Lawyer for the Dog Read online

  I was young and inexperienced. I shared her righteous indignation. After all, this wasn’t the first time her boyfriend had betrayed her with other women, and he’d forged her welfare check to buy drugs. This SOB, I thought, deserved what he got. I gave a dramatic closing argument. One of the men on the jury cried. A couple of the women nodded their heads. Yes, I thought, they’re with me.

  But the jury deliberated for only half an hour. When the foreman stood up and uttered the words “guilty” and “murder” in a loud, unequivocal voice, I almost fainted.

  What had I done wrong? I’d lost my judgment. I’d let myself believe her.

  I’ve lost other cases, of course, but I’ve never gotten used to it. I always feel I’ve failed—not just for my client, but maybe for justice in general, although I know that sounds corny. I still believe in justice, though I always give my clients my “Beware of the Notion of Justice” speech.

  It goes something like this: Justice is an ideal we strive for, but it doesn’t exist in the real world. The judge who’ll hear your case is a real-live, messed-up human being just like you and me, with pimples and prejudices, and on the day she or he bangs the gavel to start your so-called fair trial, she or he may have hemorrhoids or a hangover, or at best will just be in a hurry to move on, to finish up early for that golf game, or a kid’s soccer match, or to take a nap. So forget justice. You don’t want to gamble your life or your children’s future on the temperament of that particular human being. You want to settle on something reasonable, something you can live with. I know, it’s not fair. Maybe justice prevails somewhere out there in a different universe, but it’s a rare commodity here in the courts of Charleston County, South Carolina.

  I hate giving this speech. I hate the sound of my own voice, the sourness and cynicism in it. But it’s my duty to try to save my clients from their own fantasies, their own childlike belief in a perfect world.

  Or maybe I’m just steering them—and myself—away from the possibility of another devastating loss. Twice in my adult life I’ve suffered losses that had nothing to do with the law, losses that knocked me flat, like those giant waves that catch you off guard, roll you over and hurl you onto the hard beach of your own hardheaded self.

  After the miscarriage I stayed in bed for a week. Physically I was fine, but I couldn’t make myself think about going back to the firm, couldn’t eat, couldn’t even get dressed. Joe was dealing with his own grief, but he was clueless about mine: “I don’t understand, Sally. You didn’t want the baby in the first place.” Which was true. We’d talked about having children and I’d told him I wasn’t ready. But I’d been careless, forgetting to take my birth control pills because in the midst of all our arguing, we were rarely having sex, and after the miscarriage I felt guilty in a way I couldn’t make sense of, as if I’d been a bad mother to a child I’d never even met.

  Joe was patient, sweet, supportive, but he wanted a child. He wanted a wife who’d have no hesitation about trying to get pregnant again right away. “You’ll be a great mother,” he said, with too much enthusiasm. Of course he also wanted the kind of wife who wouldn’t embarrass him with her politics, her outspokenness, a wife who knew how to throw a fabulous party, who wanted what he wanted: a big house downtown, a comfortable, untroubled life. “My mother can get you in the Junior League,” he said, as if he’d forgotten who he was talking to.

  Before the miscarriage I’d been considering a separation, but I still loved him, even after all the feuding. He was—and is—a kind and decent man. Afterward, though, I could see with awful clarity how different we were. He deserved a wife who’d make him happy. I deserved … I didn’t know exactly what, except that it wasn’t this uneasy truce.

  He cried. I cried. I found an apartment, hired a mover.

  And again I was blindsided. How could I feel such grief over the loss of something I’d decided to give up? I’ve never told Joe about the times—in those first few months after I left him—I thought about going back. I nearly lost my nerve. How would I lead the rest of my life, the next year, even the next few months, alone? I’d looked forward to dinners by myself, eating what I wanted to eat—an artichoke, some yogurt, or nothing at all—but I found I dreaded eating alone. I left the firm and felt a temporary lift at having my old job back again, but soon found my cubicle at the P.D.’s office depressing: those stacks of files crowding the top of the dented metal desk, the swivel chair that screeched when I turned to answer the phone, the torn linoleum floor. I had a new roster of about one hundred clients, but they came with a slew of problems even the best trial lawyer couldn’t solve: poverty and poor education, addiction, a string of prior convictions.

  After the divorce I drafted a name-change petition to become “Sarah Bright” again, but I never went through with it. I’d established myself professionally as “Baynard” and going back to my maiden name, I told myself, would just complicate things. I carry Joe’s name behind mine now, and sometimes it feels like the weight of all my failures in this life, all my losses.

  * * *

  My mother is safe in the car with Delores, wrapped in a beach towel, but there’s no sign of Sherman.

  I’m drenched, freezing, but I keep running. My breath burns in my chest, but the wind pushes me forward, gives me the impetus to keep going, though there’s thunder and lightning now and everyone else has fled the beach. In the distance I make out something on the sand, a creature traveling away from me with a strange, unsteady gait—a desperate dog, I think, a dog who’s been hurt—and I run to catch up with it, but when I come closer I see it’s just a gray plastic bag filled with wind.

  “Sherman!” I yell, but the wind carries the sound of my voice off into nothingness. “Sherman!” I’m not even calling the dog anymore, I’m just screaming.

  These Things Happen

  I can see in Maryann Hart’s eyes what she sees when she opens her front door: not a woman, but a girl, a child as big as a woman but a child nevertheless, a wretched overgrown child who’s rung her doorbell by mistake, some homeless creature whose wet clothes cling to her angular body and drip onto the doormat.

  “I’m so sorry,” I blurt out. “I don’t know what—”

  I expect her to slam the door in my face. Maybe I want her to slam the door in my face so I won’t have to explain what’s happened. I want to run away, back to my office, where I’ll draft the order for Joe Baynard to sign, firing me and appointing someone else, some fit and proper lawyer for the dog, someone who’s actually capable of walking a schnauzer on a leash without losing him.

  But Mrs. Hart doesn’t slam the door. “Oh, dear,” she says, “That’s why I was so nervous about letting you … He does this sometimes, with people he’s not used to.” She’s clearly worried, but she doesn’t blame or scold. Before I know it she’s bringing me a towel, wiping my face, doing her best to calm me down. “Sherman knows his way home. We just have to hope no one picks him up. He’s too friendly for his own good.”

  This is not the same Mrs. Hart I met an hour ago, so I risk telling her the whole story: how I left my mother and Delores on the beach, thinking they’d have a nice respite from the condo, my mother’s unplanned ocean adventure. “I’ll drive them home,” I say, still breathless, “and come back. Maybe I can find him. He can’t have gone too far.”

  “You’re not listening, sweetie,” she says. Her “sweetie” sounds at once reassuring and tender. “Sherman knows his way home. He doesn’t like being out on the rain, so I’m sure he’ll be back soon. You just settle down and I’ll make you a cup of hot tea.”

  “But I need to get my mother home.”

  “How thoughtless of me! They can’t sit out there in the car all wet, can they? By all means, bring them in.”

  That’s how we all end up in Mrs. Hart’s kitchen drinking hot mint tea, wrapped in her “old everyday” bathrobes, which seem pretty elegant to me, while our clothes roll around in the dryer. “Would you like something stronger?” she asks. “It’s not quite five o
’clock yet, but I suppose we could break that silly little rule in a situation like this, don’t you think?” There’s a wine glass and a half-empty bottle of chardonnay on the counter. Maybe that explains her mood change.

  “Tea is fine,” I say, speaking for all of us. My mother doesn’t seem to care, or even know where she is. “I really am so sorry…”

  “Don’t be silly,” says Mrs. Hart, pouring herself a generous helping of wine. “These things happen. You just never know, do you, what life is going to throw at you? Marriage, for instance. Who would think, after forty years … but you’ve been married, right, Sally?”

  I’m sure her lawyer told her everything he knows about my marriage to Judge Joe, a story which no doubt included some juicy and fictitious details, now part of the local lawyer-lore. “I was married for a short while, yes.”

  “And you, Denise?” Mrs. Hart leans forward.

  “Delores,” says Delores. “No, ma’am. Ain’t fallen into that trap so far.”

  “Trap,” my mother repeats. “Trap in the bathroom.”

  “Do you need to use the bathroom, dear?” asks Mrs. Hart.

  My mother shakes her head. “Trap in the bathroom,” she repeats. So I have to explain to Mrs. Hart that a couple of weeks ago my mother locked herself in a restroom stall at the restaurant where I’d taken her to celebrate her birthday. For ten minutes I tried to coax her out—“All you have to do is turn that metal lock, Mom”—before I gave up and crawled into her stall from the adjoining one. She didn’t seem surprised to see my head at her feet and smiled as if we did this sort of thing every day.

  “How awful for you,” says Mrs. Hart to my mother, “but aren’t you lucky to have such a devoted daughter? I wish I could say the same for myself.”

  “I’ll get our things out of the dryer,” I say.

  “You can change in the bedroom on the right, at the end of the hall.” Mrs. Hart points the way. The room is dark and cool, decorated in the same expensive-rustic style as the living room. Delores helps my mother while I dress. There are some framed photographs on top of the dresser: a baby on the beach, a young girl—eight or nine—in a Brownie uniform, a color picture of a pretty teenager in what looks like a prom dress. I pick this one up, study it in the dim light.

  “Must be her daughter,” says Delores, coming up behind me. “Same eyes.”

  “She doesn’t have any children.”

  “Maybe a niece, then.”

  I make a mental note to ask Mrs. Hart if she has any relatives who will be testifying about her relationship with Sherman, then remind myself that I probably won’t be his lawyer much longer. I can’t even be trusted to spend twenty minutes with him.

  When we’re ready to leave, Mrs. Hart opens the front door to let us out. I apologize again. She gives me a huge hug, a hug I think may be inspired by wine, but it feels good.

  And then out of nowhere comes Sherman, his little legs covered with sand, his gray coat wet and matted, and his eyebrows dripping. In his mouth he carries something almost as big as he is—my mother’s stuffed chihuahua. He drops it on the porch and then sits and looks up at me, his eyes connecting with mine, steady and calm, as if to say, “What were you so worried about? I found your dog!”

  Mrs. Hart picks him up and he licks her face. “You know where home is, don’t you, Sherman?” There’s sand and mud all over her blouse but she doesn’t seem to care.

  * * *

  “She was a nice lady,” says Delores as we head back to town.

  “Her husband says she’s an alcoholic.”

  “He left her over liquor?”

  “She left him. She moved out here and left him with the house downtown,” I explain. “They own both.”

  “So if they got two houses, how come they need to bother with a divorce?”

  “I guess they’re just sick of each other. Anyway, she doesn’t want to stay in the beach house permanently. And they’re fighting over the dog. The judge is going to have to decide who gets Sherman.”

  “They could just toss a coin, save themselves a lot of trouble. Whoever loses just goes and buys themselves another dog,” says Delores. “If they got two houses, they got the money to buy another dog.”

  “This dog is like a child to them.”

  “How long they been married?”

  “About forty years.”

  “If I was the judge I wouldn’t let people that old get a divorce,” Delores says with great authority. “Seems like you get to a certain point, you been married for almost forever, you shouldn’t be allowed.”

  The Dowager of Domestic Relations

  After yesterday’s tumultuous day at the beach, my office this morning is a haven of calm until the call from Rick Silber, my (as Gina writes on the message pad) “psycho psych prof.” At our last meeting he decided to drop his divorce case, but fortunately I haven’t had time to call his wife’s lawyer, because now Rick’s talked to his daughter, who talked to his wife, and he’s not so sure.

  “You won’t believe this,” he says. “I thought she’d be grateful when she found out I wanted to drop the whole thing, but she wants to proceed with the divorce. Said she doesn’t want to go to her grave married to me. Her words exactly.” There’s that tightness in his voice, punctuated by a swallow, that tells me he’s holding back tears. “And my girlfriend’s left me. So I guess I’m going to die alone.”

  “You’re not anywhere close to dying, Rick.” Do I need to remind him that he isn’t the one who’s just been diagnosed with invasive breast cancer?

  “I’m forty-five,” he says with a sigh. “And I have serious health problems.”

  “You do?” Isn’t he a marathon runner, a health nut who panics if he gains so much as half a pound?

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t remember you telling me about any health problems.”

  “It’s, uh, kind of personal.”

  “If it might affect your ability to earn a living, I need to know about it.”

  “It won’t affect my job,” he says. “It has to do with my sex life.”

  “Oh.” I’m not at all sure I want to hear about Rick Silber’s sex life. I know already, of course, that his paramour is a much younger woman, his former graduate student, a fellow marathoner. And I know that if the divorce case ever goes to trial I’ll have to bring her in for an interview, get the down-and-dirty, prepare her for a deposition and then for a nasty cross-examination.

  “I can’t … you know, get it up all the time,” he says.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Yeah, on top of everything else that’s going on, it’s pretty tough. I’ve tried Viagra, but it gives me a headache. You have no idea how depressing the whole thing—”

  “Rick, listen, I’ve got a conference call scheduled in five minutes.” This is a lie. “And I’m not really the person you need to talk to about this. What about your therapist?” He’s been going to his therapist once a week for twenty years.

  “You think I’m an ass, don’t you?” he asks.

  “Of course not, but I think you really need to talk to your—”

  “What’s the use? My life is totally screwed up.”

  “Maybe your daughter…,” I say.

  “I know. You’re busy. I’m screwed up and you’re a lawyer and you don’t deal with the personal stuff.”

  “That’s not fair.” I deal with the personal stuff all the time. In the divorce business, there’s no avoiding it.

  “Sorry,” he says.

  But now he has me on the defensive. “I can get you in early next week. We’ll review everything, see where we stand.”

  “We did that a couple of days ago.”

  “But you just told me your wife wants the divorce. So even if you dismiss your complaint, she can go ahead with her counterclaim.”

  “Sounds like you just want to charge me another five hundred dollars.”

  “Rick, if you’re unhappy with my representation, you can—”

  “It’s
not you. I’m fed up with everything. Mostly myself.”

  “Just call Gina when you’re ready to come in again. And in the meantime, we’ll sit tight, but you should start working on your answers to those interrogatories.”

  “Sally?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re a saint for putting up with me.”

  I’m no saint. I put up with Rick Silber because he pays my bills. In exchange, he puts up with my bluntness because he knows I’m thorough and I’m tough and I won’t rip him off. I’ll stand up to bullies on the other side, but won’t waste his money bullying back with frivolous motions and outrageous accusations. I won’t yell at him even when he’s driving me nuts.

  I put up with Rick Silber because he needs me. I need him, too, and not just because he pays my bills. The relationship may be dysfunctional, but it works. If you interviewed all my clients you’d have a hard time finding a normal one in the bunch. They’re all screwed up. So am I. We’re like a big, messy family. Sometimes I hate them, sometimes I love them, but I do my darnedest to help them through their crises, their divorces, and their custody battles.

  How did I come to this? How did Sarah Bright Baynard, that fresh-faced idealist just out of law school, the twenty-four-year-old devoted to representing the downtrodden and the unfairly accused, come to be the Dowager of Domestic Relations?

  I can’t blame it on Joe. Sure, he’d convinced me to leave the public defender’s office to join his family firm, but soon after our separation I’d managed to get my old job back. Within a year I was chief public defender, the top job, but after another year I wasn’t sure I wanted it. The truth is, I’d run out of steam. I’d work my butt off to save a client, get him probation, only to find him back on the jail list. The first time it happened, I convinced myself it wasn’t the defendant’s fault. He lived with his mother—an addict herself—on the East Side, in the worst housing project in Charleston. He’d never known his father. He’d grown up right under the Cooper River Bridge but had never even been across it, and though the Atlantic Ocean was minutes away he’d never seen it.