March 15, 1993
Conrad Wainwright stood in the judge’s chambers with Mimsy on one side and the sheriff, Buddy Rice, on the other. He glanced at his watch—a gold Rolex, with diamonds marking the hours—and wondered how long it would be before he had to hock it and go back to wearing a thirty-dollar Timex from Discount World.
The Rolex said 9:15. The judge had kept them waiting for a full fifteen minutes. A power play, most likely. A ploy to make him increasingly nervous.
Harriet Dove, the judge’s name was. Probably one of those women’s lib types who loved lording it over males. Conrad couldn’t stand feminists. Their primary goal in life, it seemed, was to emasculate men, to use whatever authority they could muster to make him feel like a fool. All the lady lawyers he knew kept telling him it was time for him to get with the program, to come into the nineties and stop acting like a chauvinist pig. He had learned, over the years, to put on a good front so as not to irritate them or get himself accused of harassment, but privately Con still held to the belief that a woman’s place was in the kitchen—definitely not in the courtroom or the operating room, and most certainly not on the judge’s bench.
He cleared his throat and shifted nervously from one foot to the other. He would have to watch himself with this Judge Dove—would probably have to grovel and say “Your Honor” and “yes ma’am” to her. It made him sick. Who on earth had come up with the insane idea that a female—a girl—could ever be rational enough to serve as a judge? The law demanded clearheaded reasoning, not mushy emotionalism.
Still, his future—his solvency—was in Harriet Dove’s hands. He’d have to be careful, all right.
At 9:23, the side door opened and a woman walked in and seated herself behind the desk. Con had to restrain himself from laughing—or at the very least, from gaping. The tiny woman with short blonde hair, a narrow chin, and huge horn-rimmed glasses looked like Tweety Bird in a black robe. A child playing court. The front panel of the desk blocked his view of her legs, but Conrad could imagine that her feet were swinging free, unable to touch the floor.
When she spoke, the Tweety Bird image vanished from his mind. “Be seated.”
They sat.
“All right, Sheriff,” she said in a low-pitched, commanding voice, “what do we have here?”
Buddy Rice took a step forward. “This is Conrad Wainwright, your honor, and his wife, Mimsy. He’s the son of Miss Amethyst Noble.”
Judge Dove peered over the top of her glasses. “I understand you seem to be having a bit of trouble with your mother?”
Conrad took his cue, nodded, and responded in his best lawyer-voice, “Yes, Your Honor. My mother is quite elderly and has become, well, intractable. She needs care, but refuses to be moved from the family home.”
The judge shuffled some papers on her desk, then looked up again. “You say that she kidnapped your granddaughter, a teenager over whom you have custody, and drove you and your wife off the premises at gunpoint?”
“She did, Your Honor. The sheriff here witnessed everything.”
“Buddy? What’s your take on this? Is Miss Amethyst incompetent?”
Rice hooked a thumb in his belt and considered his answer. “Her behavior is, well, a little eccentric. But the girl is seventeen, and claims that she is not being held against her will.”
“Anybody get shot at?”
“No ma’am.”
“Any crime committed?”
“Not that I can tell,” Buddy answered. “As Miss Amethyst said, she has the right to lock her own doors.”
“Against her only son?” Conrad interrupted. “She’s ninety-three years old, Judge! Anything could happen in there!”
Judge Dove cast a withering look in Con’s direction. “Mr. Wainwright, we may be in chambers rather than in a courtroom, but this is still my territory. You will not interrupt, nor will you give an opinion until you are asked for it. Understood?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Conrad lowered his eyes, not out of humility, but so that she couldn’t see the rage that was building in him. This judge was just what he expected—a women’s libber who took delight in cutting a man down to size.
“Go on, Buddy.”
“Well, Your Honor, I told Con and Mimsy here that Miss Amethyst was perfectly within her rights to refuse them entrance to the house. And the girl is nearly of age; she’s intelligent and obviously knows what she wants. As far as I can see, it’s a family disagreement, nothing more.”
Judge Dove turned back to Conrad. “I want to know what started the dispute. What happened, Mr. Wainwright, to cause your elderly mother to lock you out of her house?”
Conrad said nothing.
“I am giving you permission to speak, Mr. Wainwright. Now.”
Con pushed down the sarcastic reply that rose to the surface of his mind. “I was trying to convince my mother that she would be much happier and safer in a retirement home. I have a lovely place picked out near my home outside of Memphis.”
“But she doesn’t want to go.”
“She thinks she can still take care of herself in that big house,” Con hedged. “But, Your Honor, she’s an old woman. She’s getting frail, and no longer coherent. What mother in her right mind would threaten her only son with a shotgun? I’m—I’m afraid for her.”
Judge Dove pushed her glasses up her nose and stared at him in silence, as if she were looking right through him. “Yes. The good son,” she muttered under her breath. “What about you, Mrs. Wainwright? What do you think?”
Conrad cringed inwardly. Please, he begged. Please, Mimsy.
“Well,” she began, “I suppose I understand, just a little, why Mother doesn’t want to sell her house. But—but—” She broke down and began to wail. “But my little girl! She’s locked in there all alone, and—and—”
“There, there, honey,” Conrad soothed. He turned back to the judge. “You can see how devastated my wife is over all this.”
“Hmm. Yes, I can see.” Judge Dove’s expression clearly indicated that she wished she had never turned the valve that opened Mimsy’s floodgates. She turned her gaze back to the sheriff. “Buddy, do you think the girl is in any danger?”
Buddy shook his head. “No ma’am.”
“Mr. Wainwright, you need to know that I have no intention whatsoever of declaring your mother legally incompetent on your word alone. This seems to me to be a simple case of misunderstanding. Can you give me one reason—any reason—to run legal interference in a family matter?”
Conrad racked his brain, and finally came up with a stroke of genius. “Isn’t it illegal for her to be kept out of school without her guardians’ consent?”
Mimsy looked up. “Oh, no, Conrad. Don’t you remember? They’re on spring break, starting today. She doesn’t have school this week.”
He could have throttled her. But murder in the judge’s chambers wasn’t the kind of offense he wanted on his record.
Judge Dove gave a knowing smile. “All right. Here’s my decision. You"—she pointed toward Conrad—"will go back and try to reason with your mother. If you haven’t settled this in one week, I’ll issue an order that Miss Amethyst appear before me and that your granddaughter be released back to your custody.”
“A week?” Conrad sputtered. “Another week? But it’ll be too late by then—” He stopped himself before he said something incriminating.
“You have a problem with my decision?” Judge Dove asked. “Or with me?”
“No—no ma’am,” Con replied, infusing all the false contrition he could muster into his voice.
“Buddy, you go with them. But no hard-handedness, understand? Just a quiet discussion.”
“You got it, Judge.”
“Fine. I will hope not to see you next Monday. The truth is, I don’t like meddling in family situations that could be handled with a modicum of reason and compassion. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
The dismissal couldn’t have been clearer. Conrad got up and, stifling a curse, stalked out of Judge Harriet Dove’s chambers.