“You look like hell,” says Gina on Monday morning. She’s brought the mail and a cup of coffee for me, which is always her invitation to talk. The beagle comes out from under my desk to greet her. “Who’s this?”
“Carmen.”
“Oh, this the one from Dr. Borden? You going to keep her?” I nod. “She’s a cutie. So, guess she must have kept you awake last night?”
“I can’t blame it on her. I had a terrible weekend.” I tell her about the missing cat, Judge Clarkson, the trip out to Edisto Beach.
“You sure he’s got her? Randall, I mean.”
“Pretty sure.”
“My weekend wasn’t so great, either. But we don’t have to talk about it now.” I can see she’s on the verge of tears. Before I know it, we’re sitting together on my sofa and I’m handing her a tissue. “I broke things off with Rick.” The tears I’ve been holding back come pouring out. We cry until Carmen begins to howl in sympathy, and then we laugh.
“He was pretty mad,” she says between sobs, “but I just didn’t feel good about the way things were going. And he was actually getting jealous of Mandy.”
“Ellen’s Mandy?”
“She’s a great kid. I’ve been talking to her about how she can make it work—you know, with the baby.”
“She likes you a lot.”
“I just don’t want to see her give up the college thing, like I did. She could go part-time.”
“Maybe.”
“I’ve got an extra bedroom at my place.”
“That’s a lot for you to take on, Gina.”
“Hey, you didn’t ask my permission when you got a new roommate!” She pats Carmen’s head.
When we’ve stopped crying, she points to the stack of mail on my desk. “There’s one I didn’t open, because it’s marked Personal and Confidential.”
There’s no return address. I slide my index finger under the flap, feel a sting when I rip it open too fast, and before I know it there’s a spot of blood on the letter. “Ouch!” I say. The beagle whimpers.
“You should use the letter opener,” says Gina.
The letter’s typed, undated:
My Dear Trust Enforcer,
You’re aren’t taking very good care of me, are you?
Surely Gail could do a better job. Let’s settle this case.
Trusting in your better judgment,
Beatrice
My hands are shaking.
“It’s Randall, isn’t it?” Gina says. “What are we going to do?”
“Let’s play his game. Call him—his number’s in the file—and tell him I received his letter and would like to talk to him. If he asks any questions, just say you don’t know anything more. And take notes, in case you have to testify later.”
“Should I tell him to bring the cat?”
“Just say I received the letter and want to talk to him.”
“The guy’s probably deranged, and you want to invite him to our office?”
“It’s a long shot, but I think it might work.”
“What might work?”
“I’ll explain it later. I’ve got the Farrell adoption at ten.” The truth is, I’m not sure what I’m going to say to Randall Mackay, if he comes.
She hands me the file. “By the way, I found that old man … the one who used to own the bookstore. He lives on Gadsden Street. I’ll leave the info on your desk. I told him you’d be calling, but he’s a little deaf, so maybe it would be better for you to talk to him in person.”
* * *
The waiting room at Family Court is filled with the aggrieved, the vengeful, the punitive plaintiffs versus the desperate defendants, and those who’ve resigned themselves to love’s limitless capacity to disappoint. Whether they win or lose, they’ll soon be as unhappy as they were when they came into the courtroom. I don’t recognize these faces, but I can imagine their stories. That woman there, clutching her pocketbook, may prevail in the custody battle for her kids, and she’ll get a piece of paper requiring her husband to pay child support, but on the bus ride home she’ll figure out that after she pays her rent, she won’t have much left over. The fellow next to her—the one with the trim goatee and the cashmere sports jacket—may escape his two-year marriage without financial obligations, but he’ll wonder, as he drives his Saab out of the parking garage, why he doesn’t feel like celebrating.
I’ve spent two decades as a lawyer in this court, and though I’ve won more cases than I’ve lost, I’ve rarely felt victorious. Sure, it’s gratifying to hear a judge rule in my client’s favor, but in your average divorce there’s not enough money to go around, and even when there’s plenty, the divvying-up is a depressing business.
I’ve been here myself as a plaintiff, in the case of Sarah Bright Baynard vs. Joseph Henry Baynard. I had no illusions. I didn’t come to court imagining that a divorce would be my ticket to happiness. I wanted it to be the official end to our struggle, so that we could quit our squabbling and blaming, but I’ve never felt more bereft than when the clerk handed me my certified copy of the Final Order and Decree of Divorce. There was nothing final about it at all.
* * *
This morning I have the rare experience of representing happy people. I spot them in the far corner of the waiting area, Allison and Tom Farrell, both in their mid-forties, a couple who’d given up on children until I got a call from an old law school acquaintance who remembered I handle adoptions. The daughter of one his one of his clients was six months pregnant, wanted to find a good home for her baby.
Almost twenty years ago I represented Tom Farrell in a juvenile case. He’d taken his uncle’s car for a joyride and wrecked it. Tom was sixteen, but the uncle was unforgiving. I can still remember how his whole body shook as I stood next to him in the courtroom, my arm around his shoulder. The judge gave him a lengthy lecture and probation. He stayed out of trouble after that. Now he’s got a good job at Boeing and he’s been married to Allison for ten years. Baby Suzannah is in her lap.
“We’ll never be able to thank you enough for this,” says Tom, who carries the diaper bag and the foldable stroller. “It’s the best day of our lives!” This has been a long time coming. I’d found a baby for them a couple of years ago, but the birth mother changed her mind once she saw her newborn daughter.
“Who’s the judge?” asks Allison.
“Beverly O’Neill. She has two adopted kids herself.”
“She won’t give me any trouble about the juvenile thing, will she?” asks Tom.
“The guardian ad litem’s not concerned about that at all. She thinks you hung the moon.” But where is she? Martha Query should be here already. “And Judge O’Neill’s very easygoing.”
But when we walk into the courtroom the judge behind the bench is Joe Baynard. I whisper into Tom’s ear, “They’ve switched judges on us, but it doesn’t matter.”
“Good morning, Your Honor,” I begin. “We’re ready to proceed, except for the guardian ad litem. I’m sure she’s on her way, if Your Honor would—”
“If she can be here in five minutes, we’ll proceed.”
I search the file for Martha’s number. It should be on the inside of the folder along with the Farrells’ phone numbers and addresses. “I’m looking for her number, Your Honor.” Could Gina have forgotten to notify her of the hearing?
“I suggest you try Information, Ms. Baynard. That is, if you haven’t lost your cell phone, too.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It isn’t like you to be disorganized, Ms. Baynard,” says Joe. “But this is such a nice-looking family, I won’t hold you in contempt!” It’s the kind of joke that isn’t funny to nervous clients. He addresses the next comment to them: “As I’m sure you’re aware, your attorney is highly respected in the Charleston bar, and now she’s developing a national reputation. Let’s hope the sudden fame hasn’t gone to her head!” Why is he acting like this? Is he angry because I wouldn’t commit to help him with his judicial race?
Tom Farrell sweats in his too-tight suit. Allison does her best to calm the squirming baby. Just then the guardian ad litem walks in, breathless. “I’m so sorry, Your Honor. I got stuck in traffic.”
After the hearing, I wait for the clerk to certify the adoption order so that I can present a copy to the Farrells. They’re ecstatic.
“We’ll never be able to thank you enough,” says Allison. “Here, you hold her for a minute so I can take a picture. When she’s old enough, we can tell her all about you.”
The baby feels incredibly light, as if she’s going to fly out of my hands. She opens her eyes, stares up at me with unfocused wonderment.
“There,” says Allison. “I think I got a couple of good ones.”
“Let me take one of you and Tom and the baby,” I offer.
“Isn’t it amazing?” says Allison. “She’s really ours. I just want us to be worthy of her.”
“Is that judge related to you?” asks Tom.
I could lie, but why bother? “He’s my ex-husband. We were married briefly, a long time ago.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t say it,” says Allison, “but he seems like kind of a jerk.”
I nod. Why do I feel guilty about not defending him?
“But nothing can spoil this day for us,” says Tom. “She’s an angel, isn’t she?”