Lawyer for the Cat (15 page)

“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.…”

“I told you, I'm not hungry.”

Before I can say no, he's poured two glasses of wine, set a plate of cheese and crackers in front of me. “Sit!” he says.

“What?”

“I was talking to the dogs.”

The crackers are stale, the cheese rubbery, but I'm hungrier than I thought. “Who is she?”

“You're really determined to make a big deal about this, aren't you?”

“
You're
really determined not to answer my question.”

“Jesus, would you give it a rest?” He gets up without touching his wine, heads toward the bedroom, the retrievers following. I finish my flip through the magazine on the table,
Veterinary Practice Today.
The beagle rests her chin on my knees.

By the time I get back to the bedroom he's asleep, a book across his chest, the cat with her back against him, paws in the air. Her eyes open for an instant, then close, as if to signal my insignificance. I turn off the bedside light, undress in the dark, slide in beside them. Beatrice turns away. “I'm sorry,” I whisper, but I can't tell if he's heard me.

*   *   *

My sleep is deep but troubled. There's the old, bad dream: me as a child of five or six, at the beach with my parents on one of our rare family vacations. A huge wave catches me off guard, smacks the back of my head and drags me under, spinning me until I can't tell up from down. Just when I think I'll surely drown I'm thrown onto the sand. I'm grateful to be alive, but fearful ever after of that vast and unpredictable force.

In the middle of the night I wake to the sound of water running, wonder where I am, remember. He's in the bathroom. When he comes back to the bed he doesn't reach for me; from the sound of his breath—a long letting go, more than a sigh—I know he's turned away.

“You okay?” I ask.

“I didn't mean to wake you.”

“You didn't. I'm sorry about last night.”

“I guess jealousy is better than indifference.”

“I was just surprised, that's all. You never told me about any ex-girlfriends.”

“She was my high school girlfriend, a year behind me. We broke up my first semester at Clemson. She's married, three kids. Lives a mile down the highway. One of her boys was my son's best friend. When she brought her dog in this morning, she asked if she could leave the car in my parking lot for a few days—it's a Christmas present for the oldest kid; she wants it to be a surprise. So I said she could keep it over here. You told me to keep a car parked out front, remember?”

“Oh.”

“So that's it. No drama.” He sits up, against the headboard. “I can't go back to sleep.”

I touch his hand. “I overreacted. I had a bad day.”

“That's the problem,” he says. “Does it ever occur to you that
I
might have a bad day?” I've never heard his voice like this. “For example, last night. I was going to tell you, but you didn't seem interested in anything but your own stuff.”

“Tell me what?”

“My son called. He said he didn't want to come for Christmas.”

“It happens in a lot of my custody cases, especially with teenagers. In my experience, the best way to handle it—

“I'm not asking for legal advice.”

We're quiet for a minute. “I know it's hard.”

“You have no idea how hard. For Jake, mostly.”

“But it's awful for you, too.”

“I gave in.”

“So he's not coming?”

“He was supposed to come for two weeks, but he said he wanted to hang out with his friends in California. I said fine, I'll come out there.”

“Is it because of me?”

“He doesn't know about you yet,” he says.

“Maybe that's better.”

“But I was going to tell him before he got here.”

“Maybe you shouldn't say anything for a while. Until we're sure.”

“What does
that
mean?”

“I'm trying to be honest.”

“Okay, let's forget it for now,” he says. “I'll be gone for a week, give us both a breather.” He slides down next to me. There's something desperate, this time, about our lovemaking, as if we're both trying too hard. When we're finished he holds me until we fall back to sleep, until the sun creeps through the blinds.

“You're just like her,” he says, pointing to the cat, who's sitting on the chair next to the bed, observing us.

“How so?”

“You're more content on your own. It's not that you don't enjoy affection, you just don't need so much of it.”

“And you?”

“I'm more like a dog. I'll always be bounding up to you with my tongue hanging out,” he says. “Hopelessly needy.”