He’s movie-star handsome, this CNN reporter, Brian Hancock, as if he might not really be a reporter, but playing the part of one. Strong-jawed, suspiciously tan for this time of year. He looks familiar; maybe I’ve seen him on TV. “This shouldn’t take too long. We’ll get right to it,” he says. The cameraman’s right behind him. “I thought, since you didn’t bring the cat, we’d do this in the park. We can work in some dog shots.”
I hate cameras. Some girls just aren’t photogenic, my mother used to say when I’d bring home the sample photos from school, but you could at least try to smile. She’d never pay for an 8-by-10, and only once or twice did she purchase the smaller ones, for my grandparents. In my elementary school yearbooks my face was entirely forgettable. In my high school senior photos—why did I have to share a page with the homecoming queen?—my hair looked flat, my eyes dull, and the smile I attempted seemed not my own, but an expression I’d borrowed from someone else. We were supposed to pose with a prop, something that would “express your personality, your interests.” I chose a book. I was a reader, wasn’t I? I grabbed a book off the shelf in my room. When I saw the photo in the yearbook I was horrified. I was holding The Scarlet Letter against my chest.
“Let’s do a couple of shots with those dogs in the background,” Brian Hancock says to the cameraman. The cameraman adjusts my coat collar, brushes a strand of hair away from my cheek. “And I like the briefcase, so let’s make sure you get that in, okay?”
People are starting to crowd around. They’re mostly quiet, respectful of this ritual, but I hear one woman say to another, “She could use a little makeup, doncha think?… I dunno, some kind of lawyer, I guess.”
Brian Hancock’s lead-in is smooth: If you’re one of this country’s approximately fifty million dog owners, or if like forty-six million others you share your home with a cat, we probably don’t have to convince you that animals need love and give back plenty in return. But do they need lawyers? Sarah Baynard is one of Charleston, South Carolina’s premier attorneys. She’s represented accused murderers and handled high-profile divorces, but now she’s expanded her client list to include a schnauzer and a cat. Sarah, what drew you to this new specialty?
I correct him, insist that I don’t really specialize in animal cases, but acknowledge that I have a reputation for taking on tough cases. “I was appointed to represent the schnauzer, Sherman, because the judge felt the dog needed someone to protect his interests,” I explain. “I’m pleased to say he’s now back with his family and thriving, and I’m certain that once I’m finished with my investigation, Beatrice the cat will be in good hands, too.” I talk a little bit about pet trusts. And yes, I say, I find the whole field of animal rights fascinating, and while I’m certainly no expert, I’m learning.
“It went okay, I guess,” I tell Gina when I call her from the airport. “Anything going on?”
“Nothing urgent. Derwood Carter’s requested a final hearing. Natalie’s kind of upset. I guess she thought he was going to settle.”
“Why don’t you start working on a witness list with her. And I need you to do something else, a little detective work. You remember that bookshop on King Street, the Book Nook? The fellow who owned it, Simon Witowski, I don’t know if he’s still alive, but if he is, I want to find him. It’s for the cat case.”
“I’ll work on it. I left the file for the Farrell adoption on your desk. Everything’s ready to go. Ten o’clock Monday morning.”
“Anything else?”
“Just some discovery requests in the Carlisle case and a whiny letter from Richard Schultz, complaining that he gave away too much, that you pressured him into the agreement.”
“That’s baloney. He’s the one who wanted to get it over with.”
“You sound tired.”
“I hate airports. The line for security was horrible.… Would you do me a favor? My battery’s low. Call Delores and remind her that I won’t be home until around seven. I’m going out to Tony’s to pick up Beatrice.”
“He’s evicting her?”
“No, but he’s in California, with his son. It was kind of a last-minute thing.”
“I can’t wait to see it,” says Gina.
“The cat?”
“No, the CNN thing.”
* * *
I’m waiting at the gate in Newark, napping before my flight leaves, when I hear my own voice, and for a second or two I ignore it—I must be dreaming—but it’s insistent, and when I open my eyes I see myself on the TV monitor, in Central Park with Brian Hancock. I’m surprised at how relaxed I seem, but somehow my protestations about not really having a specialty in animal cases, not being an expert—“I’ve only handled these two cases so far”—haven’t made it into the final cut. And the interview ends with something that had caught me off guard. It was an obvious question, one I should have anticipated. I can’t quite hear the words now, but I watch them scroll across the bottom of the screen.
Brian Hancock: You have a pet of your own?
My moment of hesitation has been edited out, so I sound happy about the answer:
Sarah Baynard: I just adopted a dog. She’s a beagle mix. Carmen. We’ll have some adjusting to do, both of us, but that’s what a relationship is all about, isn’t it?
The woman beside me elbows the man sitting next to her: “Ridiculous, isn’t it? She must have run out of clients … so she goes to the dogs!” I turn my head away so she won’t recognize me, pretend to be absorbed in my magazine. She goes on: “Don’t you just hate them—the damn lawyers?”
I text Tony: Hope all is going well there. On my way home. Will pick up Beatrice tonight. Miss you.
He doesn’t text back.