name on the pages of a court document, Fletcher felt weirdly self-conscious in the presence of the people lingering in the courtroom. Just the thought of her brought a flood of remembrance—dark-lashed, laughing eyes. A face that could light the world. A heart full of dreams. Joy and anger and hopelessness. And finally, surrender.

Although his heart was beating fast, Fletcher maintained his usual demeanor of professional detachment. “What happened, Counselor?”

“Her family—specifically her mother—needs the power of attorney revoked. It was assigned to her husband, a guy named . . .” He consulted one of the forms.

“Martin Harlow,” Fletcher muttered.

“Yes. Her situation has changed radically.” Gordy glanced over his shoulder at the nearly empty courtroom. The afternoon light outside the window was fading. Gordy looked back at Fletcher. Then he leaned in, lowering his voice. “Fletcher. Annie needs you.”