Mitzi shook her head at the memory. “The ex didn’t even want the kids. He just didn’t want to pay her child support. It was brutal.”
“How can a judge get away with that kind of thing?” Grace asked, horrified. “Can’t you report him or something?”
“That’s not how it works, unfortunately,” Mitzi said. “We’re just going to have to hope for the best. We’ll lay out the facts; Gracenotes is your business, carries your name, and is written and photographed solely by you. By locking you out of your own Web site, Ben has essentially hijacked your name, which is trademarked, right?”
Grace shook her head. “I was going to trademark it, but I just never got around to it. I guess I assumed Ben would take care of that.”
“Unfortunate,” Mitzi said. She scribbled a note to herself. “All right, the good news is, at least we know what we’re dealing with.”
“If that’s the good news, I don’t want to hear the bad stuff,” Grace said. She gathered her papers and went home to figure out her next move.
6
They’d gotten there early. The courtroom was half-full, and another hearing was still under way. Mitzi Stillwell led her up the right-side aisle and gestured at a vacant seat toward the front third of the room.
Grace studied the judge, who sat erect in his high-backed chair, listening intently. He looked to be in his late forties, with receding strawberry-blond hair combed straight back from a high forehead, steel-rimmed glasses, and a long, narrow, unsmiling face. “Is that our judge?”
“That’s Stackpole, in the flesh,” Mitzi said.
“I thought he’d be older,” Grace said.
“He was two years behind me in law school at UF,” Mitzi said. “And he was a pain in the ass, even then. But a politically connected pain. He was appointed to the bench at forty.”
A uniformed bailiff, a young black woman with startling platinum marcelled hair who was standing at the side door to the courtroom, caught Mitzi’s eye and gave her a very slight shake of the head.
“We gotta keep quiet,” Mitzi murmured. “Or he’ll have that bailiff toss us out.”
* * *
A lawyer standing at the table on the left front side of the room stood and spoke into a microphone. “Judge, we’d like the court to view this video my client shot of her husband, while he was terrorizing my client.” Grace couldn’t see the lawyer’s face, just the back of his balding head, and his neat, dark suit.
An older woman sitting at the opposite table stood. “Your honor, we have not seen that video, so we’re going to oppose that being introduced into evidence.”
The judge gave her a mirthless smile. “We’ll all see it together right now, shall we, Ms. Entwhistle?”
“My client was deliberately goaded into an altercation by Mrs. Keeler’s boyfriend. For months now, she and Luke Grigsby have repeatedly violated the terms of their custody agreement by either delivering Bo hours late, or not at all, at times when my client was scheduled to have Bo.”
“Well, Ms. Entwhistle, I don’t see where you’ve notified the court about that,” Stackpole said evenly.
“No sir,” Ms. Entwhistle said. “My client was trying to keep things amicable and civil, for the sake of the child. On the day that video was shot, Bo was to have been dropped off at his father’s house before lunch. Mrs. Keeler was aware that Bo had a T-ball game at four that afternoon. My client even sent her a text message reminding her of that fact. But she was a no-show. She never notified my client of Bo’s whereabouts, instead dropping him off at the park half an hour after the start of the game, and without his team uniform or his glove. The child was distraught, in fact, in tears, because he thought he’d let his team down.”
The opposing lawyer stood up. “Judge, if you watch our video, you’ll see that if there were indeed any tears, which my client states there weren’t, it was probably only because Bo was afraid that Wyatt Keeler, who also happens to be his coach, and who obviously has a volatile temper, might be angry at him.”
The man who’d been sitting at the table beside the female lawyer shot to his feet. He was coatless, but dressed in a pale yellow long-sleeved dress shirt and a blue necktie. He looked to be in his late thirties or early forties. His clean-shaven head was deeply tanned and gleamed in the glow of the courtroom lights. “That’s not true,” Wyatt Keeler called out, his voice cracking with emotion. “My son has never been afraid of me. He was crying because it was a big game, and Callie and Luke couldn’t be bothered to get him there in time to play.”
“That’s enough, Mr. Keeler,” the judge snapped. “Anything else, and I’ll have the bailiff remove you from this courtroom.” He closed his eyes for a moment and pinched the bridge of his nose. “All right,” he said, gesturing to the same bailiff who’d already shushed Grace and Mitzi. “We’re about to be running late. I want to see this video right now.”
A moment later, a projection screen had been set up at the front of the room and the overhead lights dimmed. The video, grainy and depicting jerky movements, obviously shot from a cell phone.
As Grace and the other observers in the court watched, they saw Wyatt Keeler, dressed in a bright turquoise T-shirt with MARASOTA MAULERS in script lettering across the front, come storming toward the camera, his eyes narrowed, jaw set angrily, fists clenched.
“Hey, man,” he called. “I’m not done with you.”
Now the camera showed a second man, with dark, slicked-back hair, wearing khaki slacks and a red polo shirt, walking hurriedly toward the camera. He wore dark sunglasses. “Make sure you get all this, Callie,” he called, glancing over his shoulder. An unseen female voice said. “I got it.”
Now Wyatt Keeler charged toward the other man, grabbing him from behind by the shoulders and spinning him around. It looked like he was saying something, but their voices were muffled.
The woman’s voice rang out. “Get your hands off him, Wyatt.”
Sunglasses man easily shook himself free of Wyatt Keeler’s grasp and went jogging away with Wyatt Keeler following at a steady clip.
“Back away, Wyatt,” the woman’s voice called. “If you put your hands on Luke one more time, I am calling the cops. I mean it, too.”
Wyatt Keeler looked right at the camera, stricken. His pace slowed and his facial expression softened, slightly. The camera moved back a little, now showing a gleaming white Trans-Am in the foreground.
“Don’t do this, Callie,” Keeler pleaded. “Bo needs me. You can’t just take him away like this. I won’t let you. This is his home.”
“Not anymore it ain’t,” Luke Grigsby taunted. He was almost at the driver’s side of the Trans-Am. “You call living in a double-wide trailer a home? The kid doesn’t even have his own room. He’s coming with us to Birmingham, and there’s nothing you can do to stop us.”
“Fuck you, Luke,” Wyatt Keeler’s voice rang out crystal clear. He was advancing again, his face menacing.
“Get in the car, Callie,” Luke said loudly. “Come on, before this maniac hurts somebody.”
Luke opened the driver-side door and started to slide onto the seat. The camera was moving now, so the footage was even jerkier and out of focus. Even with that, Grace watched, appalled. Grigsby’s head popped up above the car door. “See you later, alligator,” he said, smirking, just before he closed the door.
Wyatt Keeler lunged toward the car. “The hell you say,” he bellowed, smashing his fist into the rolled-up car window.
“Stop it, Wyatt,” the woman yelled. Her shrill scream pierced the cool courthouse air. The video stopped abruptly, and a moment later, the lights in the courtroom were turned on again.
Grace stared, wide-eyed with horror at the now-white screen.
“Ms. Entwhistle?” Judge Stackpole’s face was deadpan. “I can see why you didn’t want the court to view that video.” He turned toward Wyatt Keeler. “You, sir, are lucky that gentleman did not file assault charges against you. Frankly, what I’ve just seen here turns my stomach.”
> Wyatt Keeler bowed his head and buried his face in his hands.
His wife’s lawyer saw an opening and dove right in. “Judge, as you can see, Wyatt Keeler is not a fit father or role model for a young child. We’d ask the court to grant my client’s application to go ahead with her planned move to Alabama with her fiancé, Mr. Grigsby, and of course, we want to have the previously agreed-to custody settlement amended to reflect that. Mrs. Keeler would be willing to allow Bo to visit his father for monthly supervised weekend visits, and she’d also be open to discussions about alternating holidays and, possibly, summer visits of up to a week. Again, to be supervised by a neutral party.”
Wyatt Keeler raised his head. “One weekend a month? This is my son we’re talking about.”
“Quiet, Mr. Keeler!” Stackpole boomed.
Betsy Entwhistle stood and placed a warning hand on her client’s shoulder. “I apologize for my client’s outburst. He won’t do it again. And I’ll add that he is not proud of his behavior that day. But judge, that video was choreographed and shot by Mrs. Keeler and Mr. Grigsby. It’s just as important to note what you don’t see as what you do. For instance, that video doesn’t show Mr. Grigsby deliberately baiting my client…”
“I saw all I needed to see,” Stackpole interrupted, waving his hand dismissively. “Mr. Keeler?”
Betsy Entwhistle gave a brief nod and her client stood.
Stackpole’s eyes drilled into the hapless Wyatt Keeler. “Regardless of what that video did or did not show, I find the actions shown there to be alarming, bordering on criminal.” He looked over at the opposing lawyer. “When do Mrs. Keeler and Mr. Grigsby intend to relocate to Birmingham?”
After a brief whispered conference, the other lawyer cleared his throat. “Early August, Judge. Although Mr. Grigsby will move there immediately, Mrs. Keeler needs time to settle things here. But we’d ask that your custody order become effective immediately.”
Stackpole thought it over. “I don’t see any need for a rush. I’m going to take this under advisement. I have some thoughts, and I’ll issue a ruling, probably by the end of business today.” He glared at Wyatt Keeler. “And you, sir, are to stay away from Mr. Grigsby. If this court hears of even a hint of any more aggression from you, I’ll issue a temporary restraining order. Is that understood?”
“Understood,” Betsy Entwhistle said.
“Understood,” her client echoed.
Stackpole flicked his eyes over at Callie Keeler, who was dressed in a demure pale-blue, long-sleeved dress. “Mrs. Keeler, if there are any more incidents, you’re free to take that back up with the court again.”
“Oh, I will Judge,” Callie said, her high-pitched voice sounding defiant. “You better believe I will.”
Stackpole jerked his head at the bailiff. “Ten-minute recess. Then I’ll hear my next case.”
* * *
Mitzi touched Grace’s arm. “Let’s make a bathroom run before they call us.” Grace followed her lawyer out of the courtroom and down a long, narrow hallway.
As they walked, Grace spotted Wyatt Keeler. He was sitting on a wooden bench, focused on conversation with his lawyer. He was deeply tanned, and from here Grace could see that his dress shirt was ill-fitting, the collar too big, the sleeves too long. The shirt had obviously just come from a package, as the factory fold marks were still visible.
The other lawyer looked up just as they were passing. “Hey, Betsy,” Mitzi murmured, nodding. “Looks like Stackpole is in rare form today.”
Betsy Entwhistle rolled her eyes. Her client turned, noticing the two women who’d been in the courtroom earlier, and blushed, then looked down at his hands. For the first time, Grace noticed that his right hand was heavily bandaged.
“He’s a peach, isn’t he?” Betsy said. “I saw you sitting in the courtroom. Are you on his docket today?”
“Unfortunately,” Mitzi said. She gestured toward Grace. “This is my client, Grace Stanton.”
“And this is my nephew, Wyatt Keeler,” Betsy said.
Wyatt Keeler offered them a solemn smile, revealing choirboy dimples. His eyes were a deep chocolate brown, framed with stubby dark lashes. He was seated, but he had the lean, lanky look of somebody who spent a lot of time outdoors. “I hope you fare better with that guy than I did,” he said quietly.
Up close, Grace thought, he didn’t look quite as much like the deranged goon he seemed in the video shot by his wife. Up close, he looked sad. Defeated.
“I was just telling Wyatt he’s lucky Stackpole didn’t order him to be castrated,” Betsy said.
“He did seem pretty worked up today,” Mitzi agreed. “I was kind of surprised, since it’s usually the wives he’s antagonistic towards.”
“That damned video didn’t help us any,” Betsy said bluntly.
Mitzi glanced down at her watch. “Whoops. Sorry, but we’ve got to make a pit stop before Stackpole readjourns.”
“Good luck in there,” Wyatt said.
* * *
They slid into their seats at the front of the courtroom just as the bailiff at the rear of the room was closing the doors.
Mitzi Stillwell shot Grace a sideways glance. “You okay?”
Grace nodded. “As good as I’m gonna get.” She turned halfway in her chair and looked around the courtroom. There was no sign yet of Ben and his lawyer. She didn’t know whether to be glad or mad.
“What happens now?” she asked, turning back to her attorney.
“It should be pretty cut-and-dried,” Mitzi said. “We’ve asked the judge to order Ben to mediation for a financial settlement, since he’s so far resisted all our efforts in that direction. We’ve produced plenty of documentation that the business is yours and that he’s put you in an untenable situation. Even Stackpole should agree that you are arguably the rainmaker for Gracenotes.”
“And then?”
“Then we figure out a way to divide up the marital assets, seek a final decree for you, and Stackpole pronounces you unmarried.”
“You make it sound easy,” Grace said.
Mitzi shrugged. “Not easy. The statutes don’t want to make it too easy to get a divorce. But if Stackpole makes Ben play by the rules and divvy up the goods, this shouldn’t be too terribly complicated from hereon out.”
Grace heard footsteps coming up the center aisle of the courtroom and turned slightly before swiveling violently back toward Mitzi. “He’s here,” she whispered. “Oh, God. I don’t think I can breathe.”
She still hadn’t laid eyes on Ben since the night she’d driven his Audi into the pool on Sand Dollar Lane. He strode past her, eyes front, and sat at a table directly to the right of the one where she sat. He was dressed in a conservative charcoal suit, sharply pressed white dress shirt, and a purple silk tie. His glossy hair looked freshly cut, his black Gucci loafers were polished to perfection. He was carrying a briefcase Grace hadn’t seen in years, and he busied himself now, snapping it open and sorting through file folders.
Grace felt something tighten in her chest. “Breathe,” Mitzi instructed quietly. “In. Out. You can do this, Grace. Don’t let the bastard get you rattled.”
“I am rattled,” Grace said, feeling her face flush. She felt a hand clasp her shoulder and looked up.
Dickie Murphree smiled down at her. “Gracie,” he said, his hand lingering on her shoulder. “It’s great to see you.”
Dickie looked much as he had the last time she’d seen him, at an expensive restaurant on St. Armand’s Circle, not long after she and Ben had moved back to town. Had it been three years ago? His thinning brown hair was a little too long in the back and he had a rakish mustache and that same impish smile he’d used so effectively to get his way all through high school.
“No hard feelings, right, Grace? This is just one of these things. You’ll get past this, and you’ll be fine. Right?”
No hard feelings? Grace felt her jaw drop. With Dickie’s help, Ben had effectively impoverished her. Right this very minute, she was wearing
the dressiest clothing she possessed, a pair of her mother’s cast-off sandals, and an ill-fitting rayon knit dress she’d picked up for $3.60 at a thrift shop near the hospital. No hard feelings? Not long ago, Grace wouldn’t have used this dress as a dishrag. Dickie didn’t wait for her reply. He nodded now at Mitzi, flashing his easy smile. “Hey there, Ms. Stillwell.”
“Dickie.” Mitzi gave him a curt, dismissive nod.
He finally removed his grasp of her shoulder and slid onto the chair next to Ben’s.
Ben was still busily sorting file folders, avoiding meeting her eyes.
“Exhale,” Mitzi said quietly. “Think about a happy place. Picture yourself there.”
“I don’t have a happy place anymore,” Grace whispered. “Ben got custody of it.”
“Then try this. Picture your ex with his dick caught in a rattrap.”
Implausibly, Grace began to smile. As the image formed in her mind, she began to giggle. Horrified, she clamped her hands over her mouth, but not before the giggle became a guffaw. Ben’s head turned sharply. His eyes narrowed and he looked, briefly, disgusted. He glanced at the back of the courtroom and gave an almost imperceptible shrug before returning to his paper shuffling.
“Feel better?” Mitzi asked, a smile playing at the edge of her lips.
“Much,” Grace said. Her eyes followed Ben’s gaze toward the back of the room. Sitting in the last row, wearing a form-fitting chartreuse dress and dark sunglasses, a raven-haired woman was staring down at her cell phone, her fingertips racing over the keyboard. Probably sexting Ben, Grace thought.
“I don’t believe it,” Grace said, her mirth short-lived. “She’s here. Right in this courtroom. She’s wearing sunglasses, and I think she’s dyed her hair, but that’s definitely J’Aimee. I can’t believe he had the nerve to bring her here.”
Mitzi turned all the way around in her chair to have a look, not bothering to hide what she was doing. “Oh. The green dress, right? What is she, about thirteen? Did he have to sign her out of homeroom?”
Ladies' Night Page 6
