Lawyer for the Dog Read online

  “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.

  “Oh, I forgot you were coming,” says Mindy Greene. She’s cracked the door open just wide enough to let me see half her face and a glimpse of her black bra and panties. “I’m kinda, not … Can you hold on a minute?” I wait on the front porch, look across the driveway to the Harts’ house. Mrs. Hart’s Mercedes is in the carport.

  When Mindy comes back to let me in she’s wearing a light blue College of Charleston sweatshirt and black tights that hug her ample bottom and stocky legs. “Sorry, like I said, I forgot. You want a beer or something?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Might have one myself.” She’s off to the kitchen. “Go ahead and sit down if you want to,” she yells. I hear the can pop. The house is one of the old Sullivan’s Island houses, like the Harts’, but it hasn’t been redecorated in quite a while: it’s like a museum to the nineteen fifties.

  “You live here by yourself?” I ask.

  “Yep. My grandmother left it to me in her will. I think she did it mostly to piss off my parents. She and my dad don’t get along.”

  “So, how long have you lived here?”

  “Four … five years.”

  “And you’re a student at the College of Charleston?”

  She laughs, takes a swig of her Coors. “Yeah, barely.”

  “What year?” I’m taking notes.

  “Whadya mean?”

  “Freshman, sophomore?”

  “Oh. Well, it’s kinda, you know, hard to tell … The thing is, I didn’t really want to go to college in the first place, but my grandmother put this thing in her will that I hafta graduate or else the house goes to some charity.”

  “Are you going full-time, or do you work?”

  “I take a couple of courses a semester, but I’ve flunked a few, so … No, I don’t work. She left me some dough. Sure I can’t get you something to drink? You look like you could use one!”

  What does she see? A middle-aged lawyer in her little brown suit and sensible pumps, dark circles under the eyes. “I don’t drink while I’m working. You understand why I’m here?”

  “Yeah. It’s ridiculous.”

  “Mrs. Hart—”

  “She’s completely nuts.”

  “Mrs. Hart has alleged that you, uh, had sexual relations with her husband, but the other lawyers will be dealing with that. I’m really more interested in—”

  “You know what? The old dude can’t even get it up anymore.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “’Cause he told me. We’re kinda like, you know, confidentials.”

  “Confidants?”

  “Yeah, that’s it.”

  “So you feel you know Mr. Hart pretty well?”

  “Better than his own wife does, I guess you could say.”

  “And how would you describe him?”

  “Sad. He’s just a sad old man.”

  I remember the detective’s affidavit: Elderly male subject and young woman later identified as Mindy Greene observed embracing and kissing on sofa in Hart beach residence. Some minutes later they share what appears to be a marijuana cigarette.

  “Has he ever kissed you?”

  “Sure. I know what you’re talking about. And that night wasn’t the first time, either. But it wasn’t like … I mean, it wasn’t a passion thing.”

  “What was it, then?”

  “Just an old-man kiss. I didn’t mind. He’s kinda like a grandfather or something. He doesn’t mean anything by it.”

  “So there was no other … no sex.”

  She laughs so hard she sends beer spray toward me. “I told you, he can’t get it up. And even if he could, he wouldn’t. He’s a gentleman.”

  “What about the marijuana?”

  “Yeah, I guess I gotta admit to that. He just wanted to try it.”

  “So, you brought it over?”

  “Right. He was feeling depressed, and I said, hey, you know man, when I need a little lift, I have a toke. So he tried it. But he didn’t like it. You need to write all this down?”

  “I’m just trying to understand—”

  “Good luck with that. Here’s what it looks like to me: two old married people get bored with each other. Nothing unusual, right? Then they have some kind of dumb argument and she tells him she doesn’t want to live with him anymore, sends him out here to the beach house. But then the old man doesn’t say, ‘Let’s get back together,’ because, you know what, he’s not miserable without her, in fact he realizes he was miserable with her, but he’d been kinda sup—oh, I forgot the word, you know, for when you feel something but you can’t admit it to yourself…”

  “Suppressing?”

  “Yeah. He’s been suppressing how bad he’s felt for so many years and now it’s just a relief to be living apart. So he doesn’t say, ‘Hey, let’s get back together.’ He just lets things ride. He’s okay living out here in the beach house. Matter of fact, he’d rather be out here than in that fancy place downtown. And this drives her crazy, ’cause she’s a control freak, and things aren’t going according to plan. So she gets herself a fancy downtown lawyer and they hire a dick to watch him out here, and what do you know, even though the dick can hardly hold his damn video camera he gets lucky one night and shoots these pictures of me and Mr. Hart doing stuff, I mean not really anything, like I told you, but I guess to a judge it looks—have you seen it? The video, I mean?”

  “No, but I’ve read the detective’s report. Where was the dog during all this?”

  “He was sleeping. Like I say, it wasn’t all that exciting.”

  “What I really want to focus on is Sherman, how the Harts relate to him. Have you had the opportunity to observe that?”

  “Yeah, more with him than her. When they were together she was always kinda standoffish. And now since she thinks—I mean, since she thinks there’s all this adultery stuff, she won’t even speak to me.”

  “But let’s go back to before they separated. How much time did they spend out here at the beach?”

  “They’d come out a lot in the winter. Not so much in the summer. And sometimes he’d come by himself for a few days and bring the dog. That’s how we got to know each other. He knew my grandmother, and I guess she must have asked him to look out for me.”

  “How did he look out for you?”

  “If he was ordering in a pizza or something he’d knock on my door, ’cause he knew I was all by myself, and ask me if I’d like some. Or if there was a storm and the power went off he’d check to see if I was okay. Things like that. And then we got to be friends, and he’d come out here by himself more, and he’d invite me over to watch a movie or talk.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “I don’t kno
w. Things. He was just lonely.”

  “But you said he seemed happier without her.”

  “I wouldn’t say happier. He was just relieved not to have to deal with her. But he’s not a happy camper. He’s got this real gloomy view of things, like the whole world is going to hell. Says nobody plays by the rules anymore, nobody’s honest, the whole country’s crazy, the government’s corrupt. Yada, yada, yada. But anyway, he’s interesting to talk to. Really smart. Full of opinions. And he always asks me stuff about my life, like he’s really interested. But not like, you know, in a creepy sort of way. And then he started helping me with my school stuff. I had this Econ 101 that was a real bitch of a course.”

  “So he was tutoring you?”

  “Yeah, I guess you could say that. He used to be a banker, so he understands all that stuff. He was real patient with me. I’m not, you know, that great when it comes to math and graphs and stuff.”

  “What’s your major?”

  “Business. One of these days I want to open my own nail parlor. We need another one out here on the beach.”

  “So, how much time would you say you spent with Mr. Hart before his wife filed the divorce case?”

  “Not that much, but I guess it was enough to piss her off. Once, before she hired the detective, she left a note in my mailbox, like, you know, My husband is not emotionally well, or something like that, and said it wouldn’t be a good idea to spend too much time with him, ’cause he might take it the wrong way. It was really weird.”

  “Do you have the note?”

  “Nah. I threw it away. She’s the nut in the family, if you ask me.”

  “Did you tell Mr. Hart about it?”

  “Sure. He told me to forget it. I was in the middle of studying for the final in the econ course, and he wasn’t going to let me down.”

  “And so, going back to the dog—when Mr. Hart spent time out here, would he bring Sherman?”