Lawyer for the Dog Page 8

  “My Joe?”

  “Well, if you want him, I guess.” She laughs.

  “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “Maybe you did.”

  “Stop.”

  “Okay, I guess you don’t want to know any more…”

  “But you’re going to tell me anyway, right?”

  “I won’t force it on you,” she says.

  “Like hell you won’t.”

  “Whoa, girl. You’re still pretty raw after all this time, aren’t you?”

  “I’m not raw, but I don’t understand why you came all the way over here to tell me something you could just as well have told me over the telephone.”

  “Just thought you might want to talk about it,” Ellen says through a bite of her sandwich.

  “What’s there to talk about?”

  “Don’t you want to know the gossip?”

  “Not really.” But of course I do.

  “He left Susan.”

  “I heard they were separated.” Why am I being so cagey with my best friend?

  “I guess it’s out, then.”

  “Another woman?”

  “Not the Honorable Joseph Henry Baynard III. In a way, though, it’s even worse. The idiot tells Susan he’s in love with someone else. He tells her he hasn’t done anything, but he’s in love. He actually asks her to help him ‘work through it.’”

  “That went over well, I’m sure.”

  “Yeah. She went ballistic. And of course you know who everyone thinks the other woman is.” Ellen smiles a wicked smile, as if she’s caught me.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Oh, don’t pretend to be so dense.”

  “Stop it!” The sound of my own shouting shocks me.

  “Oh, honey … I didn’t realize…” Ellen drops her sandwich, comes around to my side of the table, and bends down to hug me. “I thought you…”

  “You thought what? That I’d be delirious with joy?”

  “I thought you’d want to know. Haven’t you wondered why he got you involved in that dog case?”

  “He’s appointed me on lots of cases. All the judges appoint me. It’s a pain in the ass, but I do a good job.”

  “But this case … He went out of his way to give this dog a lawyer.”

  “The case is tying up his court. He’s hoping I’ll help settle it.”

  “You aren’t thinking rationally. If the case is really driving him crazy, why would he insist on hearing all the motions himself? He’s the administrative judge, he can assign the motions to other judges, but instead he’s keeping the whole case for himself.”

  “I hadn’t really thought about it. Maybe because it’s such an unusual case?”

  “That’s bullshit, and you know it. He’s still in love with you and he knows if he calls you and says, Sally, I’m still in love with you and I need to see you, you’d tell him you’re not interested, so he involves you in the case from hell, gets you into his courtroom for a dozen motion hearings and a trial and then, who knows…”

  “He doesn’t need to play games like that,” I say. “He was just here yesterday, as a matter of fact…”

  “What?”

  “… but he didn’t say anything about being in love with me.”

  “The man has some pride,” Ellen says. “What was he doing here, then?”

  “He was delivering a motion that was just filed.”

  “Right.”

  “I know, it was pretty lame, but I just think he’s going through a bad time. He’s having a mid-life crisis, not thinking straight.”

  “He told his wife he’s been in love with you since the divorce. He never stopped loving you, in fact.”

  “What an idiot,” I say, but I feel something I haven’t felt in a long time. I push it away. It’s too dangerous.

  “And after he confessed, like the gentleman that he is, he moved out the next day.”

  “Where are you getting your information?”

  “She told her sister, and her sister’s best friend is my—”

  “Never mind. If it’s true, he’ll get over it. They’ll work things out. They’ve been together for what … sixteen, seventeen years? What about the kids?”

  “The boys are away at some boarding school. The same one Joe—”

  “St. Paul’s.”

  “Yes.”

  “He had no right to involve me. There’s nothing going on between us…”

  “He made that clear to her. But of course she doesn’t believe him. Looking at the case from her point of view—”

  “It isn’t a case—”

  “Okay, looking at the situation from her point of view, you’re already involved. Maybe it was a long time ago, but it’s not as if the whole thing is a figment of her imagination, is it?”

  “So, I’m innocent, but I’ve already been convicted.”

  “‘Innocent’ might be a stretch,” she says. “You’d better stick with ‘not guilty.’ There’s a difference.”

  We finish our lunch, quiet for a while. Then she looks at me with those unwavering blue eyes of hers. “You haven’t really said how you feel about him.”

  “I feel sorry for him.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all.” But she knows I’m lying. The truth is, I don’t understand what I’m feeling. I just know it’s dangerous. “I guess I need to get out of the dog case.”

  Ellen looks at me suspiciously. “Assuming you want to discourage him.”

  “Of course I do. I’ll make a motion to be relieved.”

  “You think you can put this on the record? Your honor, I move to be relieved as guardian ad litem for the dog because it has come to my attention that you are in love with me. No, that won’t work. Where are you so far, in the case?”

  “I’ve reviewed the pleadings, interviewed Mr. and Mrs. Hart, spent some time with the dog, done some research. I’m driving out to talk to the vet this afternoon.”

  I can practically hear the gears shift in Ellen’s brain. “Yeah, interview the vet. Get him to say that all this back and forth—this split custody—is bad for … What’s his name?”

  “Sherman.”

  “Right. Get him to say that Sherman, like all dogs, needs consistency. Then maybe you can move to bifurcate, get an expedited trial on the issue of who gets the dog. Yes, that makes sense: a short trial on the dog issue, which would be separate from the rest of the stuff, the property division and alimony and all that. You only need to be involved in the dog issues. It’ll save the parties money, too, since they won’t be paying you to sit around through hours of depositions and days of trial.”

  “That’s a good idea.”

  “But you realize this doesn’t solve the whole problem,” Ellen says. “It just gets you through this one case sooner. Limits your exposure to Joe, assuming that’s what you want.”

  “Of course it’s what I want.” But I can’t look her in the eye.

  “I hate to bring this up,” Ellen says, “but you haven’t done anything to encourage this, have you?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “No secrets from me, right?”

  “No secrets.”

  “Because you know you can talk to me.”

  “Ellen…”

  “Okay, okay.” She stands up to go. “I forgot to ask … What kind of dog is it, anyway?”

  “Miniature schnauzer. Very cute. Smart, too. Want to see a photo?”

  “Sounds like you’re falling in love.”

  “He’s a nice dog, but it’s still crazy for them to fight over him, don’t you think?”

  “I’d fight over Hershey.”

  “Come on, you mean it? He’s a dog, not a child.”

  “Tell you what, Sally Baynard, you get yourself a dog, let him work his way into your heart for a couple of years, then try to imagine life without him.”

  Not Too Much Pressure

  If you’re a woman past forty it’s risky to look at yourself in the rearview mirror, especial
ly on a late afternoon when the slanting sun accentuates every wrinkle. Who is that woman? I never get used to seeing her, the one who pretends to be me.

  The real me, the one I always expect to see, is about twenty-five. Her eyes are clear and bright, so green they startle you. Those eyes are brimming with energy and optimism, as if there is nothing she can’t do, nothing she can’t handle.

  My friends say, “You look great for your age,” and yes, I still have the nice thick brown hair (with only a few streaks of gray) and the good skin and the trim figure (okay, the thighs could use a little work), but I’m not that spunky woman who graduated from law school second in her class, ready to fight for the rights of the underdog, that woman who had as much heart as brain, and who would give it all for what she believed in—including Joe Baynard.

  She didn’t disappear all of a sudden; it’s more like she dissolved little by little, so slowly I hardly noticed—like an old color photo gradually fading until one day you can’t see it at all—and yet I still expect to see her when I look in the mirror.

  This afternoon, as I drive to the vet’s office, I try to let her go, try to concentrate on the traffic. It’s bumper to bumper across the Ashley River and down Folly Road, but it eases up after I cross the Wappoo Cut and turn onto Maybank Highway, over the Stono River Bridge and then onto Johns Island.

  The island isn’t what it used to be. The developers have chopped up the old farms, turned them into places with faux antebellum houses and ostentatious names—“Palmetto Plantation,” “Eagle Landing,” “The Estates at Mackay’s Point”—but eventually these give way to stubbled fields and brick bungalows, rundown roadside restaurants. Turn right at Buzzy’s Barbecue, he’d said, and come on down about a quarter mile. You’ll see my building, one story, concrete block, kind of beige. I should be finishing up about five. The sign out front, VETERINARY CLINIC, is small and plain, a sort of anti-advertisement, half-hidden behind a bush.

  Inside, the smell of disinfectant can’t mask the odor of animal, a rich olfactory mix both ancient and fresh, that seems to have permeated the whole place. I imagine the thousands of dogs and cats who’ve come and gone in this place, the young and healthy who were brought for their shots, the injured and sick and old, the ones who’ll be put to sleep, but this close to closing time there’s only one dog—a dachshund—who jerks against her leash when I come in.

  “Hillary! Sit!” says the owner, a woman slumped in one of the green plastic chairs as if she’s been here a while.

  The receptionist slides the glass window open when she sees me. “You’re Ms. Baynard, right? He’s with an emergency right now, and then he’s got one more patient.”

  “Fine,” I say, though I’m annoyed. The stack of magazines isn’t promising: Cat World, Sporting Dog, Able’s Veterinary Supply, and People.

  The woman with the dachshund leans toward me. “Here, I’m finished with this one,” she says, handing me a catalogue, PetStuff. “It’s old, but they got some neat things in here.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You picking up your pet?”

  “No.” I don’t want to tell her I’m a lawyer. That can be dangerous, because the next question will be, What kind of lawyer? And if I tell the truth, I wonder if you’d mind answering a question? I have this girlfriend who’s not happy in her marriage … It’s amazing how many girlfriends have trouble in their marriages.

  “Dr. Borden’s been taking care of my Hillary for years. He’s just the sweetest, kindest man. So sad, what happened.”

  I have no idea what she’s talking about. I flip through the catalogue. There’s a dog ski jacket on sale for $39.95. Pink or blue. I wonder what kind of person buys a ski jacket for a dog.

  She continues: “His ex-wife moved to California, took their son. The doc hardly sees him anymore.”

  I’m about to mumble a noncommittal answer when the receptionist calls out, “Hillary, we’re ready for you.” The dachshund jumps to attention, then remembers where she is and freezes until her owner coaxes her through a door leading back into the clinic.

  I open my briefcase, get out a legal pad, and start a to-do list.

  Work:

  Prepare for Vogel trial

  Draft motion to bifurcate in Hart v. Hart

  Send out discovery requests, Silber case

  Schedule meeting of Pro Bono Committee

  Revise Follett brief

  Write letter to J. Johnson re: past due bill

  Other:

  Schedule Mom’s appt with Dr. Payne

  Refill prescriptions

  Call dishwasher repair guy

  Haircut

  Dry cleaning

  I keep a to-do list on my phone, but it’s always so long that it discourages me. This handwritten list seems less threatening, though I always feel there’s something I’m forgetting.

  In the early days of her Alzheimer’s, my mother kept lots of lists. When she started to include things like “brush teeth” and “wash face” I knew there was something really wrong. And then she began to lose the lists. I’d try to console her: “Mom, don’t worry about it. If you forget something, I’ll remind you.” But she panicked. She’d roam from room to room, tearing through piles of papers, looking under magazines, even through the underwear in her dresser, for the lost lists. She’d cry. Sometimes she’d scream. That’s when I hired Delores.

  The receptionist opens her window again. “I’ll be leaving now,” she says. “But he shouldn’t be much longer. You want a Coke or some water or something?”

  “No thanks.” I look at my watch. I’ve been here an hour already.

  I go back to the catalogue, skim through the pages of dog food choices, move on to the toys. There’s a “bone” that floats on water, a special line of “fitness toys,” and then a page of Martha Stewart toys for pets. “Unbelievable!” I say aloud, just as the vet opens the door. He looks exhausted, his blue scrubs covered with stains and animal hair.

  “I told you that stuff is really neat, huh?” says the lady to me. “If you go online you can get coupons.” Her dog is eager to leave the clinic and pulls her out the door.

  “Sorry you had to wait,” says the vet. “Just give me a minute to wash up and change.”

  “No problem.”

  He comes back in a plaid shirt and blue jeans. He’s tall, trim. “I haven’t eaten all day. Mind if we talk over dinner?”

  I’ve already arranged for the night sitter to take over when Delores leaves. “Okay.”

  “There’s a pretty good seafood place not far down the road.”

  “That’s fine.” No need to go into the vegetarian thing.

  “I can drive you over there and bring you back. Provided you don’t mind a messy truck.” It’s an old pickup. “Just throw your stuff in the backseat. You might have to yank on the seat belt a little.” I feel way overdressed in my black suit and matching black heels. “The place has great fried oysters,” he says. “Only trouble is, you have to watch where you park. At high tide half the parking lot goes under.”

  He turns onto the main road for maybe half a mile, then we bump along a rut-ridden dirt road that winds over the marsh. “Sorry about the shocks. Truck’s not much to look at, but it’s dependable. And my girls like to ride in the back.”

  “How old are they?”

  “Six and seven. Susie and Sheba.” He laughs. “Oh, you think … no, they’re retrievers. Here we are.” He comes around to open the door, takes my hand to help me down. “Watch your step. It’s a swamp out here.”

  Inside the place looks more like a fishing shack than a restaurant: four or five tables covered with red-and-white canvas tablecloths, a hand-drawn sign, RESTROOM OUT BACK, but it’s clean. We take a table near the window over the creek. When I order a salad, the waitress looks at me as if I’m an alien.

  “You can’t come here unless you try the fried oysters,” the vet says. “Best seafood in Charleston County. Right, Caroline?”

  “Right, Doc.”

  “Ok
ay, I’ll try them.” At least it’s not beef.

  “Fries or baked potato?”

  “Baked potato, please.”

  “Beer, Doc?” asks Caroline.

  “Sure.” He looks my way, “What’s your pleasure?” He gestures toward the sign over the cooler which lists, along with the seafood offerings, the beverage choices: iced tea, coffee, a selection of beers.

  “I have to drive home.”

  “Don’t make me drink alone.”

  “A Dos Equis, then.”

  “We’re outta them,” says the waitress.

  “Then bring us a couple of Coronas,” he says.

  “None of them today, either.”

  He orders two Buds, and when she leaves he leans toward me. “I always forget. The beer list is a fiction. It’s Bud or Bud Lite. Unless they’re out of Bud Lite.” He brushes a stray strand of hair off his forehead, and even in the dim light of the restaurant I can see how nice his eyes are, brown, deep-set, behind glasses held together with a safety pin at the temple. “So, you said you had some questions.”

  “You understand what my role is, right?” I say.

  “I think so, but this is the first time one of my dogs has had a lawyer!” He smiles, but even with the smile there’s something sad about him.

  “It’s the first time I’ve served as lawyer for a dog, so we’re even.”

  “I guess I shouldn’t say my dogs, but I feel like they’re all mine, in a way.” He plays with his paper napkin, unfolding it, folding it. Maybe he’s nervous around lawyers.

  I take a sip of my beer. “This is a lot like a custody case, or at least Judge Baynard is treating it like a custody case. He—”

  “Baynard. Any kin?”

  “Distant.” I don’t want to explain. “Anyway, the judge is treating this like a child custody case, despite the fact that in South Carolina the law is pretty clear that a dog is just property, like a piece of furniture.”

  “Well, Sherman’s a good deal livelier than a piece of furniture.”

  “He certainly is. But what I’m trying to say is that I don’t have any experience representing animals, because as far as I can tell this is the first time any court in South Carolina has appointed a lawyer to look after the best interests of an animal. There aren’t any precedents except from other states.”