Four Wives (5 page)

A
T
121 M
AIN
S
TREET,
above the town eatery known simply as Joe’s, were the law offices of Marie Passeti. A far cry from the posh New York address where she had begun her career’the plush wall-to-wall carpeting, spacious enclaves, and mahogany reception desk’her current work space was comprised of two moderate rooms lined with linoleum flooring. The front held an oval conference table and shelves of law books. It was freshly painted and, overall, presentable despite the persistent smell of bacon that wafted through the vents from the tenant below. The back held the office where Marie and her two associates came and went as their cases demanded.

At the door, she dropped her briefcase and searched for the heavy ring of keys that was weighing down her jacket. Finding it, she turned them to locate the right one, then put the key in the door for the daily jiggling-turning-jiggling move that finally got the damned thing to open. Inside, she tossed her briefcase on the largest of the three desks and switched on the row of overhead fluorescent lights. It was damp and musty inside, not at all conducive to a productive meeting. Her client, Carson Farrell’defendant in the odd case of
Farrell v. Farrell
’would need to feel comfortable, at ease. There wasn’t much time before their meeting’maybe just enough to turn on the heat, dry the place out, then blast the a/c to cool it down to seventy-two degrees. Dry and seventy-two. It could be done.

After making the necessary adjustments, Marie returned to her desk and opened the coffee, which today had a distinctive, burnt odor to it. It was always a crapshoot with the coffee at Joe’s, where they left the pots on until they were empty. Ostensibly a greasy-spoon diner, the eating establishment had been infected by the insidious culture of Hunting Ridge, which seemed to leave nothing within its domain untouched. No longer worthy of its diner billing, Joe’s lattes were perfect, rich and foamy, served in luscious oversized mugs. Scones and mini lowfat muffins were shipped in from the city at the crack of dawn. Always fresh. And staying true to Hunting Ridge form, the regular, working-class coffee, and those evil bagels driven into disfavor by the low-carb craze, were downright lousy. Marie had been unusually hopeful to catch a fresh pot, but by the smell of the stuff in her cup, there was no question she’d caught the dregs yet again. And it made her miss New York as much as every other thing in this town. Still, it didn’t matter. Musty old office, shitty coffee, the smell of bacon and buzzing fluorescent bulbs that were probably causing a brain tumor’it was all hers, under her command along with the rest of her life.

The case of
Farrell v. Farrell
was another matter. There was no affair involved, which in itself placed it in the minority, as did the fact that it was Mrs. Farrell who wanted out. Carson Farrell worked in the city trading derivatives’solid income, enough for a house in the back country, though there was a significant amount of leverage on their assets. They had a 401(k), stock options, and other financial muck that would have to be sorted out. Like most of the cases, the fight over the kids would bring everything into play. Time with his children would cost him, it always did. But this case involved something Marie hadn’t seen in all her years of practice, and how it would play out’in court and in her own mind’was not yet clear. Shortly before the split, the unthinkable had happened. A child had died, and it had been on her client’s watch.

That was all she knew at the moment, her client having mastered the art of holding facts close to the vest. But they were beyond that now. His wife was pushing for sole custody, offering Carson limited supervised visitation with their surviving three children. His deposition had been scheduled for next week. Time was out. Today she had to get to the bottom of what had happened to the fourth child, the baby named Simone. The kid gloves were coming off, and Marie was not at all sure how she would view this case, or her client, when the truth was revealed.

It was a dilemma for sure, a real headache. And, her daughters aside, taking it on at the throat was exactly what drove Marie Passeti.

There was a quick rapping on the glass window of the office door.

“It’s open,” Marie called from her desk as she walked through to the conference room, closing the adjoining door behind her. She heard the familiar squeak of the hinges, then the rattling of glass as the door closed again. When she turned around, a man was there.

“You’re not Carson Farrell,” she said.

The young man smiled nervously. Barely into his twenties, he was perfectly coifed’cleanly shaven, tucked in, and buttoned up. The suit was interview navy, conservative and entirely devoid of personality, though his face told a different story. His cheekbones were still rounded’he was obviously young. But his eyes seemed far too old to be placed there. Glancing around the room to get his bearings, he came full circle to focus on the briefcase hanging by his side. Black leather and far too small to be useful to a lawyer, Marie could tell by the ease with which he held it that it was nearly empty.

“I’m Randy Matthews. The intern from Yale,” he said with the intonation of a question.

A look of surprise came across Marie’s face. There was no doubt she had hired Randy Matthews. She’d just gone over the resume that morning. NYU undergrad, Yale Law School, first year. The cover letter had expressed an interest in family law, particularly custody situations. She’d asked one of her associates to vet Randy in a phone interview, and a glowing report had followed.

Still, in all of that, she’d been expecting Randy Matthews to be a woman. Not that she wouldn’t hire a man. There simply weren’t many male attorneys who wanted to work for a woman practicing family law. And now one was standing in front of her.

With characteristic ease, Marie recovered. “I’ve been waiting for a client’thought you were him. Never mind,” she said, ushering him around the conference table to the inner sanctum. “You’re here a little early, aren’t you?”

The young man spoke to her back as they walked. “I wasn’t sure how long it would take me to get here. I drove from New Haven. I hope it’s all right.”

“It’s fine.”

Marie showed him to her associate’s desk in the back room, and the drawer they had cleared for him.

“We’ve set you up here. Nancy is one of my two associates. She only works three days a week. And she doesn’t come in much. I use her to run motions at the court, and she works from home a lot. Are you OK sharing the desk?”

“It’s fine.” With the awkwardness of a novice, he sat down, then popped back up to unbutton his jacket. Marie smiled and took a seat at her own desk, leaning back in the chair precisely as far as it would go, then crossing her legs. There was no question a male intern had never entered her mind, and she found herself surprisingly unnerved. But as she watched him settle in, it occurred to her that this would have been true even if she hadn’t made the wrong assumption about his gender. There was something about him’a sense of inner comfort that was unusual in a person his age. The suit was new. He was in a strange town, a hole-in-the-wall office with a woman superior. Still, he seemed to accept his awkwardness, his inexperience.

Smiling with authority, she tried to put them both at ease. “You can take off your coat. We’re pretty informal around here.”

As he removed his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair, Marie turned to a stack of books she’d collected from the conference room shelves.

“I’ve pulled together some of the pivotal custody cases in our jurisdic-tion.

“Great,” Randy said, taking a legal pad from his briefcase. “Is there something in particular I should pay attention to? I mean, a specific case I’ll be working on?”

Marie nodded. “We’ve got a lot of cases in the works. All fathers, different degrees of custody and visitation requests. We don’t have any demands for sole custody at present, just clients who want more time with their kids than their wives want to give. But you’ll see a list of factors the courts use to make these decisions, and all of those will be relevant to our cases.”

She paused then, and let out a long breath. “Then we have the Farrell case.

Randy picked up the first book. “The Farrell case?”

“The client I’m expecting. They had a baby who died, and now the mother wants to keep him from the other kids.”

“Oh,” Randy said, trying to have the appropriate response but getting it all wrong.

“It’s OK to be surprised. This is highly unusual. I’ve never seen it before, and I can’t find any local precedents. You’ll be doing research later on, after the discovery. Assuming our client shows up.”

“OK.”

He sat upright at the desk, both feet planted on the floor. It was hard not to watch him. His dark wavy hair, polished shoes, the gold college ring that was still glistening. His eyes were an average shade of blue, but clear and honest. Not something one saw every day.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Randy turned to look at her. “Sure.”

“Why do you want to be a divorce lawyer?”

Randy shrugged, returning his gaze to the closed book on his desk. “I guess the same reasons anyone does. I just feel drawn to it.”

Marie smiled to herself.
If he only knew.
Divorce lawyers, though necessary, were usually (and unfairly) seen as occupying the bottom of the ladder as far as lawyers went. Well, maybe not the bottom. Personal injury specialists were tough to beat for that privilege. Still, having come from Harvard and a haughty first job in corporate litigation, Marie had hardly been
drawn
to overseeing the unraveling of families. What she had been was smart. She’d honed in on a highly lucrative niche. Now, after six years, she was not only the best female attorney specializing in paternal custody claims’she was the only one in the county.

It was an odd fit for a strong-minded feminist who had, generally, more contempt for her clients than sympathy. The suburban divorce stories were usually the same’happy marriages crumbling under the weight of kids, financial stress, and a social structure that cast men and women into opposing universes. The husband usually caved in first, seeking solace in other women, falling “in love.” Ironically, he would somehow think that the flaw in the first go-around was with his choice of wife, and jump wholeheartedly into a second marriage, a second family. Still, the ones she took on as clients wanted to be a part of their children’s lives, and this was, to Marie, worthy of her efforts.

As she had quickly discovered, divorce law could be rigid, presumptive, and arbitrary. And it wielded a great deal of discretion to the local judges’more than some were worthy of. Too often, they used their discretion to pay tribute to the well-defined roles of working dads and stay-at-home moms. Stereotypes provided easy cover to avoid the tough calls. Mom got the kids, but dad usually got financial concessions to afford his new family. None of this was good for the children. It was Marie’s job to effect a different result, and doing that job required bitter contention of legal norms, which sometimes verged on belligerence. This bothered Marie not in the least. Over the years, she had come to believe that she was looking out for the real victims of the system’the children.

She’d gone over it again and again, rationalizing her work to herself, her friends, the mothers across the table who looked at her with the worst kind of disdain. That it gave her the income she needed to keep the firm afloat, to contribute to the family, and still be home when her girls got off the bus’that she had made a name for herself’all of it weighed in. On most days, she could live with it.

What, she wondered, could it possibly hold for the young man sitting beside her?

Then he spoke. “There’s something about the stories of the people, what’s happened to them.”

Marie raised an eyebrow. “People stories?”

“Is that OK?” Randy asked, suddenly self-conscious.

“Sure. Fine. But I have to ask’will you be needing time off in the afternoons to catch your soap?”

Randy smiled and let out a slight laugh. “If you don’t mind. And a subscription to
The National Enquirer
would be great.”

Marie made a few mental notes.
Funny. Quick. Sarcastic.
“Well, in any event, I’m lucky to have you. Your resume is very impressive and I could use the help.”

“Thanks.”

Marie got up from her desk and headed for the conference room, her sole purpose to remove herself from the office.

“I’ll let you get started.”

Randy opened the first book, pencil in hand, determination in his eyes. Marie closed the door between the office and the conference room, then took a seat out of view from the glass partition. She had prepared herself for the approaching months’the Farrell case heating up, golf season trying her patience, the girls home from school, and that ridiculous benefit. She knew what to do with all of that, largely because she had those things figured. Hunting Ridge, the men and women in it, the local judges and lawyers’every social dynamic at play in her insular world. Knowing what was wrong with the things around her kept her sane. She had constructed categories, stereotypes for cookie-cutout suburban dwellers, and Randy Matthews was not fitting into any one of them. Now there was no question she would have to dig until she sorted him out. That she was looking forward to the task more than she should did not escape her, nor did it stop her from returning to the office.