Michele was elsewhere “There are all those years out there, D.T. They make us stay alive so long these days. Have you ever thought about it? Being alive for fifty more years?”
“Only women live that long. I’ll have cancer in a decade.”
“You will not.” She lit another cigarette, as if she was assuming his risk. “Are you going to marry Barbara, by the way?” she asked when the smoke was flowing.
“I doubt it.”
“Why not? You’ve been going with her for a long time.”
“Going. That’s just it. We’re always going; we’re never getting anywhere.”
“Maybe it’s not her fault.”
“It’s not a question of fault, it’s a question of fact. And the fact is, I can’t give Barbara what she wants, which is some kind of clone who’ll match her stride by stride, therapy by therapy, fad by fad. And she can’t give me what I want, which is I-don’t-know-what-but-I-know-I-ain’t-got-it.”
“Life is mean, D.T. A mean old broad. It reminds me of my aunt. Remember Aunt Wanda?”
“She broke wind at the reception.” He laughed and looked at his watch. “I’ve got to go, Michele. I’ve got a court appearance at eight-thirty.”
“Will I see you before the wedding?”
“I doubt it.”
“The rehearsal dinner’s tomorrow night. Antoine’s. Eight o’clock. You’re invited, but I won’t expect you.”
“Good.”
“The ceremony’s at ten on Saturday. Plymouth Congregational. Be early, please? I may need an injection. Optimism or something.”
“I’ll try to score some on the street.” They stood up and looked at each other. What he saw in his ex-wife’s eyes made him embrace her. “Hey. Relax. The second time’s a picnic. All my clients say so.”
“They do not,” she said, and slugged him on the arm.
“One more thing,” he said.
“What?”
“I need five thousand dollars. Cash.”
“When?”
“Next week.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t you even want to know what it’s for?”
She smiled her lazy smile. “No.”
He shook his head. “You’re a piece of work, Michele, to quote Frank Gifford.”
“Who?”
He laughed and kissed her cheek and left the baby and its temporary palace both behind.
He shaved and showered in a daze that somehow acted as an upper, and made it to court by 8:42. Dick Gardner was waiting in the jury room, looking entirely unaffected by the evening’s waltz with criminal procedure. “How’s Lucinda?” D.T. asked him.
“Okay. They booked her. I thought for a minute they might not file, but an assistant DA with a cob up his ass showed up and started preaching about the plague of domestic violence, equitable treatment, and such. Apparently he thinks stabbing husbands might catch on, like toga parties and Flashdance. Bail is fifty grand, which means her bond will be five. I think I can get it kicked down to ten at the arraignment, but she’ll still have to come up with a thousand to spring herself. And I don’t advance bail money to clients.”
“I may be able to help.”
“Never post bail with your own money, D.T. Any criminal lawyer in town will tell you that.”
“I don’t listen to lawyers,” D.T. said. “So how about Stone?”
Gardner smiled ruefully. “Yeah. How about him? You’d think he could have kept it zipped till he got the decree, wouldn’t you? Well, let’s get at it. I got to monitor a show-up at ten, then hunt up someone who’ll say good things about a rapist.”
They wrangled for twenty minutes, then sent a message to the judge that settlement was imminent, and wrangled for twenty minutes more. When they finally went before Judge Hoskins neither of the principals was in the courtroom. When they presented the terms of the settlement Judge Hoskins raised his brows. “I’m surprised, gentlemen. I must confess I thought the weight of evidence was the other way. But I guess if the parties agree it’s none of my business. There was certainly no proof that either party was unfit as a matter of law. My question is, why didn’t you settle this thing two days ago?”
Gardner looked at D.T. D.T. looked back, hoping his face was a fraud. “The ebb and flow of litigation, Your Honor,” Gardner said finally. “Mr. Jones proved to be a more formidable opponent than I originally estimated.”
Judge Hoskins nodded. “Yes. I was much impressed. Why on earth do you do so many of those seamy defaults, Mr. Jones? They’re clearly beneath your talents.”
“But not my tax bracket.”
“Yes, well, it’s a public service, I suppose, though one I must admit I view with distaste.”
“I frequently find it distasteful myself,” D.T. said, but didn’t say that the reason was sitting high above him.
When he got back to his office he called his client. She seemed afraid to speak. “Did he take them away?”
“No. Gardner and I settled the thing. You want to hear the terms?”
“Settle? I didn’t agree to settle. What did you do, Mr. Jones? Give up? Did Chas buy you off?”
D.T. took a deep breath. “You get exclusive custody of the kids. Stone gets them two weekends a month plus six weeks in the summers. He pays eight hundred a month per child in support, plus educational expenses through college and graduate school or age twenty-six, whichever comes first. He pays medical insurance and life insurance on the kids, with you as beneficiary till they’re emancipated. You get the house, car, and three hundred grand in marital property, payable at thirty grand a year for ten years. He puts enough stock in escrow to cover it. He pays the mortgage and all current debts. He pays alimony of fifteen hundred a month for ten years or until you remarry. After ten years he pays a grand. Plus he takes out an insurance policy that guarantees alimony and child support will be paid even if he pulls a Gauguin. Best of all, he pays me twelve grand in attorney’s fees. How’s it sound?”
“Are you playing with me, Mr. Jones?”
“No.”
“How did you do it? It all seemed so hopeless. You must have sold my soul to the devil.” She tried to laugh but it didn’t form.
The soul in the devil’s pouch is mine, D.T. thought. “Don’t ask how I did it,” he said. “And don’t believe it if someone tries to tell you.”
“I … it’s more than I deserve, isn’t it?”
“Probably, but that’s justice for you. A zany, wacky concept. Relax and enjoy it, Mrs. Stone. I’ll get the agreement to you in a few days. My secretary will bring it by and notarize your signature. You’ll get an executed copy to keep for yourself. I hope you live happily ever after, Mrs. Stone. If you have any problems, you let me know.”
“I … I don’t know what to say. I thought after yesterday I was going to lose everything. Now this. It just doesn’t make sense, Mr. Jones. Are you sure you’ve told me everything?”
“Everything you need to know. As for what to say, a simple ‘thank you’ will do. In my line of work I don’t hear that much.”
“Thank you. And I’m sorry I was so difficult.”
“You can do me one favor.”
“Yes. Anything.”
“Lay off the booze.”
“I … I’ll try. I really will. Maybe I don’t need it any more, now that it’s over.”
“You never did need it, Mrs. Stone. And it’s never over, it just slows down once in a while. Maybe you should keep that in mind.”
He replaced the phone and leaned back in his chair. The end justified the means, did it not? At least almost? At least enough to let him live with himself? Well, he would have to see. And what the hell. If he could no longer live with himself, he could go and live with someone else. He grabbed the phone again.
“Mrs. Preston?”
“Yes?”
“D. T. Jones. How’s it going?”
“Fine, Mr. Jones. How are you?”
Her voice acted on him like Clorox, bleaching his conscience. “I’m off the
critical list, Mrs. Preston; temporarily, at least. We have an important hearing in your case tomorrow, and I’d like you to be in court if you can. Do you feel up to it?”
“I do if you feel it will help.”
“I don’t know if it will or won’t. But I’m going to try to make this hearing a little more than routine, and your presence might convince the judge to let me do it.”
“Then I’ll be there.”
“I should warn you, there’s some chance you could be called to testify by your husband’s lawyer. That’s because I’m going to try to call your husband. And actually, I hope he does call you as a witness. You’d destroy him, and I think he’s too dumb to know it.”
Esther Preston laughed. “I’m afraid I have no wish to destroy anyone, Mr. Jones.”
“Truth can be the most destructive instrument on earth, Mrs. Preston. Shall I pick you up?”
“Rita’s here. Let me ask if she wants to go. If she does, she can take me.”
“Why don’t you put her on?”
The line buzzed momentarily. “D.T.,” Rita Holloway said briskly. “What’s happening? My calendar tells me there’s some kind of motion in the case tomorrow.”
“Right. The good doctor’s motion for summary judgment, trying to throw us out of court. Might be routine, might be crucial. I want Mrs. Preston there. Is she up to it?”
“Did she say she was?”
“Yep.”
“Then I guess she is. This isn’t one of her better weeks, but it’s not her worst, either. I want to come, too. I’ll bring Esther. What time?”
“Nine-thirty. Courtroom Four. Judge McCall.”
“We’ll be there.” Rita Holloway paused. “Esther told me not to tell you something, but I think I will.”
“What is it?” He heard murmurs, muffled and indistinct.
“Her husband called her yesterday.”
“He’s not supposed to do that.”
“I didn’t think so. He offered her some money to settle the case.”
“How much?”
“Forty thousand. He suggested she fire you first, so she could keep it all. She told him he was a child.”
D.T. laughed. “The son of a bitch is scared to death of something. But what the hell is it?”
“Dr. Haskell called her, too.”
“Yeah? Why?”
“He told her he thought there was a better way than a lawsuit. He told her she ought to talk to Preston herself, to see if she could work something out informally.”
“And?”
“And Esther told him she was entirely in your hands, but that she’d mention his suggestion.”
“Good for her. I’ve tried to call you a couple of times,” he lied. “You’re never home.”
Rita Holloway paused. “I’ve been kind of busy. I … things are going pretty well on the romantic side for me right now. So …”
“Sure. That’s great. He’s a doctor, right?”
“Right. He’s a nice guy. You’d like him.”
“Is his name George, by any chance?”
“What?”
“Never mind. I’m happy for you, Rita. Really.”
“He, ah, doesn’t know about our … breakfast, D.T. Just in case your paths happen to cross.”
“I get it. No problem. By the way, Mrs. Preston should look, well, pathetic tomorrow, if you know what I mean. We need every edge we can get.”
Rita Holloway’s words were cutting shards. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, D.T.”
“Pretend what you want. Just bring the wheelchair.”
He hung up. None of them understood how the game was played, none of them. He was like soldiers and cops, isolated by his methods and his skills, welcomed only for his achievements, which were expected to be perfect and unfailing.
He heard a noise and looked up. Bobby E. Lee came in and sat down without being asked. The expression on his face caused D.T. to cringe. “I’m quitting, Mr. Jones.”
“For good?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You know.”
“The Stone thing?”
Bobby nodded. “I …”
“That’s over, Bobby. Spilled milk. The guy was a prick. All you did was make it possible for the kids to stay with their mother, which is where they want to be anyway.”
“There’s more to it, Mr. Jones.”
“The gay thing? It doesn’t have anything to do with that, Bobby. Stone’s a jerk. Gay or not gay.”
“It’s not exactly that.”
“Blackmail? You didn’t do that. I did.”
“But I helped. And I used what I feel, what I believe, what I am. I twisted all that and made it work to harm someone. Maybe ruin their life.”
“He’s an asshole, Bobby. He didn’t deserve those kids.”
“Then you should have proved he was an asshole, Mr. Jones. You only proved he was gay.”
“Come on, Bobby. Forget it.”
“I can’t. I mean, I can live with what I did, but it’ll be easier if I don’t have to live any more of my life in this office.”
“Bobby, goddamnit. This whole thing is my fault, not yours. You didn’t do anything, you just—”
“Followed orders?” Bobby’s smile was haunted. “That’s not a consolation. Good-bye, Mr. Jones. You know where to send my check whenever you get the money. If you could include a letter of recommendation, I’d appreciate it, but if you don’t I’ll understand.”
“Don’t do this, Bobby. Please? I can’t do what I do without you, Bobby.”
“Do what? What exactly is it you’re doing down here, Mr. Jones? Maybe you’d better think about that.”
“I don’t dare, Bobby,” D.T. said. “I don’t dare.”
Bobby E. Lee stood up, turned, and left. “Bobby!” D.T. started after him, then stopped, then started after him again. “Wait, Bobby!” But the phone rang, so he returned to his desk. As he picked up the receiver he heard the outer door open and close, the bell tinkling twice to taunt him.
“D.T.? Hi. It’s Barbara.”
“Hi.”
“Is something wrong? You sound funny.”
“No.”
“Good. You … you’re not going to like this, D.T.”
“Like what?”
“I want you to come rafting with me this weekend.”
“Why?”
“As a token of commitment. As a symbol of our connectiveness.”
“Why don’t we just go cold turkey on symbols for a while? Let’s see if we can survive on boring old substance.”
“I’m serious about this, D.T. We don’t share life experiences any more. The entire burden of the relationship is on me. It’s so reactionary. It’s the historic pattern. We only do what you want, never what I want. We see your friends, or no one. We talk about your work, or nothing. You’re defining me, D.T., and I need to define myself. This river trip can get us started toward an equal, coupleist relationship.”
“A what?”
“Coupleist. The joining of equals. A lot of people I network with will be on the river, from the running cadre, the support group, the center for personal growth. They want to meet you. They can show you how to move away from your historic manist bias toward true coupleism. It will be very revealing if you refuse to publish your commitment in this way, D.T. Do you understand?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Now, you’ll need a wet suit. You can borrow Bernie Kaplan’s; I’ll pick it up for you, and …”
“Barbara?”
“What?”
“Fuck you and the raft you rowed in on.”
TWENTY-THREE
Riding the thrill of battle like a surging wave, D.T. entered the courtroom. Purged of fatigue, charged with anticipation, he moved quickly through the spectators and crossed the bar of the court, his heart pumping at a rate that matched his stride. “Good morning, Jerome.”
“Good morning, D.T.”
D.T. examined his opponent carefully. As exp
ected, his pinstripe suit was cast from steel—blue, unbending armor. The shirt was starched to match, white and glistening—hairless hide. But the clothes outstripped the man. Sweat glazed Jerome’s high forehead, and his bright eyes danced on fat black pillows, dusky half-rings of sleepless worry. When Jerome Fitzgerald raised his briefcase to the counsel table it vibrated as though alive.
“The first one is hell, Jerome,” D.T. said affably. “Don’t let it get you down.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Some guys still barf before every court appearance, even after thirty years,” D.T. went on. “For some it never goes away.”
“I’m fine, D.T.”
“Good. I’m fine, too.” D.T. looked back over the courtroom. “Where’s your client?”
“On his way.”
“Good. Mine is, too.”
“I’m going to resist any attempt to have Dr. Preston testify,” Jerome announced, his voice too loud.
D.T. smiled. “I know you are, Jerome. That’s what makes this all such fun. You’re going to resist, and I’m going to resist your resistance. Don’t you feel great finally being up against a lawyer who really wants to go to trial?”
D.T. patted Jerome Fitzgerald on the back and went to the other counsel table and spread his papers on it, then glanced at the clock. Both his client and the judge were late. McCall had that reputation. Everything in life was more important to him than what was going on in his courtroom, including his daily fifth of gin. D.T. sighed and leaned back in his chair to wait it out.
McCall had been known to be as much as two hours late for law and motion. If there were ten lawyers present, billing an average of a hundred bucks an hour, then McCall’s behavior would cause a thousand dollars of unproductive billings. Multiplied by the scores of judges with similar habits, the figure would offer one big reason why the system had become prohibitively expensive for any but the wealthy who could pay the fees, or the maimed who didn’t have to.
Jerome slipped into the chair next to him. “Got a minute, D.T.?”
“We’ve got more than that, if McCall’s running true to form. What’s on your mind?”
“Settlement, of course. I can’t believe you seriously want to go to trial.”
“Why not? I don’t have anything else to do next month.”
The Ditto List Page 38
