The Reform Artists: A Legal Suspense, Spy Thriller (The Reform Artists Series Book 1) (7 page)

Late Wednesday morning, Swindell called Martin at work with the details of the settlement offer he had received the previous afternoon.

“These are the main points,” he began. “Your wife wants to make the temporary custody arrangement you now have permanent. She wants substantial child support payments from you, free use of the family home for three years, your promise never to come inside the house again—under
any
circumstances—and an agreement acknowledgin’ your mutual consent to begin seein’ other people immediately.

“In return,” Swindell continued, “her attorney, Beverly West, said your wife would agree to drop the domestic violence charges now before the court and grant you the standard ‘weekend warrior’s’ allotment of time with your kids: dinner one night a week and visitation every other weekend.

“What do you think?” Swindell asked, with carefully suppressed anticipation.

“I think she’s out of her effing mind! I want you to have a detective tail her for a couple of days. I’m pretty sure, based on her offer, that she’s been having an affair.”

“Of course,” Swindell said, positively glowing inside.

“I also want you to reject her offer out of hand.”

“Are you sure?” Swindell asked, in a last ditch, half-hearted attempt to appear impartial.

“Have you been smoking something other than those Honduran cigars I saw on your desk the other day?”

“OK,” Swindell said, with a chuckle, “but there’s somethin’ else you need to know.”

“What’s that?”

“Even if the detective can prove your wife has been committin' adultery, Mahr-tin, Maryland law still does not consider that to be sufficient grounds for awardin’ custody to the father.”

“Naturally,” Martin said. “Why should I be surprised? What if she had been convicted of prostitution?”

“Then,
maybe
, you’d have the beginnin’ of a case.”

“The news just keeps getting better and better,” Martin said, in disgust.

“Yes, it does,” Swindell chimed in, with barely hidden enthusiasm. “Yes, it does.”

Swindell hung up the phone and immediately logged the call and the details of his conversation with Martin into his desktop computer’s case-management program. He used his own, makeshift brand of shorthand: “M.S. rejects settlement. Believes wife cheating. Hire PI. No counter offer. Trial.”

Then, he keyed in the next call he would make that day—the one to Beverly West, in which he would tell opposing counsel that there would be no deal in the case, at this time.

That should put a smile on her face. Now, she can make an even bigger down payment on that beach-front property of hers.

Swindell hit the Enter key with a flourish, restarting the program’s live timer, the proverbial ‘meter’ that accumulated billable hours for him whenever it ran. It had been idle for all of two minutes. He smiled. Everything was on track. The case of Silkwood v. Silkwood was proceeding nicely.

Then suddenly, despite years of careful conditioning, Swindell felt a slight tinge of guilt. He wondered if he should have pressed Martin harder for a counter offer.                                                   After all, he knew this was the best time to negotiate a more favorable custody and visitation arrangement for his client. He was convinced Martin would not have cut off negotiations if he truly had understood the implications of that Temporary Restraining Order.

Even though the court had granted the order solely on Katie Silkwood’s say so; even though it was temporary in nature and, therefore, should have no permanent bearing on the case; even though a one-sided ex-parte hearing decision deserved minimal legal standing, at best; Swindell knew better. The order, by its mere existence, already had changed the custodial
status quo
in the case. It could, and probably would, do his client grave harm.

When the two parties were to appear in court the following Monday, Katie Silkwood would command the legal ‘high ground,’ as the children’s new, court-appointed sole custodian. Meanwhile, Martin would begin the proceedings as a non-custodial parent—with no presumptive right to custody at all! What Martin could not know, because Swindell had never told him, was that, in deciding matters of custody, Family Court judges almost always prefer to maintain the custodial
status quo
, no matter how new, tenuous or questionable its award might have been.

Swindell winced over the discovery of his newly resurrected conscience. He picked up the phone and briefly considered calling Martin back. Then, he returned it to its holder and, instead, retrieved the small key to his desk’s top-right drawer, where he kept his private stash of hand-rolled, contraband Cuban cigars. A moment later, he finished rummaging through the drawer and withdrew the prize he sought: one of his cherished, six-inch long, H. Upmann Magnum Fifties.

Swindell clipped the end and gently rolled the cigar between his thumb and forefinger several times, taking its measure. He closed his eyes and brought it to his nose to savor its rich, pungent aroma.
What is it about this Silkwood fellah,
he asked himself, as he struck a match and lovingly puffed the cigar to life,
that has allowed him to get under my skin?

Swindell took a deep, long puff, held it a second and then slowly released a fresh, new blast of smoke. As the roiling cloud fanned out and dissipated in the air above his desk, he shook his head and chuckled. He thought he was long past caring about these poor schlubs who couldn’t keep their wives in line. Like most of the men Swindell represented, this new one clearly loved his kids.
A sign of the times,
he thought.
After all, he’s part of a new breed of husband—our second generation of fully ‘liberated’ co-parentin’ males.

But there was something decidedly different about Martin. When Swindell had asked him the perfunctory background questions about his family life, he was surprised, almost touched, by the spontaneity and sincerity his client had exhibited.

Martin’s entire demeanor had changed, brightening considerably, when he spoke about a recent afternoon he had spent at the park near his home, teaching his six-year-old boy, Justin, how to field ground balls and how to perfect his Tee Ball swing. Martin also went on and on, bragging about his three-year-old daughter, Monica’s, prowess in toddler tumbling class. Martin took her there every Saturday morning, he said, so his wife could ‘sleep in.’

Initially, Swindell had found all this paternal gushing on Martin’s part to be a bit excessive, almost bordering on the effeminate. At the same time, though, it made him painfully aware of the lack of closeness in his relationship with his own thirty-three-year-old son, a marine biologist now living in southern California. He and Randall rarely spoke, and Swindell normally had to board a plane just to effect a face-to-face meeting with him. But that was to be expected, he thought, when he considered his own emotionally starved childhood, growing up in a household dominated by his distant, demanding and aristocratic father, Chester, Sr.

Swindell may have envied his client for the closeness of his relationship with his children, but he found little else appealing about Martin’s present life or circumstances. Late the previous afternoon, for instance, he had received a disturbing phone call from Gloria Cheswick, a fellow divorce attorney, who served with Swindell on the county bar association’s Civil Procedures committee. Swindell secretly disliked Gloria, whom he considered to be a women’s rights zealot and a bit of a nut case.

“Chester,” Gloria had begun somewhat sternly, once she had dispensed with the usual pleasantries, “
please
tell me the rumors I’m hearing aren’t true.”

“What rumors, Gloria?”

“Tell me you are not representing that
awful
man.”

“Who?”

“Martin Silkwood. Tell me, it’s not true.”

“I’m not tellin’ you anythin’, Gloria—one way or the other. What’s your interest in this case, anyway? You representin’ the wife?”

“My interest is strictly personal, Chester. Katie Silkwood is a good and dear friend.”

“Then, you might not want to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong, Gloria. If your intent is to interfere with my representation of a client by slanderin’ that individual, you could end up gettin’ yourself sanctioned by the court.”

“You would report me to the judge, Chester—over this?”

“I’d do it before I’d allow your actions to compromise me, yes.”

“He’s a monster, Chester. An absolute monster!”

“Where’s all this fervor comin’ from, Gloria? You got any first-hand knowledge you want to share?”

Gloria thought a moment before replying. “No, I don’t. But I know what this man is capable of. Katie has told me everything.”

“That’s all hearsay, Gloria: inadmissible in court and inappropriate here…. Did the Silkwood woman put you up to this?”

“Of course, not!”

“Then, I guess she’s got more sense than you!”

“You
are
representing him, aren’t you, Chester?” Gloria said with a gasp. “And all along, I thought you were one of the good guys!”

Swindell laughed. “I’ve been called a lot of thin’s, in my time, Gloria, but that’s a first! Listen, it’s been real nice chattin’ with ya, but I have got to run now. Bye!” And with that, Swindell had hung up the phone. Even now, as he replayed that conversation in his mind, Swindell rolled his eyes and shook his head in disbelief. Gloria Cheswick clearly had wandered far off ‘the reservation.’

He shuddered at the thought that he might, one day, have the misfortune of facing Gloria in court. Unlike Beverly West, who played the ‘domestic violence’ card frequently, but always in a cold, calculated way, Gloria Cheswick behaved erratically...and emotionally.

Gloria seemed to fancy herself as a true champion of oppressed and victimized women. For some unknown reason, all the domestic violence propaganda freely circulating within the legal community seemed to resonate with Gloria on a deeply personal level. Her passionate, warped perspective made her actions highly unpredictable and, on occasion, genuinely unprofessional. That, in turn, made her extremely dangerous in the courtroom. Whereas Swindell could deal with Beverly West, he had no idea how to read or strategize effectively against someone operating on Gloria Cheswick’s private wavelength.

Gradually, things were starting to make sense to Swindell. He felt he was beginning to understand what it was about Martin that initially had awakened his sympathies. It was a combination of Martin’s inherent decency and naïveté, coupled with Swindell’s growing awareness of the size, scope and intensity of the hidden forces aligning themselves against his client. On reflection, Swindell thought Martin’s situation was beginning to resemble that of a young buck suddenly caught in the glare of an onrushing tractor-trailer’s headlights.

He realized Martin could have no more idea of the true nature of the legal juggernaut tearing his way than a deer would have had of the sophisticated mechanics propelling a Mack truck toward it at sixty-five miles an hour. Both would remain ignorant right up to the point of impact, when the fender and grille would crush and flatten them into fresh road kill.

Swindell could clearly see that truck bearing down on his client with a malevolent inevitability that was painful to watch. He could see diesel smoke coughing up out of the exhaust pipe above the cab and the cold, harsh headlights locking in on their prey. Meanwhile, Martin just stood there, alone, in the middle of the road, in his dark business suit, freshly pressed shirt, and power tie, his face frozen in dumb terror and framed by a full head of salt-and-pepper hair.

Unlike Martin, Swindell also could discern the four, bold letters painted straight and tall on the side of that truck. He knew what the “V-A-W-A” stood for. They were the initials of the “Violence against Women Act.”

Congress had passed the Violence against Women Act back in 1994, and President Bill Clinton immediately signed it into law. On its face, the VAWA was supposed to protect women against a broad range of legitimate threats, including violent spousal abuse. But the law’s vast, overreaching nature and its general disregard for due process and men’s civil rights quickly turned it into something altogether different: It became enabling legislation for the radical feminist movement’s takeover of the family law courts.

Swindell initially watched with alarm as the VAWA, backed by relentless lobbying from lawyers with the National Organization for Women, overturned centuries of carefully crafted common-law and due-process protections. It achieved this, primarily, by allowing women to bypass the criminal courts altogether to bring what were essentially criminal actions against their husbands. In the Civil Court, which tried these cases, both the legal protections for the accused and the standard of proof demanded of the accusers were far weaker. Swindell felt a great many of these cases were highly suspect, to say the least.

In civil court, under the VAWA, women could now level charges of “assault, aggravated assault and battery” against their unsuspecting husbands through one-sided, and secret, ex-parte proceedings that were not even permitted in true criminal cases. A Civil Court petitioner only needed to show the judge a “preponderance of the evidence” to prove a case, while Criminal Court demanded proof “beyond a reasonable doubt.”