Arnie had done a good job. When he got back to the table, Franklin leaned over and told him so, but I was concerned. Arnie had punched some major holes in Kittenger’s credibility, but something about the look on the judge’s face made me wonder if he’d noticed.
36
Evelyn Dixon
After Hodge got off the stand, a late summer thunderstorm blew into town and knocked out the lights in the courthouse, so the judge adjourned court early for the day, telling everyone to be back at ten the next morning.
Charlie invited everyone to the Grill. It was just after three and the kitchen staff was on break between lunch and dinner, but Charlie assured us he could come up with something in the way of sustenance. Ivy begged off, saying she wanted to go and pick up the children from day care. Arnie went back to the office to prepare for the next day and Margot went with him, so, in the end, only the Spauldings and I took Charlie up on his offer, running between the raindrops to get to the Grill.
The lights were off and there was no one inside the darkened restaurant. We went into the kitchen and pulled up stools by the counter, sipping iced tea as we watched Charlie pull lettuce, tomatoes, basil, a block of feta cheese, and various other ingredients out of the big commercial refrigerator. He’d decided that a big salad with a loaf of fresh bread would be just the thing for an early supper.
It had been hard sitting in the courtroom all day, being forced to listen to the mythology woven by Hodge Edelman and that toadying doctor friend of his without leaping to my feet and shouting, “Objection!” I object to liars on all possible grounds. I’m sure Abigail felt the same, but we’d had strict instructions from Franklin and Arnie that, no matter what happened, we were not to say a word, not even to each other.
Now, released from our gag order, we were anxious to discuss the day’s events, but first, apparently, I had to slice cherry tomatoes into halves.
Charlie set a big bowl of perfectly round little globes down next to my place at the counter and tilted his head toward the knife block. “I need a sous chef.”
“It’s a salad,” I balked. “Why do you need a sous chef to make a salad?”
“Because it’s not just any salad—it’s my salad. A very special recipe that my…”
I rolled my eyes and finished the sentence for him, one I’d heard on many occasions. “…my mother made back in the old country. I know.”
“And so it is.” He grinned and began whisking a stream of balsamic vinegar into a bowl of olive oil. “Now, slice.”
“Here,” Abigail said as she reached for a second knife. “I’ll help you. That doctor was such an odious little man, wasn’t he?” She shuddered. “I’d hate to think of him examining me. Poor Ivy. At least she’s in with Dr. Carmen now. He wasn’t taking new patients, but after I called and told him about Ivy, he made an exception.”
I smiled to myself, thinking about how long the list of people who were willing to make exceptions for Abigail must be. “Well, his deposition was certainly helpful. And the way Arnie took apart Kittenger’s testimony, piece by piece, was great. It was all I could do to keep from standing up and cheering. That scored a few points for our side. I mean, the judge has to think twice about Kittenger’s testimony now that Arnie finished with him, don’t you think?”
“Oh yes,” Abbie concurred. “Certainly. Though it bothered me that the day ended with Hodge’s story. Very interesting to see how he operates. He kept enough of the details of how he met Ivy so it sounded convincing, but he twisted the tale so he came off looking noble, if a bit naïve, while making sweet, underage Ivy appear…well…unsavory. I don’t like the idea of the judge going home with that impression in his mind. But, perhaps that’s better. Arnie will shred that story once he gets the floor. I thought he did a brilliant job today, didn’t you, Franklin?”
Franklin nodded. “He did. Arnie is a very good lawyer. I couldn’t have handled things better myself, and that’s the truth.”
The expression on Franklin’s face had me worried. All you had to do was look at him to know he was worried himself. “And? What aren’t you telling us?”
Everyone was quiet. I put down my knife and Charlie stopped whisking his vinaigrette. Franklin took in a breath and let it out slowly.
“I didn’t want to say anything to Arnie because I didn’t want to undermine his confidence. I hoped that it wouldn’t be an issue but, after sitting in that courtroom today, I’m afraid it may be.”
Abigail let her fingers rest on her husband’s arm. “What is it? Franklin?”
“When Hodge attacked Ivy and we got a new court date, we got a new judge as well. We lost Harry Gulden and got Joseph Maynard instead.”
“So?” Charlie commented. “I know Judge Maynard. He’s a nice enough man. Comes in for dinner with his wife every month or so. Likes an appetizer for himself and Mrs. Maynard, a strip steak, medium rare, and leaves good tips. Twenty percent. More, sometimes.”
In Charlie’s world, this was the measure of a man. Was he skimpy about ordering? Did he skip courses or split entrees with dinner partners? And was he a good tipper? These were the traits that displayed a man’s character.
“Are you saying Maynard is a bad judge?” I asked.
Franklin lifted up one hand. “Oh, no. The furthest thing from it. I’ve known Joseph for years and appeared in his courtroom on numerous occasions. He’s an excellent jurist and a good man. In any other case, I’d be thrilled to have Joseph Maynard on the bench.”
“So why not this time?”
Franklin’s eyes flickered. He weighed his words before speaking. “Joseph is a good judge and a fair one. But,” he said slowly, “when he hears drug cases, it seems to me that his sympathies are set against the accused and he tends to give their testimony less weight. Drug addicts are notorious liars. Any judge knows that and takes it into account when hearing a case. Joseph knows this from personal experience. I’m concerned it might color his judgment. His daughter, Laurel, is an addict.”
37
Ivy Peterman
It was pouring rain, but after picking Bobby and Bethany up from day care, I took them to Maxine’s, our local ice cream shop. Maxine has twenty-two kinds of ice cream, all made on the premises. The flavors change depending on Maxine’s mood, but no matter what’s on the menu, Bethany orders vanilla. I got two scoops of fresh peach and Bobby wanted a scoop of “Dirt,” which is dark, dark chocolate laced with gummy worms—the flavor of choice for three-to-five-year-old boys.
I knew the ice cream would spoil the kids’ appetite for dinner and I was right, but I don’t do it very often and I had an urge to spoil them a little. Supper was spaghetti and meatballs. After eating the prescribed five bites that is the rule at our table, they mostly pushed the noodles around the plate until I said they could be excused.
Abigail, reveling in the role of indulgent grandmother, had gone to the toy store and bought the kids a stack of new board games, so after dinner we played Chutes and Ladders, Memory, Hi-Ho Cherry-O, and Zingo, one after the other. The kids loved them all, but at the end of the night they still wanted to play the old standby we’d brought from home, Candy Land. We did and, of course, I got stuck in the Chocolate Swamp forever. This always happens to me, and the kids think it’s hilarious.
I let them stay up an hour past their bedtime. Bobby wanted me to read Goodnight Moon for the ten thousandth time. Bethany groaned about that, but sighed and snuggled in close when I began reading, comforted by the familiar bedtime ritual.
Bobby was already asleep when I tucked in their quilts and went to the door, but Bethany yawned and said, “I love you, Mommy.”
I turned out the light and said, “I love you, too, Bethy.” And I do. So much it makes my heart hurt.
My kids are my world. I would walk over hot coals for them. In some ways maybe I have, though I should have done it a lot sooner. But, the bottom line is, I’d do anything for them. My whole reason and purpose in life is to raise them in a safe, secure, loving home. But that judge doe
sn’t believe that, I can tell. His eyes give him away.
Franklin and Abbie came home right after I put the kids to bed. They had picked up a video at the store, Annie Hall, and asked if I wanted to watch it with them. It’s a great old Woody Allen comedy, about a woman, Annie, who starts out insecure, needing the approval of her boyfriend to define herself, but appears to come into her own by the end of the film, rejecting the boyfriend, who has ended up needing her more than she ever needed him. It’s a good movie and probably Abigail and Franklin thought it was an appropriate one. I find the ending a little frustrating because, to my way of thinking, Annie just leaves one dependent relationship to enter into another one, albeit with a more enlightened man at her side. I begged off.
I was tired, but couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about everything that had happened in court that day—the testimony of lies that Hodge had delivered with a completely straight face. How could he have said those things about me?
The story he told about how he’d met me left out the part about how I’d frozen on the stage and not been able to go through with the strip. In Hodge’s version of events, I was an experienced stripper and he, misguided by love and a foolish desire to reform me, had rescued me, paid off my debt to Jerry (which he implied was money I owed for drugs), and taken me home. According to Hodge, once I was installed in his home I recognized a good thing when I saw it, had practically dragged him to bed, and then purposely gotten pregnant so I could keep my hooks into him. By that time, Hodge had realized what a calculating, drugged-out little tramp I was but had manfully struggled to hold our marriage together “for the sake of the children.” In all this, Hodge’s only sin was apparently an erroneous belief in the redemptive powers of love.
And, according to Hodge, the only reason I had left him was because, after his talk with Dr. Kittenger, he’d confronted me about my supposed drug addiction. It was an angry scene with me denying everything, the way addicts do, and Hodge telling me that in the morning he was checking me into a residential drug treatment program. He said I was so angry that I’d attacked him with a broken vase. He pointed to a thin white scar on his cheek as proof. Finally, he said, things calmed down and I agreed to enter treatment. Then, hard-working breadwinner that he is, he’d gone back to the office to clear up his desk so he could take me into rehab the next day, but when he’d returned to the house, I was gone and the children with me.
The last line was delivered in a raspy, supposedly emotion-choked voice. When he “pulled himself together,” he claimed that he’d never abused me, that I’d pretended to be a victim of domestic violence so the Stanton Center would take me in. I was crazy, he said. Drugs had fried my brain. And, according to him, my broken hand was a self-inflicted wound, a sick attempt to gain attention and support my erroneous claims of abuse.
Fascinating fiction.
How was he able to sleep at night? But, knowing Hodge like I did, I had no doubt that at this moment he was in his hotel room, snoring like a band saw.
On the cross-examination, Arnie had confronted Hodge about the abuse in our home, which he vehemently denied, jumping to his feet, pointing to me and saying it was all a lie I’d concocted, that he’d never laid a hand on me and I was falsely accusing him to give myself leverage in the divorce.
The judge told him to sit back down, that he would not tolerate histrionics in his courtroom. Hodge obeyed, but I couldn’t help but wonder how effective that little performance would be. Later, when questioning him about the attack in the alley, Arnie backed Hodge into a corner just as he’d planned, until Hodge had to plead the Fifth Amendment. That certainly couldn’t help Hodge’s side, but I was still worried.
Standing at the table after court had adjourned for the day, I questioned Arnie about it. “Aren’t you worried that that’s what will stick in the judge’s mind? After Hodge’s outburst, doesn’t his mumbling that he pleads the Fifth seem a little anticlimactic?”
“Not at all,” Arnie said as he stacked up his files and stuffed them into his briefcase. “Judges see this kind of thing all the time. Judge Maynard is a good judge. He’s not going to be swayed by amateur theatrics.”
“You don’t think so? I don’t know, Arnie. I don’t think Judge Maynard likes me. Every time he looks at me the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.”
Arnie rolled his eyes. “Now who’s being dramatic? Today went well and tomorrow will be even better. You’ll get to tell your side. And, later, Donna Walsh will take the stand to corroborate your story, just like we planned. All we have to do is stick to our game plan.”
He snapped his briefcase closed. “Oh, that reminds me. Meet me at the office at nine tomorrow. I want to go over your testimony one more time.”
“Nine o’clock. I’ll be there. But, Arnie…the judge…don’t you think that…”
Arnie laid his hand on my shoulder. “Everything is fine. Really. I told you before: Judge Maynard is a good judge. No matter what the hairs on the back of your neck are telling you, I assure you that he is approaching this case the same way he would any other, with complete impartiality.”
“But, Arnie, if the judge believes Hodge…I’ve got to have full custody of the kids, Arnie. I’ve just got to! They wouldn’t be safe with him. Especially Bethany…”
“Ivy,” he said wearily, “we’ve been over this a million times. We’re going for full custody. You know that. I’m doing everything possible. Later, we’re going to bring in Donna Walsh, your counselor from the Stanton Center, the whole slate of people who can corroborate your story. And I still haven’t given up that we’ll find that loose thread. Margot is at the office right now, going over the files again. Believe me, I am doing absolutely everything I can to get you full custody of the kids, but it just isn’t something I can guarantee.”
“I know, Arnie. I’m sorry. I wasn’t saying that you weren’t doing a good job. I know you are. You’ve been incredible. I’m just so nervous. The idea that Hodge could get even partial custody has me so…”
I stopped myself. There was nothing to say that I hadn’t said before. I had the best lawyers in town and truth on my side, but as Arnie said, there were no guarantees. Everything that could be done was being done. Now, my fate and my children’s fates lay in the hands of Providence and the judge.
“I’m sorry, Arnie. Don’t mind me. I’m just a little crazy right now.”
“It’s all right. I understand.” He looked at his watch. “Listen, I’ve got to run. I need to go to the office and revise my notes for tomorrow, but I’ll see you in the morning. Until then, just go home, play with the kids, and quit worrying. That’s my job. Okay?” He smiled reassuringly.
“Okay.”
After I put the kids to bed, I tried to heed Arnie’s advice and quit worrying, but Judge Maynard was still on my mind. I couldn’t shake the feeling that, for some reason, the man just didn’t like me.
Still, he didn’t seem to be particularly taken with Hodge, either. When Hodge had been on the stand, Judge Maynard’s eyebrows had taken on a particularly skeptical slant, but I didn’t believe that necessarily boded well for me. Probably all it meant was that he thought we were both lower than slug slime on the forest floor. I guessed that if he’d had the option, the judge would have preferred to put Bethany and Bobby into the custody of almost anyone in that courtroom rather than Hodge or myself, but that didn’t do me any good. One way or another, he was going to have to award the children’s custody either to me, or to Hodge, or split it up between the two of us.
No! I had to get custody of my children. Full custody. I just had to!
Somehow I had to make the judge believe me. Tomorrow would be my turn on the stand, but the courtroom, I had seen, is all about questions that can be answered yes or no, and the road that had brought me to New Bern was long and winding.
It didn’t just start with me and Hodge; it began long before. My life, my parents’ lives, my kids’ lives were all connected. Lying in Franklin’s guest room, listening to the thunderstorm
that cracked the night sky and sent strobe-like flashes through the slits in the window blinds, I thought about the moment the lights turned on for me.
I’d gone to the mall, with Bethany and Bobby in tow, to buy new shoes for them and some face cream for myself.
After we got the shoes, I stopped by the cosmetics counter to buy moisturizer. They were giving free makeovers for a new cosmetic line that day.
I’ve never worn much makeup, but when the porcelain-skinned saleslady in the black smock said, “What do you think, Princess? Shouldn’t your beautiful mommy sit down here so I can make her even more beautiful?” Bethany was sold.
“Come on, Mommy. Do it. Daddy will be so surprised!”
There were plenty of reasons for me to pass. Bobby was already yawning, ready for his nap, but Bethany was so excited about the idea of a makeover that I hesitated.
Seeing her opening, the pretty saleswoman laughed. “Come on, Mommy. You owe it to yourself and you’re going to love the products. I’ve got a lipstick that’ll change your life.”
I knew better. No matter what the magazines say, there is no such thing as the lipstick that will change your life, but I wanted to believe there was. We all want that, don’t we?
Hodge was always complaining about my appearance. According to him my butt was too big, my hair was too frizzy, and my clothes made me look too dowdy. Silly to think that a new shade of lipstick and a mascara that would make my lashes appear one zillionth of an inch longer than nature had made them would melt my husband’s heart, but I wanted it to be true, so I sat at the makeup counter and told the lady to have at it.
Fifteen minutes later, she spun the chair around so I could see the mirror and said, “Voilà! What do you think?”
A Thread of Truth Page 31
