Vanishing Acts (19 page)

Or in other words: I had to do it.

Having an alcoholic wife isn't a reason to steal a child. However, if I can prove that Elise was an alcoholic, that she couldn't care for the child, that a call was made to protective services or the police, and that they didn't respond adequately; well, then Andrew has a shot at acquittal. A jury might be convinced that Andrew had exhausted all other possible options, that he had no choice but to take his daughter and run ... provided, first, that Andrew can convince me.

Chris walks into the conference room. “Here you go,” he says, sliding the mug across the table. “The breakfast of champions. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to find a physician to surgically remove my head.”

After he leaves, I walk toward the steaming mug. It has been years since I've taken a sip, and I can still taste the beautiful bitter of it. I inhale deeply. Then I dump the coffee–china mug and all–into the trash.

The detention officer manning the visiting area at the jail nods at me. “Take any empty one,” he says. It's a quiet morning; the doors are all shut, and the lights are off. I open the first door on the right and turn on the light–only to find an inmate with his striped pants down around his ankles, screwing his attorney on top of the Formica conference table. “Sonofabitch,” the guy says, his hand reaching to pull up his shorts. The woman blinks in the sudden light and tugs her pencil skirt down, knocking over a box full of files.

“Let me guess,” I say cheerfully to the lawyer. “Pro boner work?” With an apology, I settle myself into the next room to wait for Andrew. He comes in as I'm still picturing the attorney next door–a pubic defender, I guess you'd call her–and smiling. “What's so funny?” Andrew asks.

It is the kind of story that, a week ago, I would have told him over dessert. But Andrew is dressed in the same stripes and pink thermals as the man next door, and that is sobering. “Nothing.” I clear my throat. “Look, we need to talk about your case.”

There is a right way and a wrong way to go about presenting an affirmative defense to a client. You basically explain where the escape hatch is and then say,

“Hmm, if you had a ladder to get up there, you'd be home free”–hoping like hell that your client will be bright enough to then volunteer that he does indeed have a ladder hidden away in his breast pocket. The fact that a ladder can't possibly fit in his breast pocket or that he never in his life owned a ladder is not nearly as important as the fact that he tells you, flat out, that he is in possession of one. As the attorney, all you need to do is hint to the jury about the ladder, you don't have to physically present it.

Sometimes the client gets what you're trying to do, sometimes he doesn't. At best, you are leading your star witness; at worst, you are suggesting that he lie to you so that you have some semblance of a defense.

“Andrew,” I say carefully, “I've been looking at the charges that were filed against you, and there is a defense that we might be able to use. Basically, it means saying that things were so bad in the household that you had no other alternative but to do what you did, which is take Delia away. The thing is, for this defense to apply . . . you also have to show that you had no alternative legal means of solving the problem.” I give Andrew a moment to let this all sink in. “Delia told me that your ex-wife is an alcoholic. Maybe that impaired her ability to function as a good mother... ?”

Slowly, Andrew nods.

“Maybe you felt you deserved custody of Delia, because of this ... ?”

“Well, wouldn't you have–”

I hold up a hand. “Did you call the police? Or child protective services? A social worker? Did you try to get your custody agreement revisited in court?” Andrew shifts in his seat. “I thought about it, but then I realized it wasn't a good idea.”

My heart sinks. “Why not?”

“You saw that assault conviction the prosecutor had-”

“What the hell was that all about, anyway?”

He shrugs. “Nothing. A stupid bar fight. But I wound up in jail overnight because of it. Back then, the courts automatically gave custody to a mother even when the father had a spotless background. If you had a strike against you already, well, you might as well kiss your kid good-bye.” He looks up at me. “I was scared that if I went to complain about Elise, they'd look up my record and decide I shouldn't even have visitation anymore, much less full custody.”

The necessity defense implies there was no legal alternative remaining, but this is not the scenario Andrew's painted. He didn't even try a legal route before exacting his own vigilante justice. But instead of telling him how damaging this is to his case, I just nod. The first rule of defense law is to keep your client believing that there is always a light at the end of the tunnel, a slim possibility for a better outcome. When you get right down to it, the relationship between a defendant and a lawyer is not all that different from the one between a child and an alcoholic parent.

“It's not like I didn't try,” Andrew says. “I spent months following the rules. Even the day I left, I took her home first.”

My head snaps up; this is news to me. “You what?”

“Beth had forgotten this blanket she used to take everywhere, and I knew she'd be miserable all weekend without it. So we went back. The place was a mess-the kitchen was piled high with dishes, and food was rotting on the counter; the refrigerator was empty.”

“Where was Elise?”

“In the living room, out cold.”

I have a sudden mental picture of the woman, lying facedown with her arm trailing off the couch and the sweet curl of bourbon soaking into the cushions where the bottle has spilled. But in my picture the woman doesn't have black hair, like Elise Vasquez did when I saw her in court. She is a blonde, and she is wearing a pair of orange Capri pants that were my mother's favorite.

All of the memories I have of my mother smell like alcohol-even the good ones, when she was bending down to kiss me good night, or straightening my tie before my high school graduation. Her disease was a perfume, one I used to lean into when I was a child and one I itched for when I was an adult. If you ask me for five concrete recollections from when I was a kid, chances are that three of them will involve some fiasco based on my mother's drinking: the time it was her turn to be Den Mother and the Boy Scout troop arrived to find her completely lit and dancing in her underwear; the track championship she slept through; the sting of her hand on my face when she actually wanted to punish herself.

These memories are the pillars I built my life on. But hiding behind them are the other memories, the ones that peek out only when let down my guard: the hazy afternoon my mother and I sat with our heads bent over the sidewalk, watching ants construct a mobile city. Her voice, off-key, singing me awake in the morning. The summer days when she staked trash bags on the lawn and ran a hose, a makeshift Slip-N-Slide for the two of us. Her inconsistency, in a better light, became spontaneity. You cannot hate someone until you know what it might be like to love them.

Was having an occasional mother better than not having one at all?

Andrew has read my mind. “You know what that's like for a kid, Eric. If it had been up to you, would you have wanted a household like the one you grew up in?” No. I didn't want to grow up in a household like mine, but I did. And I hadn't wanted to turn out just like my mother, either, but I had. “What did you do?” I ask.

“I took Delia, and left.”

“I meant before that. Did you bother to see whether your ex-wife was all right? Did you call anyone to take care of her?”

“She wasn't my responsibility anymore.”

“Why not? Because you had a piece of paper saying you'd gotten divorced?”

“Because I'd done it a thousand times before,” Andrew says. “Are you defending me, or Elise? For God's sake, Delia was in the very same situation when she got pregnant, except you were the one lying drunk on the floor.”

“But she didn't run away from me,” I point out. “She waited for me to get my head straight. So don't even begin to compare your situation to hers, Andrew, because Delia's a better person than you ever were.”

A muscle tics in Andrew's jaw. “Yeah. I guess whoever raised her must have really known what he was doing.” He stands up and walks out of the conference room, beckoning to an officer to take him back to the safety of his cell. Delia calls me on my cell phone while I am driving back to Hamilton, Hamilton.

“Guess what,” she says. “I got a phone call from that prosecutor, Ellen ...”

“Emma.”

“Whatever.” I can hear the smile in her voice. “She asked to meet with me, and I told her I had a spot in my calendar between Hell Freezing Over and Not in This Lifetime. Where are you, anyway?”

“I'm on my way back from the jail.”

There is a silence. “So how is he?”

“Great,” I say, adding a lift to my voice. “We've totally got this under control.” My cell phone beeps, another incoming call. “Hang on, Dee,” I tell her, and I switch over. “Talcott.”

“It's Chris. Where are you?”

I look over my shoulder at the merging traffic. “Headed onto Route Ten.”

“Well, get off it,” he says. “You need to go back.” The hair stands up on the back of my neck. “What happened to Andrew?”

“Nothing that I know of. But you just got some mail from Emma Wasserstein. She's filed a motion to remove you as counsel.”

“On what grounds?”

“Witness tampering,” Chris says. “She thinks you're feeding information to Delia.” I slam down the phone, cursing, and it rings immediately; I've forgotten that Delia was on the other line. “What else did you say to the prosecutor?” I ask.

Vanishing Acts

“Nothing. She was trying to do the buddy thing, you know, but I wasn't falling for it. She said she wanted to meet with me, and I refused. She pumped me for information about my father.”

I swallow. “What did you say?”

“That it wasn't any of her business, and that if she was fishing for information about him she'd have to talk to you, just like I do.”

Oh, shit.

“Who called?” Delia asks. “Who was on the other line?”

“A courtesy call from Verizon,” I lie.

“You were on for a long time.”

“Well, they were being very courteous.”

“Eric,” Delia asks, “did my father say anything else about me?” Her question is clear as a bell; the cell phone reception is crystalline. But I hold the phone away from my ear. I make static noises. “Dee, can you hear me? I'm going under some power lines....”

“Eric?”

“I'm losing you,” I say, and I hang up while she is still talking. In the motion filed by Emma Wasserstein, Delia is referred to as the victim. Every time I read the word, I think how much she would hate that. Chris, Emma, and I sit in Judge Noble's chambers, waiting for His Honor to speak. Massive and formidable, he is busy spreading peanut butter on a cheese sandwich. “Do I look fat to you, Counselor?” the judge asks, although the question is directed at none of us in particular.

“Robust,” Emma answers.

“Healthy,” Chris adds.

Judge Noble pauses his knife and looks up at me. “Generous,” I suggest.

“You wish, Mr. Talcott,” the judge says. “I don't understand this whole good cholesterol, bad cholesterol thing. And I sure as hell don't understand why, if I'm going to eat a sandwich, I have to have a quarter of a teaspoon of peanut butter to go with it.” He takes a bite and grimaces. “You know why I'm going to lose weight on the Zone diet? Because no one in their right mind would eat any of this crap.” He takes a deep, rumbling breath and shifts in his chair. “I don't normally hold hearings during my lunch hour, but I'm going to suggest to my wife that perhaps I should. Because frankly, I find the subject of this motion so unpalatable that it has nearly ruined my appetite entirely. Why, if I got a dozen motions like this a day, my abs would look like Brad Pitt's.”

“Your Honor,” Chris says quickly, intercepting.

“Sit down, Mr. Hamilton. This isn't about you, and much to my chagrin, Mr. Talcott apparently has a mind of his own.” The judge levels his gaze at me. “Counselor, as I'm sure you're aware, witness tampering is one of the biggest ethical violations you can make as a defense attorney, one that will get your pro hoc vice revoked and your ass kicked out of Arizona and most likely every other Bar association in this country.”

“Absolutely, Judge Noble,” I agree. “But Ms. Wasserstein's allegations are false.” The judge frowns. “Are you or are you not engaged to your client's daughter?”

“I am, Your Honor.”

“Well, maybe in New Hampshire you've all intermarried so much that everyone's a cousin, and there aren't enough nonrelated attorneys to go around for your clients, but here in Arizona, we do things a little differently.”

'Your Honor, it's true that I have a personal relationship with Delia Hopkins. But it will not affect this case in any capacity, in spite of Ms. Wasserstein's specious allegations. Yes, Delia asks me about her father–but it's how he looks, and if he's being treated all right–questions that would be important on a personal level, and not a professional one."

“We could ask Delia to corroborate that,” Emma says tartly, “but she's probably already been coached in what to say.”

I turn to the judge. “Your Honor, I'll give you my word, and if that's not good enough, I'll swear under oath that I'm not violating any ethical measures here. If anything, I have even more responsibility to my client, because I'm trying to keep his daughter's best interests a priority as well.”

Emma folds her arms above the shelf of her belly. “You're too close to this case to do a decent job.”

“That's ridiculous,” I argue. “That's like saying that you can't try a child kidnapping case because you're about to drop your own baby any second, and your emotions might keep you from being objective. But if I said that out loud, I'd be skating on pretty thin ice, wouldn't I? You'd accuse me of being prejudicial and sexist and outright anachronistic, wouldn't you?”

“All right, Mr. Talcott, shut your mouth before I wire your jaw closed for you,” Judge Noble orders. “I'm making a finding on this right now. Your first obligation is to your client, not your fiancee. However, the State has to show me that you're actively engaging in witness tampering for me to actually remove you from this case, and Ms. Wasserstein has not proven that... yet. So you may remain Andrew Hopkins's attorney, Mr. Talcott, but make no mistake–every time you come into my courtroom, I'm going to be watching you. Every time you open your mouth, I'm going to be caressing my Rules of Professional Conduct. And if you make one wrong move, I'm going to refer you to the State Conduct Committee so fast you won't know what hit you.” He picks up his jar of peanut butter. “Oh, hell,” Judge Noble says, and he sticks two fingers into the Jif and scoops out a dollop to eat.

“Adjourned.”

When Emma Wasserstein gets up and drops her papers all over the floor, I lean down to grab them for her. “Watch your back, you hick,” she murmurs. I straighten. “Excuse me?”

The judge watches us over the rim of his glasses. “I said, Nice comeback, Eric,” Emma replies, and she smiles and waddles out of the room.

When I get home, Sophie is in the front yard, painting a prickly pear cactus pink. Her hands are small enough to weave the brush between the spines. I am sure that in this state, what she's doing is probably a felony, but frankly I am not in the mood to take any more family members onto my caseload. I pull the car up beside our elongated tin can and step out into the searing heat. Ruthann and Delia sit on nylon-woven folding chairs in the dust between our trailers, and Greta is sprawled in an exhausted puddle close to the paint can. “Why is Sophie painting the cactus?” Delia shrugs. “Because it wanted to be pink.”

“Ah.” I squat down next to Sophie. “Who told you that?”

“Duh,” Sophie says, with the kind of ennui that only four-year-olds can pull off.

“Magdelena.”

“Magdelena?”

'The cactus.“ She points to a saguaro a few feet to the left. ”That's Rufus, and the little one with a white beard is Papa Joe."

I turn to Ruthann. “You name your cacti?”

“Of course not... their parents do.” She winks at me. “There's cold tea inside, if you want some.”

I walk into her trailer and feel my way through the cabinets, past buttons and beads and rawhide-tied bundles of dried herbs, until I find a clean jelly jar. The pitcher of tea sweats on the counter; I fill my glass to the brim and am about to take a sip when the phone rings. After a moment I find the receiver under a stack of brown bananas. “Hello?”

“Is Ruthann Masa”wistiwa there?" a voice asks.

“Just a sec. Who's calling?”

'The Virginia Piper Cancer Center."

Cancer Center? I step to the door of the trailer. “Ruthann, it's for you.” She is wielding the paintbrush for Sophie, trying to work color under the tight armpit of the cactus. 'Take a message, Sikyatavo. I'm busy with Picasso, here."

“I think they really need to speak to you.”

She gives Sophie the paintbrush and steps into the trailer, letting the screen door slam behind her. I hold out the phone. “It's the hospital,” I say quietly. She looks at me for a long moment. “Wrong number,” she barks into the receiver, and then punches the off button. I am quite certain that she doesn't realize she's folded her arm like a bird's wing, tucked over her left breast. We all have our secrets, I suppose.

She keeps staring at me, until I incline my head just the tiniest bit, a promise to keep her confidence. When the phone rings again, she leans over and pulls the cord out of the wall. “Wrong number,” she says.

'Yes,“ I say quietly. ”It happens all the time to me.“ The McCormick Railroad Park is not crowded by the time we get there, just before sunset. With its combination playground-carousel-miniature-steam-engine ride, the sprawling recreational area is a hot spot for the kindergarten set. Delia invites Fitz to come along; and I invite Ruthann, who pulls her junk-lined trench coat out of her cavernous purse and begins to solicit her resale wares to tired mothers. I wait on the sidelines as Fitz and Delia take Sophie onto the carousel. She scrambles up onto a white horse with its neck straining forward. ”Come on,“ Fitz yells to me. ”What have you got to lose?"

“My dignity?”

Fitz swings onto a powder pink pony. “A guy who's secure in his manhood wouldn't be sitting out there like a loser.”

I laugh. “Yeah, and do you want me to hold your purse while you're on the ride?” Sophie fidgets on top of her horse as Delia tries to strap her in. “Nobody else has to wear the seat belt,” she complains. Delia chooses a black stallion beside Fitz's. I listen as the music tinkles to life and the carousel begins to vibrate. I won't admit this to any of them, but carousels scare the hell out of me. That calliope melody, and the way all the carved wooden horses seem to be in great pain–their eyes rolling wild, their yellow teeth bared, their bodies straining. As the carousel turns, the mirrored pillar in the center winks. Sophie comes into view and waves to me. Behind her, Delia and Fitz pretend to be jockeys, leaning forward on their horses.

The acne-pitted kid manning the controls flips the switch, and the carousel begins to wheeze to a stop. Sophie leans forward, caressing the plaster mane. Fitz and Delia appear again, standing up in the stirrups for a last stretch at the brass ring. They're batting at each other's hands and laughing. There's an S-curved steel bar at the top of the carousel that makes one of their horses rise as the other falls. It looks like they're moving separately, but they're not.

Two days later I land in the office of Sheriff Jack: head of the Maricopa County Jail system and general media hound, with a personality so colorful he could give up his day job and become a disco strobe light. Everything I've heard about him is, regretfully, true, from the spittoon that he keeps on his desk (and uses liberally) to the framed photos of himself with every living Republican president to the bologna sandwich he himself eats for lunch, along with his prisoners. “Let me get this straight,” he says, his amusement booming from beneath his bristled mustache,

“your client refuses to see you?”

“Yes, sir,” I say.

“But you wouldn't take no for an answer.”

I shift on my chair. “I'm afraid not, sir.”

“And Sergeant Concannon says that you ...” He looks down at a piece of paper in front of him. “Sweet-talked her in an effort to get access to the inmate's pod.” He glances up. “Sweet-talked?”

“She's a very handsome woman,” I say, swallowing.

“She's a hell of a detention officer, but she's about as pretty as the business end of a donkey. A man less tolerant than myself might consider that sexual harassment.”

The last thing I need is to have Sheriff Jack calling Judge Noble and having a little chat. “Well, sir,” I say, “I find older women attractive. Especially those who are ... diamonds in the rough.”

“Sergeant Concannon's so rough the carbons are still forming. Try again, boy.”

“Did I mention I have a friend who's a journalist from New Hampshire's largest paper, who'd like to write about you?” I will pay Fitz, if I have to. Hugely. Sheriff Jack laughs out loud. “I like you, Talcott.” I smile politely. “About my client, sir.”

“Sheriff Jack,” he corrects. “What about him?”

“If I could just be brought up to his cell, even for five minutes, I think I could convince him that he ought to sit down with me for the sake of his own case.”

“We don't allow attorneys into the pods. Unless, of course, they're criminals.” He thinks for a second. “Maybe we should put the attorneys in the pods.”

“Sheriff.” I meet his gaze. “I'd really like to have the opportunity to speak to Andrew Hopkins.”

There is a beat of silence. “A journalist, you said?”

“Award-winning,” I lie.

He gets to his feet. “Oh, hell. I need a good laugh.” Sheriff Jack himself escorts me to the elevator, up to the second floor. This is different from the visitation room; here, a central control tower monitors four spider arms that house the inmates. There are locks everywhere.

Everyone knows who Sheriff Jack is–as we walk through the halls, detention officers greet him, but even more impressively, so do the inmates. “Yo, yo, Sea Rag,” he says, as we pass a man who is being signed into his pod again.

“'Sup, Dawg,” the man replies, grinning.

Sheriff Jack turns to me proudly. “I speak it all. Ebonics, Spanish, you name it. I can say Get your ass in line in six different languages.” He puts his hand on a doorknob that buzzes, and then opens. Another inmate, this one wearing a pink tank top, slouches on a chair with his nose buried in The Fountainhead. Up and down his arms words are tattooed: Weiss Macht. “Put your shirt on,” Sheriff Jack orders.