by Wendy Walker
She let herself slip again into the physical pleasure, the place that made this man irrelevant in every other way, but at the same time completely essential. Somehow, in the absence of expectation, and in the face of total authenticity, she was free to explore. Now, she was the one taking. How odd it was, she thought, that she could never do these things with Daniel. And it was not because there was something deeper between them than sex. It was because there was supposed to be, and because there once had been.
TWENTY-FIVE
THE DEPOSITION
THE DEPOSITION OF CARSON Farrell had been scheduled for noon, but after the usual delays’introductions, chitchat, a lost stenographer who could not grasp the concept that a law office sat above a diner’they were not ready to begin until after one. Sitting between her client and Randy Matthews, Marie folded her arms on the table and sighed with impatience.
“OK. Are we ready?”
The stenographer positioned her hands over the manual recording device, then nodded. “All set.”
“Great,” Marie said, then turned to the lawyer representing Vickie Farrell. Tim Connely was a smug son-of-a-bitch, and Marie would know, having sat across from him more times than she cared to remember. He was patronizing, condescending, and usually full of shit. He had tried to bluff her on so many cases that she had come to see his crooked little smile as nothing more than a strange birth defect. Still, he was not completely stupid, and this case was far from ordinary.
“Counselor’take it away.”
Her tone was casual, relaxed, though inside, the nerves were on edge. Marie had conducted and defended close to a hundred depositions, and in most cases, there was no need for worry. There was always ground to cover, things to get on the record, landmines to dodge when a client opened his mouth. Ferreting out a smoking gun was the highly unlikely exception to what was typically a dull exercise in fact-finding. The deposition was the last phase of discovery, preceded by document production and interrogatories’ long lists of questions that each party had to answer for the other. By the time the deposition rolled around, there was little left to know. The facts were on the table’who had the affair, who felt unloved, who didn’t get enough sex, who was never home, etc., etc. Though she always hoped for more, the most Marie expected from interviewing the opponent were deeper explanations of the things she’d already learned.
That the Farrell case involved a dead child’that her client was hiding things that went on in the family even before that death’made this case entirely different. Each time Tim Connely drew a breath, Marie held her own as she waited for the next question to leave his mouth. It started out with the mundane’a history of the roles played in the family by the Farrell parents.
“How much of the child rearing did you participate in?”
With his eyes focused on his hands folded neatly on the table in front of him, Carson Farrell answered with a customary lack of emotion. “I was gone early’before they were up. But I was home by six thirty most nights. And I was home most weekends.”
Connely, with his weak, strangely pale green slits of eyes, leaned forward, a self-aggrandizing look on his face. “You say you were home, but isn’t it true, Mr. Farrell, that the care of the children was left almost entirely to your wife?”
Rolling her eyes, Marie lifted her hand before Farrell could respond. “I think he’s already answered the question. He was there most evenings and weekends. We’ve also provided you with a year’s worth of his work calendar showing the days he was out of town on business.”
“We’re not at trial, Marie.”
Marie rolled her eyes again, and gave her colleague a look of disdain. She really couldn’t object to the question. It was just that the question annoyed her. No one was disputing that Mrs. Farrell was the primary caregiver. Still, the time when fathers were denied joint custody for that reason had ended years before.
Nodding to Farrell, Marie let him answer. “I was there whenever I could be, which was quite a bit. When I was home, I spent time with my kids. I have no hobbies. No sports. I worked out now and then, if the desk was quiet. I can’t control how you choose to characterize my involvement.”
Marie smiled and nudged Randy under the table. Farrell had been prepped well. The answer was excellent. But Randy’s attention was elsewhere, his eyes glued to the well-dressed, and eerily quiet woman across the table. Marie had hardly noticed Vickie Farrell. She had said nothing upon arriving with Connely. Still, it was more than the lack of conversation that made her near invisible. From the vacant expression on her face to the dullness of her skin, she appeared lifeless, a human doll. And though nothing was out of place, her sandy hair perfectly combed, makeup applied in the right places, everything about her seemed wrong.
The questions went on and on, their content quickly switching to the Farrell financial situation. What is the current value of the 401 (k)? What is the stock portfolio worth? What have you included in your estimate of travel and recreational expenses?
Farrell checked his notes, which were set out before him on a legal pad. The questions had been anticipated, their answers scrutinized to match what would be found in the documents and interrogatories. They were nearing the end, as far as Marie could detect, and she was about to be relieved when Connely’s squalid face adopted a somber expression.
“Now, Mr. Farrell, I realize this is a painful area. But I’d like to shift our focus to your daughter’s accident.”
There was no doubt it would come up, and to his credit, Connely had been smart to raise it at the end. Farrell would be tired, his anxiety piqued by the waiting, and it would give a solid punch line for anyone reading the transcript of the day’s testimony. Still, it was not this inquiry that concerned Marie. Farrell could handle it’she’d seen him handle it. Her concern was what might come next’the domestic disturbance preceding the accident that had left their child dead.
Farrell cleared his throat. “May we go off the record for a moment?”
The stenographer lifted her hands, trying not to seem interested.
“Carson?” Marie said, looking at her client with surprise. Taking her lead, Farrell followed her into the office and waited for her to close the door.
“What’s this about?”
“I don’t want my wife in the room for this. There’s no point,” Farrell said.
Marie shrugged and shook her head. “She has a right to be there, to direct her lawyer to relevant follow-up questioning.”
“I won’t answer if she stays.”
“Can you tell me why?”
Farrell looked at his lawyer with dismay. “Isn’t it obvious? She shouldn’t have to hear one more time what I did to our child.”
Marie studied his stone-cold face as she considered what he was asking. Who the hell are you, Carson Farrell?
“I can ask. That’s all I can do. It’s up to Connely.”
Marie cracked the door to the conference room and poked her head inside.
“Tim, may I see you a minute?”
With a loud huff, Connely pushed back his chair and walked around the table to the office door. He did his best to look annoyed, but Marie knew he was enjoying the drama.
“What is this?” he asked, feigning incredulity.
“My client is worried that his wife will be upset by this line of questioning. He would like her to leave the room.”
“Huh! I’ll bet he would. He killed their child, of course she’ll be upset. But it’s the heart and soul of her case.”
Marie took a moment for his indignation to settle, and to swallow her urge to slap Connely clear across the face. “You can still ask the questions. We all know what happened that day. It’s laid out in the interrogatories. You can always step inside and consult with her if you need clarification,” she said, in the same tone she used with her girls. “Let’s try to maintain some integrity here.”
Connely put his hand to his chin, pretending to mull it over. But Marie knew she had him. As much as he wanted to see his client b
reak down, make emotional outbursts that would be captured on the transcript, it couldn’t be done without making himself appear an insensitive ass. After a moment, he agreed, and the two lawyers returned to the deposition. Connely kneeled at Mrs. Farrell’s side and whispered something to her. Then, without hesitation’or any change of expression’his client got up from the chair, straightened her skirt, and allowed Connely to lead her into Marie’s office.
“Randy, do you mind?” Marie directed her intern to babysit Mrs. Far-rell. When both were gone, the door firmly closed, Connely went after Carson.
“The accident occurred on June twelfth?”
“Yes.”
“That was a weekday. What were you doing at home?”
“I was working from home that day.”
“Then why were you alone with the baby?”
“The others had school. They missed the bus, so my wife went to drop them off and left me with Simone.”
“And you brought her upstairs with you?”
“Yes.”
“And you did not secure the baby gate? “
“No.”
“What were you doing when the baby fell?”
“I was on a call to the office, checking in. I put her down on the office floor, and she crawled away.”
“Was the office floor a safe place for her?”
“I thought so at the time.”
“You thought so. Were there electrical outlets in the room?” Yes.
“A desk with office supplies in the drawers’stapler, paper clips’ things like that.”
“Yes, but she had a bottle. I thought she would sit and drink her milk.”
Connely looked at Farrell with disgust. “So she was in danger even before she crawled out of that room?”
“Nothing happened to her in the office.”
“But it could have. Let’s move on. How long was the call?”
“I’m not sure. A few minutes. It happened fast.”
“You heard her fall?”
“Yes.”
“And then what did you do?”
“I ran to the stairs. I saw her lying there and ran to her. I felt for a pulse. Then I went to the kitchen to call for help.”
“But she was already dead?”
“Yes.”
Connely paused for dramatic effect. “Mr. Farrell, your surviving children are still quite young. Do you really believe they are safe in your care?”
Throughout the interrogation, Farrell’s composure was steadfast. Marie had expected nothing else. Still, as he answered this last question, there was little doubt he was holding something at bay.
“They were always safe with me. I made a mistake. One mistake that cost me dearly. It won’t happen again.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because I have already lost more than I can bear to lose. That’s how.”
Marie felt herself catch her breath. Even Connely seemed to feel a chill go through him. There was something about Farrell’s statement’his bare description of his own despair, spoken so softly, so evenly. As if the despair had swallowed him whole, leaving nothing but a bystander to serve as witness.
The deposition went on’issues of logistics, how much time Farrell wanted with the children, how the transitions would be made. It was not uncommon for fathers to see their children several times a week, and overnights every other weekend. Keeping both parents in the picture was strongly favored by the courts, and Connely would have one hell of a time convincing a judge otherwise. Which was precisely why Marie held her breath now, waiting for Connely to bring up the domestic dispute.
But it never happened. Connely finished his questions and then Marie tidied up with a brief cross-examination.
“We’ll see you next week,” Marie said when she was finished. Then she escorted Mrs. Farrell and Connely to the door.
As he packed up his notes, Carson Farrell spoke without looking at his lawyer. “What’s next?”
“Your wife’s deposition.”
Farrell did not let her finish. “No,” he said, this time looking Marie dead in the eye. “I don’t want to depose her.”
Marie was beyond confused. “We have to. If you want your kids, we have to be thorough.”
“We have the other discovery. What more do we need?”
“There’s a lot to ask her. For starters, Connely attacked your ability to be a parent. We can discredit the argument by asking your wife if she ever put a child down in a room with outlets, or forgot to fasten a seat belt. We can show that all parents make mistakes. Then there are the financials Marie tried to plead her case.
“No. No deposition.” Farrell said it as he closed his briefcase. Then he brushed past Marie to the door and left before she could think of a way to stop him.
Alone now, her eyes still fixed to the spot where Farrell had been standing a second before, Marie scrambled to make sense of what had just happened. First, Farrell insisted his wife leave the room. Now, he wanted to keep Marie from deposing her. And Connely hadn’t mentioned a word about the police call on April 7, just two months before Simone Farrell’s death. Knowing the man the way she did, that could only mean that he didn’t know about it. That Mrs. Farrell had not told him. None of this was adding up.
“What’s going on?” Randy was beside her now, watching her carefully.
For the first time, Marie had no answer for him, or for herself. “I have no idea,” she said. “But I don’t like it. I’ve never had a deposition like that. Never.”
“It’s the baby, isn’t it? I mean, that’s what ended the marriage. That’s why Mrs. Farrell doesn’t want him to see the kids.”
Marie rolled her head, then reached back to massage her neck. The tension had been thick, and she was now feeling its impact. “Even so, why would Farrell be so afraid to provoke her?”
Randy shrugged and offered an answer. “Guilt?”
“Maybe. Or maybe he’s afraid he’ll push her too far. Her own guilt from leaving him might be keeping her from exposing his temper. If she gets riled up, she might be willing to go there.”
Marie began her ritual pacing. There it was again, the nagging urge to get to the bottom of things when she should just mind her own business and do her job.
“Can you do something for me?”
“Sure.”
“See if you can get the names and numbers of the Farrells’ neighbors in Wellesley. I may need to get some character references for Carson.”
“And find out what happened on April seventh?”
Marie looked at him and smiled. “That, too.”
TWENTY-SIX
MEDDLING
YVONNE HEARD THE GARAGE door open. It was nearly three thirty.
“Mommy’s home,” she said out loud, though mostly for her own ears. Since earlier that afternoon, her daughter had been at the hospital with Bill, running tests. Then they were picking up Henry. It had been a mere two hours or so, barely enough time to get into trouble’especially with the two young ones under foot. Still, somehow, Yvonne had managed.
With lightning speed, Jessica scurried off her grandmother’s lap, throwing a book to the floor as she ran to the kitchen to wait. Love had been bedridden for nearly two weeks, and while the novelty had at first been exciting, a calming relief had filled the house that morning when Love walked down the stairs. Now she had gone to pick up Henry, a task that marked the beginning of the nighttime routine. Pick up Henry, play, eat, bathe, brush teeth. Maybe watch television. Then bed. The return to their mundane existence seemed to envelope Jessica’s little body with contentment, culminating in a gleeful smile as she stood and waited.
Picking Baby Will up from his spot on the floor, Yvonne felt quite the opposite.
“Come on, Will. Time to face the music.”
She had always been respectful of her daughter’s space. No diary had ever been read, no dresser drawer pillaged. With the arrogance of a woman naive enough to believe she knew the world, Yvonne had always trusted her instincts about her
daughter, though the signs had been right in front of her. And her blindness had nearly cost Love her life.
She would not repeat those mistakes now, even if it meant overstepping, butting in without being asked. Everything she’d seen since entering this house had convinced her that Love’s survival depended on it.
With the baby on her hip, sucking his beloved thumb with fervor, she followed Jessica to the kitchen. A moment later, the door to the garage swung open and Henry bounded in, his overstuffed backpack hovering over him like a giant tortoise shell.
“Henry!” Jessica said, and she leaped at him for a warm, sisterly hug that was most clearly contrived to earn her points with the adult audience.
Henry pushed her aside. “Get off,” he said, then continued his march to the playroom. Jessica scowled at her brother for a brief moment, then lit up again at the sight of her mother.
“Mommy!”
When Love passed through the door, Bill was holding her by the arm. Everything about her, from the twisted expression on her face that was trying to form a smile, to the careful movements that were inching her forward’all of it screamed pain. Yvonne shook her head. She had known it this morning when stating her objections to the day’s plan. It had been too soon to venture out of bed.
Love did her best to hug Jessica. “Hi, sweets. How was your time with Grandma?”
“Good. ’Bye.” Satisfied for the moment, Jessica followed Henry into the playroom where they could watch for the bus. Olivia and Suzanne would be home soon, and they were spending the afternoon while their mom was working.
Bracing herself on the edge of the counter, Love shuffled across the kitchen floor to answer the baby’s call. With outstretched arms and a loud wail, Will would not be silenced until he was in his mother’s embrace.
“Here I am, baby.” Love leaned against the counter as she held her son, the pain ripping through her right side with every move.
Yvonne reached out, taking back the squirming child. “That’s enough, now. Get back to bed.”
