Lawyer for the Dog (14 page)

“As soon as we can,” she says, but she looks grim.“Charlie's sick.” She bursts into tears. “Cancer. It's bad.”

“When did all this … I had no idea.” But I know she doesn't like to bother me with her problems, and I've been so distracted lately.

“He had some bleeding. They put him in the hospital. When they opened him up, it was all over the place.”

“You should have told me. I'm so sorry.”

“I need to be with him.”

“Of course you do.”

She smiles, relieved. “Charlie wants to make us legal, so we're getting married. And he wanted to do it right, with this engagement ring and all. I don't want to argue with him, not now.”

“No, I can understand that.”

“So I'll be leaving in a month or so, if that's all right. I just hate to leave Miz Margaret. And you, too. Y'all like family to me.”

I feel the panic sear through me like an electric shock. “Don't worry about us. You have enough on your hands.”

“I can ask around to see if I can help you find somebody else,” she offers. “Vicki's got her day job, but I know some others. And maybe it's time to think about putting her someplace where she can get the kind of care she needs.”

“What?”

“She's going to take this hard, me leaving. And you might have to move her soon anyway.”

“Why would I have to move her?”

“Pretty soon she's going to need a lot more help, not just in the daytime, but maybe at night, too.'”

“I'm here at night.”

“But you can't be up and down with her all the time, helping her get to the bathroom. You need your sleep.”

“I promised her I wouldn't put her in a nursing home.”

“That was a long time ago. You've already done way more than most children do. I know what she'd tell you if she were in her right mind.”

“Nobody can know that.”

Delores straightens her spine, rises. “I do. She told me when I first came on the job. ‘Delores,' she said, ‘I know my girl. She's stubborn as an ox. When the time comes,' your mama said, ‘You tell her this, you tell her I want her to have a life. Her
own
life.'”

“That doesn't sound like Mom.”

“Maybe you don't know her like you think you do.”

*   *   *

I open the refrigerator, nose around for leftovers, spot a bottle of wine that's been around for months, and pour myself a glass. “You should drink more,” Joe used to say. “A glass of wine every now and then won't kill you. You might even like me better!” I turn the radio on, NPR, but the news is all bleak, so I switch to an oldies station and sing along with Carole King.

I barely hear the doorbell when it rings. Through the peephole, Dr. Borden's face looms large.

“Hi,” he says, as if he visits me at home every day.

I open the door. “Hi,” I say. And then I see the dog beside him. A beagle.

“I went by your office to look over the affidavit, but you'd already left.”

“I asked Gina to fax it to you. I'm sorry you had to come all the way—”

“My fax machine hasn't worked in months. She said she didn't mind staying until I could pick it up.”

Yes, I think, I'm sure Gina didn't mind staying.

“I'd like to make a few changes,” he says, “so she gave me your address. Don't be upset with her. She's quite protective of you! I had to do a lot of convincing. Hope I'm not interrupting your dinner or anything.”

“No. I was just having a glass of wine.” Actually I'm already on my second. “Would you like one?”

“Sure. I can't stay long, but I do have an ulterior motive.” He looks down at the beagle. “Hope you don't mind that I brought Carmen. This is the dog I was telling you about, the abandoned one. Shake hands with Ms. Baynard, Carmen.” The beagle sits, lifts her paw. “I almost brought Sherman along, too, but I thought that might be a little much.”

“Why do you have Sherman?”

“Maryann Hart dropped him off at the clinic yesterday for a booster, asked us to board him overnight. Must be out of town, I guess. I was surprised she didn't just let Rusty keep him.”

“Happens all the time in custody cases,” I say. “Mom, who has custody, hires a babysitter to stay with the kids rather than let Dad have a few extra hours. Sit down, I'll get your wine.” I leave him in the living room, and for the first time ever I'm embarrassed by the mismatched furniture: some of my mother's, some of my own, a mix that comes across as more haphazard than eclectic.

“Mind if I let Carmen off the leash?” He doesn't wait for me to answer. The beagle follows me into the kitchen. She sits beside the kitchen table while I pour some wine for the vet and another glass for me.
Keep it businesslike
, I tell myself, though I'm not feeling at all businesslike.

“Funny,” Dr. Borden says when I return, “I didn't imagine you in a place like this. It's very nice, but … I pictured you in a little house at the beach. Folly Beach, maybe.”

That he would picture me anywhere at all is nice. “It's near my office. No yard, no maintenance. And there's a great view from the deck. My mother likes it.”

“Where is she, by the way?”

“Sleeping. I think she's down for the night. If it's not too chilly, we can sit on the deck. Carmen, you want to see the harbor?”

I take a dish towel to wipe off the chairs. The sun is setting, and I squint to read his notes on the affidavit. “You've scratched out the sentence about how the shared custody schedule isn't good for Sherman,” I say.

“Because he seems to be doing okay,” says Dr. Borden. The last of the sunlight accentuates the little vertical wrinkle between his eyes, his strong nose, the way his hair curls in the damp air.

“But don't you think that's just because it's only been a couple of weeks since the temporary order? You told me you wouldn't recommend this back-and-forth arrangement as a permanent thing, right?”

“I wouldn't.”

He looks out across the darkening water, mulls this. “Maybe I could say, ‘While I haven't observed any harm to Sherman as the result of the court's temporary order, I would hesitate to recommend a shared schedule on a permanent basis.' How's that sound?”

“If you're going to insist that the temporary order isn't hurting Sherman, you're taking away my best argument for hurrying up the trial. I was planning to use your affidavit to support the motion to bifurcate.” I'm a little drunk, but I hear myself sounding way too professional.

“What about this? ‘Although Sherman is healthy and suffering no apparent distress at the present time, I believe it would be in his best interests to settle the issue of his custody as soon as reasonably possible.'”

“That should work,” I say.

“So, what do you think about Carmen?” The beagle points her nose to the sky, sampling the salt air, the smell of the harbor, then, as if on cue, nuzzles her head against my leg.

“She's sweet, but my life is way too complicated right now. I won't bore you with the details. I just can't make any more commitments.” This is coming out all wrong.

“Okay,” he says. He scribbles on the affidavit as if he's in a huge hurry, then hands me the pen, his fingers brushing mine. “Come on, Carmen. Let's let Ms. Baynard have a peaceful evening.” Before he leaves he puts his empty glass on the kitchen counter. “Thanks for the wine.”

At the door Carmen looks up at me, disappointed.
I like you. He likes you. But you really blew it, lady.

 

A Real Bitch

“Well,” says Gina the next morning, “how did it go?”

“None of your business.”

“You're mad that I gave him your address.”

“No.”

“You sound mad.”

“I'm not mad,” I say, not very convincingly. “I'm just not going to give you a report.”

“He was really insistent. The guy has the hots for you!”

“What makes you think that?”

“Maybe that he drives all the way into town to pick up an affidavit, then insists that he wants to talk to you in person?”

“He was trying to convince me to adopt a dog.”

“Yeah, right,” says Gina. “She's a sweetheart, but that's not what he wanted. He brought her in here, but he didn't ask
me
if I wanted her. He was in too much of a hurry.”

“You should have called me to let me know he was coming.”

“He doesn't seem like the dangerous type,” she says. “Not much of a womanizer.”

“What's your evidence for that?”

“He wouldn't even flirt.”

“Oh, so you tried, huh?”

“Not too hard, but like I say, I could tell he was really determined to see you, so I didn't give it my total effort.” She smiles that mock-wicked smile of hers. “So, you're not going to tell me how it went?”

I ignore the question, start down the hall toward my office. Gina calls after me: “Mrs. Carter called to say she's running a few minutes late. You'll need to leave by eleven so you can drive out to Sullivan's Island for the interview with that girl who lives next to Mrs. Hart. Mindy something. And in case you don't get back to the office afterward, remember about the motion hearing first thing in the morning—about the vet's fees.”

*   *   *

“If I only take up half an hour of your time,” says Natalie Carter, who's come in for an initial consultation, “will you cut the fee?” She's agitated about the $300 charge for the hour and a half conference, during which I get the basic facts of the case, assess the situation, and give her my recommendations. Meanwhile, I can't help noticing her baby blue purse and matching heels, which together probably cost at least twice that.

“I'm sure it will take at least an hour and a half, maybe longer, for me to get the basic information I need to evaluate your case.”

“What do you mean, ‘evaluate'? We have plenty of assets, if that's what you're interested in.”

I try not to show my irritation. “As I'm sure my secretary told you when she made the appointment, this first meeting is for me to gather some facts about your situation, then tell you what I think you ought to do. And of course you'll want to ask questions. Then we'll both need to decide if we're a good fit. You may decide you don't want to hire me.” I don't say:
And I may decide I don't want to represent you.

“I've tried to find a lawyer in Beaufort, but no one will take the case because of who my husband is.” She looks out the window to the garden across the alley. “They should do something about that yard. Some people just don't take any responsibility for their property.”

I've always liked the overgrown garden with its curving brick paths, the huge old magnolia, the sprawling azaleas beneath it. I go there in my daydreams sometimes when I should be working on a brief. For a moment I'm that young woman who sits there in the morning sun reading the newspaper, or who waters the flowers or who plays with her two little girls who come in the afternoon.

Mrs. Carter fingers her gold bracelet. “You know who my husband is, right?”

“Yes.”

Derwood Carter is a circuit judge from Beaufort, an hour and a half away, who sometimes holds court in Charleston. It's been my misfortune to appear before him several times. He's a high-born snob who hates his weeks in criminal court, where he presides over cases involving, as I've heard him say, “the welfare class.” All the public defenders do their best to avoid him; he usually opts for the maximum sentence. He's mean, but smart, and he conducts his trials so that there isn't much error to exploit on appeal.

“Derwood says you're a real bitch,” Mrs. Carter smiles. “That's why I thought I should hire you.”

“I don't think he likes female lawyers.”

“He only likes women who are subservient, and preferably those who perform disgusting sexual … I'm sure you know about his relationship with his court reporter—”

This is an enticing morsel, but I can't get sidetracked. “We'll come back to that, okay? I need to get some basic information first. How long have you been married?”

Most lawyers let their secretaries or paralegals handle this initial fact-gathering, but I like to do it myself. Every marriage is a story, and it's not just the narrative that matters but the voice of the narrator. Is she angry? Sad? Both? Is she arrogant, vengeful? Are there questions she hesitates to answer?

After half an hour Mrs. Carter asks for a break. “I haven't smoked in years, but now I … I'll just be a minute.” She takes the elevator downstairs and paces back and forth on the sidewalk in front of my office, not really smoking, just holding the lit cigarette. I sneak in a call to Tony Borden. “I'm sorry,” says his receptionist. “He's busy with an emergency.”

“Please tell him I called. Nothing urgent.” I give her my cell phone number and watch Mrs. Carter drop the cigarette to the pavement and stamp it out with more force than necessary. She looks up and down Broad Street as if she thinks she's being followed. She's a wreck—so thin she seems breakable—and who wouldn't be, married to Derwood Carter for twenty-five years? That's a worse sentence than any he's ever doled out.

I'll take her case. She'll probably drive me crazy. And it will drive her husband crazy that she's hired “that bitch Sarah Baynard.” I look forward to his deposition, when I'll look across the conference table and ask him about his relationship with his court reporter.

 

It's Reality

As I cross the bridge to Sullivan's Island, I'm rehearsing my apology to Tony Borden.
I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude about the beagle. It's just that … things are so complicated right now … I hope you'll be patient.
Does that help any? I doubt it, but it doesn't matter, because he doesn't call.