“Yes.”
“And you were absolutely certain the child was Mr. Drobyshev’s.”
“I’ve already answered that.”
“Did you continue to see Mr. Chandler after your tryst in December?”
“It wasn’t a tryst. I told you, he showed up at my apartment unannounced. After that night I had no contact with him whatsoever.”
“Not until you began your affair with him last summer?”
“Yes.”
Claxton took a moment to shuffle through his papers. “During your marriage to Mr. Drobyshev, did you continue to smoke marijuana?”
“Occasionally. Not during my pregnancies. I didn’t even smoke cigarettes then.”
“How did your husband feel about your habit?”
“The cigarettes?”
“Marijuana.”
“Matt didn’t care for it. He was a police officer the first few years we were married. He was concerned I might get caught.”
“And you were not concerned? You knew it was against the law.”
“It seemed like a minor vice. It helped me relax.”
“In fact, you were rarely able to make love with your husband unless you got high first.”
“That’s not true.” I couldn’t believe Hoyt just sat there playing with a paper clip. He hadn’t said a word or taken a single note since the deposition started.
“Let me ask you about your current relationship with Mr. Chandler,” Claxton said. “Does he ever spend the night at your house?”
“Sometimes. Once or twice a week.”
“Does he ever stay over when your children are there?”
“No.”
“Never?”
I hesitated. Griffin didn’t stay with me unless the kids were at Matt’s, but he had stopped by the house one evening after they were asleep. We got stoned, then went upstairs and made love. We were still in bed when Sarah awoke from a bad dream and crawled in beside me. When Griffin rolled over, Sarah said, Daddy? She didn’t say anything about it to me in the morning. I wasn’t sure she even remembered, but she might have told Matt. Could Claxton depose a four-year-old? He may have been trying to trick me into admitting something he had no way of knowing, but I couldn’t risk lying. I felt like I had a neon sign imbedded in my forehead, blinking off and on—Fuck up! Fuck up! Fuck up!
“He stayed over once,” I said.
When Claxton began to ask about my postpartum depression, his tone turned solicitous. I said the illness came out of nowhere, a dense fog that made the whole world seem muted and muddled. “It was horrible,” I said. “The only emotion I felt was sadness. I could hear my daughter talk and laugh, but nothing seemed to translate, like she was speaking in some language I couldn’t understand.”
“Did you seek medical attention for your condition?”
“Yes, I saw several doctors who prescribed antidepressants.”
“And there were times—at least two, I believe—when those medications caused you to fall asleep and neglect your children?”
“I don’t remember.” I felt like I was going to throw up.
“You don’t remember waking up to find your friend Jill in the house and your three-year-old trying to turn on the stove to make a bottle for her little brother?” This was another thing I hadn’t told the paralegal.
“I was sick, you sadistic son-of-a-bitch! I didn’t know what month it was.” Hoyt put his hand on my arm to quiet me down. I took a breath and tried to be calm. “The only thing I know about those incidents is what Matt and Jill told me. The one with the stove scared me so badly I threw all my pills away.”
“How did your husband react to your troubles?”
“He was concerned, of course. He helped me get through them.”
“So concerned, in fact, that Mr. Drobyshev tried to make sure the children were never left alone with you?”
Was that true? I said it wasn’t.
Claxton said, “While you were depressed, did you continue to use marijuana?”
Back to the drugs again. This was obviously a big part of his strategy. “No.”
“But you began to smoke it again when you got well?”
“Occasionally.”
“Do you and Mr. Chandler still indulge in marijuana?”
“No.” I wondered if they could force me to take a drug test.
He paused and looked over his notes. “Have you ever smoked dope in front of your children?”
“No, never. For Christ’s sake, what kind of witch hunt is this?” I turned to Hoyt. “Is he allowed to make all these horrible accusations?”
“We’d like to take a fifteen-minute break,” Hoyt said.
Claxton nodded. “Certainly.”
Hoyt led me to his office. I lit a cigarette. He frowned but didn’t tell me to put it out, then he turned his back to me and watched a plane take off.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I know there were some things I forgot to tell your paralegal. But it’s not as bad as that man is trying to…I understand what he’s doing. He wants to take my kids away.” He turned around, his face unreadable. “I’m a good mother, Mr. Hoyt. I love my children. I take good care of them. You have to believe me.”
“It doesn’t matter what I believe. Our job is to convince a judge you’re a competent parent.”
I was heartsick, too scared to cry. “Please tell me he can’t take my kids from me.” I couldn’t see an ashtray anywhere and tapped the ash from my cigarette into my palm.
“Come on, Lucy, I need you to be tougher than this. You’re no saint. Neither is anyone else, including your husband. Just answer Claxton’s questions as directly and unemotionally as possible.” There was a hint of a smile on his face as he handed me a plastic cup for the ashes. “This game has barely begun.”
Chapter 22
Matt
A copy of Lucy’s deposition was in my mailbox when I got home from a trip to Mexico City. Norman Claxton had gone after her hard and got her rattled. I was beyond the point of being repulsed by the sordid details, but one line of questions from Hoyt, her attorney, was troubling. He asked Lucy how she felt about my having a gun in the house, and she said she didn’t mind because I kept it in a safe down in the basement.
Atty. Hoyt: Did Mr. Drobyshev ever forget to put the gun away when he came home?
Mrs. Drobyshev: Just once.
Atty. Hoyt: Would you please elaborate?
Mrs. Drobyshev: This was about six months after he started working for the courier service. I was out with the children, and when I came home he was sleeping on the couch. I guess he was so tired he took his sports coat off and lay down with the gun in his shoulder holster.
Atty. Hoyt: So the gun was still in the holster when he was sleeping on the couch?
Mrs. Drobyshev: Actually, the gun had fallen out of the holster and was lying on the rug.
Atty. Hoyt: And you picked it up?
Mrs. Drobyshev: No, our daughter Sarah did. She picked it up with both hands and pointed it at me and said, “Look, Mommy, Daddy dropped his gun.”
Atty. Hoyt: How old was your little girl at the time?
Mrs. Drobyshev: About three and a half.
Atty. Hoyt: What did you do when she pointed the gun at you?
Mrs. Drobyshev: I was holding my son, Nathan, in my arms. I tried to be very calm and casual and said something like, “Oh, thank you, honey. Please give Mommy the gun.” Meanwhile, I thought I was going to wet my pants.
Atty. Hoyt: What type of gun was it?
Mrs. Drobyshev: I’m not sure. I don’t know much about guns.
Atty. Hoyt: So you don’t know if the safety was on?
Mrs. Drobyshev: No.
Atty. Hoyt: What did you do with the gun after you took it from the child?
Mrs. Drobyshev: I put it on a high shelf beh
ind some dishes in the kitchen.
Atty. Hoyt: Did you mention this to your husband when he woke up?
Mrs. Drobyshev: Yes, of course. I had to give him back the gun. But I didn’t say anything about Sarah picking it up off the floor.
Atty. Hoyt: Why not?
Mrs. Drobyshev: I felt bad for him. He was mortified about not putting it away the minute he got home. He was under so much stress from his job I didn’t want to make him feel worse than he already did.
Claxton had penciled exclamation points in the margin next to some of Lucy’s answers. I’d completely forgotten about the incident. I was ninety-nine percent certain Lucy was lying about Sarah picking up the gun, but that wouldn’t be easy to prove.
***
My deposition took place in Norman Claxton’s library. It was a dingy, cluttered room with books and file folders piled everywhere. A single dirty window looked out on a brick wall about three feet away. Hoyt started off with questions about my work as a cop, then moved on to the courier service. When he asked me where I stored my gun, I said I always kept it in a safe. Then he questioned me about the time the gun had fallen out of the holster while I was asleep on the couch. When I said I didn’t believe Lucy’s claim that Sarah had picked up the gun, he paused but didn’t press the issue.
Hoyt asked me to describe my apartment.
After I did, he said, “So Sarah and Nathan sleep in bunk beds?”
“Yes.”
“And you feel that this is a proper sleeping arrangement for a little boy and girl?”
“Of course. They love being in the same room together.”
“I take it Sarah sleeps in the top bunk?”
“Yes.”
“Aren’t you concerned about her falling out?”
“Not at all,” I said. “The bed has a safety bar.”
“But she still has to climb in and out in the middle of the night if she needs to go to the bathroom?”
“She’s an agile little girl, Mr. Hoyt. Millions of kids her age sleep in bunk beds. You’re trying to insinuate there’s a danger when it’s perfectly safe.”
Hoyt smiled and Claxton frowned, a warning for me not to get confrontational.
“I’m just trying to establish the facts, Mr. Drobyshev. Isn’t it true that there are many nights when Sarah doesn’t sleep in her bed at all?”
“She goes to sleep in her own bed every single night.”
“But she often wakes up and comes into your bed, doesn’t she?”
“Sarah’s been having bad dreams lately. Sometimes she gets frightened and crawls in next to me.”
“Do you still sleep in the nude, Mr. Drobyshev?”
I glared at him. Lucy and I often slept naked, especially in the summer. “No, in my underwear. Boxers and a T-shirt.”
Hoyt nodded. “What about bathing? Do you ever take a shower with your children?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And you see nothing inappropriate about showering with a little girl who is almost five years old?”
“Sarah is not aware of sex yet. I have no intention of making her feel self-conscious about something that seems perfectly normal to her.”
Hoyt said, “She may not be aware of the details of sexual reproduction, but certainly you would agree that she knows the difference between the two sexes?”
“Of course.”
“What does she call your penis?”
I scowled at him.
“Mr. Drobyshev?” Hoyt said.
“Willie. She calls it my willie.”
***
The morning after my deposition, Claxton called and said that Hoyt had reached out to him with a tentative settlement. Claxton asked me if I could come to his office. He didn’t want to discuss the details on the phone.
“I’m not backing down,” I said, sitting across the desk from him. “I want full custody of the children.”
“I know what you want, Mr. Drobyshev. What I’m trying to tell you is the family courts in Massachusetts are reluctant to take away a mother’s custodial rights.”
“They must do it sometimes. The woman is a whore and a pathological liar. She can’t get through the day without smoking a joint. She’s been a totally unfit mother. Isn’t that what you proved in the deposition? I’ve read it three times. You completely eviscerated her.”
“I agree, the deposition doesn’t cast her in the most favorable light. But Mr. Hoyt has raised some questions about your parenting as well. You may believe these issues are without merit, but—”
“Without merit! They’re trying to suggest I’m molesting my own daughter, for Christ’s sake. I can’t believe I was married to that woman for five years. It’s like she just crawled out of a sewer.”
“This certainly could get uglier, Mr. Drobyshev. Please, just calm down and listen. Let me tell you the terms of the proposed settlement before you reject it.”
I clenched my jaw in anger.
Claxton looked at his notes on a legal pad. “You and Mrs. Drobyshev would have joint legal custody. The children would stay with you half the nights on a flexible schedule just as they do now, depending on your work demands. You cede your half-ownership in the house in lieu of child support, which, in my opinion, is an excellent deal for you. Major expenses for the kids like camp and medical bills would be split equally between you. Mrs. Drobyshev is willing to forgo any claims on the money from your mother’s insurance policies or your equity in the courier business. This would be a no-fault divorce. You sign the papers, and one year later, the divorce automatically becomes final.”
“I want custody of my children.”
“That could only happen if this case were to go to trial.”
“Fine. Let’s go to trial.”
“Look, Mr. Drobyshev, your wife has been indiscreet and self-indulgent. We can put Mr. Chandler on the stand, and he may occasionally tell the truth. We might even be able to find a few neighbors or acquaintances to testify against her. But going to trial is a roll of the dice. Judges can be very arbitrary. I’ve had cases where the rulings were so capricious and fundamentally at odds with the facts, I thought I’d stepped into the wrong courtroom. If we turn this into a custody fight, the first thing the judge is going to do is appoint a guardian ad litem for the children. Do you know what that is?”
“I’ve heard the term, but no, not exactly.”
“A guardian ad litem—a GAL—is usually a social worker or a psychologist, someone who acts as your children’s advocate before the court. He, or sometimes she, will interview you and your wife. He’ll inspect your homes, watch how you interact with the children, talk to the teachers at the day-care center. With all the issues that have come up in the depositions, he’s probably going to want an independent psychologist to interview the children as well. It’s a very thorough process. When he’s done, the GAL will submit a report to the judge.”
“He can talk to anyone he wants. You say these people are professionals? Good. A chimpanzee could see what a terrible parent Lucy is.”
“You’re missing the point. Once the GAL gets brought in, we have no idea how he might interpret the situation. It’s highly arbitrary. One of the kids could say something to the psychologist that turns this whole thing on its head. The GAL might be someone who hates guns or feels like you travel too much in your job or just can’t stand the fact that you happen to be wearing a striped tie with a plaid sports coat. It doesn’t matter if you walk on water; we can’t control what the GAL thinks, and we can’t control what he says to the judge.”
“I’m in the right here, Mr. Claxton. I want you to fight for me.”
“I am fighting for you, and if you insist on having a custody battle, I will give it my all. I just want to make sure you understand what we’re facing. These custody fights can be brutal. He said, she said; he did this, she did that. Experts weighing in
on both sides, your children being interrogated by total strangers. The more contentious it gets, the more inclined the court is to find that neither parent is doing a good job. A judge might even decide it’s better for the kids to put them in foster homes until he makes his ruling. I’m not saying you can’t win, Mr. Drobyshev; I’m simply saying we could spend the next year or more wading through mud, which will probably cost you upwards of thirty or forty thousand dollars, and when it’s all said and done, there’s a good chance you won’t get custody, and we’ll wind up with an agreement that isn’t much different from the one we have today.”
“I don’t care about the money. Not when it comes to my kids.”
“You need to consider what you’re trying to accomplish here. Are you trying to do what is best for your children, or are you trying to punish your wife? Granted, the woman has not been a model citizen or a model parent. She’s made some poor choices, but she’s not a criminal. Besides, even if you were to win full custody, she will still be the mother of your children. You’re going to want her to see them and have as good a relationship with them as possible. You may not like her or respect her, but she’s not going to disappear. You need to focus on making the best of this situation going forward.”
I slapped my palms on my thighs and stood up and paced around the room.
“I try to give my clients the best advice I can, Mr. Drobyshev. If you don’t agree with what I’ve been telling you, please feel free to consult someone else. Perhaps you should take a copy of your wife’s deposition and shop it around. I guarantee you, you won’t have any trouble finding another attorney who would salivate at the opportunity to take this case to trial.”
He looked at me coldly. The man didn’t seem to have an emotional bone in his body.
“Like I said, this agreement is more than fair. Frankly, I think you’d be a fool not to take it, but that is your decision, not mine. Why don’t you go home and mull it over, talk to some friends or acquaintances who have gone through troubled divorces of their own. Give me a call when you know how you want to proceed. Whatever decision you make is fine with me.”
Lies You Wanted to Hear Page 17
