by Jon Reisfeld
“And there will be animals to pet – and pony rides?”
“Yeah.”
“That really sounds like fun.”
“I know.”
“Which friends of yours did you invite?”
“Petey and Jeffrey and Mikey and Dougy and some other guys. Petey’s getting me a baseball bat. He told me.”
“Wow. That’s a great present! We can use it when we practice your Tee Ball swing together. Won’t that be fun?”
“Yes!”
“A lot of special people will be there for you tomorrow; do you know that?”
“Who?”
“Well, Grandma Es and Grandma Phyllis! Uncle Jeb and Aunt Neenah, too.”
“They’re not special people, Daddy. They’re family!”
“That’s right, but you don’t get to see them every day, do you?”
“No.”
“So, that makes them kind of special, doesn’t it?”
“Maybe …. Are they bringing the baby, Daddy?”
“Yes, baby Suzy will be there, too.”
“Good. She’s funny!”
“Yes she is, buddy.”
“Daddy, do I have to go if you won’t be there?”
“Yes, son. It’s a very special day, for a very special guy. You’re going to be seven years old! That’s so amazing, do you know that?”
“Yeah!” Justin said, giggling.
“Everybody’s coming to see you blow out the candles – and they’re bringing you presents, too.”
“You won’t see me blow them out, Daddy. I don’t feel like cel’brating, if you can’t come!”
“I’ve got an idea. How about if I talk to Mommy and arrange to call you tomorrow, on Skype®, just as you are about to blow them out? That way, I can join everyone else and sing ‘Happy Birthday,’ and you can see and hear me do it. It will almost be like I’m there!”
“That would be great, Daddy. Will you?”
“I’ll ask her, buddy. I think we can make that happen.”
“Daddy,” Justin said, “I’m so happy now. I feel like crying. Isn’t that silly?”
“No,” Martin said, trying to hold back his own tears. “It isn’t silly at all. And Justin?”
“Yes, Daddy?”
“You need to listen better to Mommy. OK?”
“I’ll try.”
“It’s important, because you’re going to be seven years old. You’re a big boy. And you need to behave like one. OK?”
“I guess.”
“You know, you forgot to ask me something.”
“I did?”
“Yes. Remember, I told you I had a surprise for you?”
“Oh, yeah. What kind of surprise?”
“Well, as soon as I can, I am going to come visit you and Monica and Mommy and Maxie, and when I do, I am going out take you out for a special father-son birthday celebration!”
“Really?!”
“Uh huh. Just us guys. And guess where we’re going to go?”
“Where?”
“We’re going to Baltimore to watch your favorite team, the Orioles, play ball. We’ll make a day of it.”
“Really?”
“Yes siree.”
“And we can eat hot dogs together?”
“Yep. And Coke and Crackerjacks, too!”
“I love you, Daddy.”
“I love you too, Justin. Happy Birthday! And I’ll speak with you tomorrow!”
“OK, Daddy. Bye!”
“Bye.”
Martin sat on the side of the bed for a moment, sighing. He wiped the tears form his eyes. Then, he dialed Swindell’s number and left a message on the answering machine, explaining that he had figured out what ‘tiny’ reciprocal favor Swindell should now request from Katie’s attorney.
Chapter 25
Beverly West sat at her antique French provincial writing desk, in her Rockville law office, sipping tea, nibbling at a stale cheese Danish and staring, uncomfortably, at the telephone. It was now nearly nine o’clock Friday morning and, for the past ten minutes, West had been trying to motivate herself to call Chester Swindell and offer to meet with him and his client to discuss settling the case.
West leaned forward, arms bent at the elbows and head resting on the backs of her hands. She was out of options and she knew it. She sighed as she stared at the lifeless device. On some level, she knew she was stalling, in the hope that a last-minute call from Swindell, with a similar request, might rescue her.
West had hoped she would never have to make this call, but twenty minutes earlier, Katie Silkwood had made the decision for her. Katie had called, ostensibly, to thank West for getting Martin to speak with their son. Justin, she had said, was now “back on board” for his birthday party, but she added, that was not the real reason for her call.
“Beverly, I’m out of time. I need you to call Martin’s attorney today and offer to settle the case. We need to make Monday’s hearing go away. I’m sorry, but I just can’t afford it!”
West swallowed hard as her hand inched toward the receiver. Like any lawyer, she preferred to deal from a position of strength, but her present reluctance ran deeper than that. For years, she had struggled to be taken seriously by those closest to her and that had made her hate feeling even the slightest bit vulnerable.
When she had first expressed an interest in the law more than thirty years earlier, the men in West’s family had belittled her. Skilled tradesmen and small business owners, they thought she was “putting on airs.” In ways both real and imagined, she felt they had hindered her legal ambitions.
The jokes subsided when West made law review at the University of Maryland, and later, she thought they had ended altogether when she passed the Maryland state bar exam on her first try. But her decision to specialize in family law, strangely enough, had inspired new taunts. Why, they had asked her, was she willing to squander her hard-won legal skills to pursue such a shallow, insignificant branch of the law? It took her stunning record of wins representing female divorce clients, and her conspicuously affluent lifestyle, to finally shut them up.
West pushed Swindell’s speed dial number and waited. When he answered, she gently eased into her topic.
“Chester, I’ve got good news for you. Whatever your client said to young Justin last night really helped. Katie Silkwood called me earlier today and said his behavior is much improved. He’s once more looking forward to attending his birthday party tomorrow.”
“That’s great, Bev. Just goes to show you how important co-parentin’ is, wouldn’t you agree?”
“In this case, Chester, I would have to say, ‘yes’. I was quite impressed with the way the Silkwoods came together, for Justin’s sake. I think this may give them a new foundation upon which to build.”
Swindell, who had been slouching at his desk, sat up straight in his chair. “What are you gettin’ at, Bev?”
“Well, Chester,” West said, hesitantly, “I think now might be the time to take another look at settling this case. I think we should try to preserve this positive, new momentum. It would be a real tragedy if we allowed the Silkwoods to return to a state of acrimony. What do you think?”
At the other end of the line, Swindell smiled and pumped his right fist up and down several times, in a silent, victory salute.
“I don’t know, Bev” he continued. “Your last attempt to settle didn’t turn out all that well. What makes you think this time will be better?”
West felt blood rushing to her cheeks. “Chester, you know that first offer was nothing more than a trial balloon. The process never should have ended there.”
“But it did, Bev, and at my client’s insistence. Want to know why?”
“Sure.”
“It ended because my client, who is a decent man, did not like being robbed of his parental rights and falsely charged with domestic violence in a one-sided trial. What you call a ‘trial balloon’ he considered to be insult heaped upon injury.”
“So, what are you saying, Chester? Your client wa
nts to go to trial? Potentially, he still has a lot to lose.”
“That may be, Bev,” Swindell said, smiling and shaking his head. “But he doesn’t seem to care! The man, pardon the expression, has balls. I don’t think he wants to go to trial any more than he wants a divorce. But he also won’t beg to have what he considers to be stolen property returned. Please tell me how I can assure him this won’t be another waste of his time.”
West cleared her throat. “We are prepared, Chester, to put virtually everything on the table. No sacred cows.”
Swindell considered that for a moment. “You said ‘virtually everythin’,’ Bev. Precisely what does ‘virtually’ mean?”
“It means nearly everything, Chester. My client does have a few non-negotiable items, but I assure you, they do not include anything that a normal, rational human being, in your client’s position, would consider to be a deal breaker.”
“I sure hope you’re right, Bev.”
“Then, you’re willing to give this a try?” West asked.
“Yes.”
“Good.” West felt a wave of relief. “How about if you, your client and I meet Saturday morning, at eleven o’clock, at your office?”
“That should work,” Swindell said. “I’ll check with Mahr-tin. If you don’t hear anythin’ different from me, we’re on.”
“Great. Now Chester,” West said, “I also need your reassurance about something.”
“What’s that, Bev?”
“After having been rebuffed once, by your client, I would like to know that I won’t be wasting my time again. A girl doesn’t like to be turned down once, let alone twice! How serious do you think Mr. Silkwood will be about settling this matter?”
Swindell stroked his chin as he pondered just how forthcoming he should be. “That’s a tough one, Bev. He’s been a bit hard to read, lately, on that subject. One minute, he seems fairly eager to resolve the matter out-of-court; the next, he seems to have dug in his heels the other way.
“Well …” West sighed.
“Bev, I think he was very hurt by what he considers to be his wife’s false allegations, so I think you’ll need to be a bit contrite and extremely generous and flexible right out of the gate. Be prepared to bend over to make your offer as appealin’ as possible.”
West smiled. “Chester, I think you meant to say, be prepared to ‘bend over backwards’ not ‘bend over.’ I don’t need reassurance in that department.”
Swindell laughed, “I should hope not, counselor!” He paused a moment before continuing. “Uh Bev, there’s another small matter that’s come up that I need your help on.”
“What’s that, Chester?”
“Mr. Silkwood wants to attend his son’s birthday party tomorrow – virtually, via Skype,” he clarified, “and only long enough to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ and watch the boy blow out the candles.”
“I think that should be doable.”
“Great, Bev. Please let me know the details, so I can pass them along to him. I think he’ll consider that to be a nice pre-settlement conference goodwill gesture.
“You also should know that my influence with my client, in this area, may be a bit more limited than you might think.”
“I’m sure you’re understating that a bit,” West said. “But I hear you.”
“Good. See you tomorrow, counselor, at eleven sharp.”
“Right.”
Chapter 26
Rockville was baking in the Friday, midday sun as the temperature climbed to 89 degrees. Tony Sands Jr., turned left on the sidewalk at MD Rte. 28 and saw the district court building looming dead ahead.
He licked the corner of his lips, removing a bit of tomato sauce left over from the slice of pizza he had picked up on his way from the barber shop. He carried his brand new barber’s bag in his right hand and a cup of diet soda in his left.
Sands took another sip of soda through the straw and smiled as he remembered how excited his dad had been earlier that morning, when he had called his son about the fishing trip.
The call came at 3:18 a.m. “Huh?” he had said, still half asleep.
“Junior, where the Hell are you?” his dad had bellowed. “I can hear those bluefish and rockfish flapping their fins in the water!”
“Calm down, Pops. I’m only five minutes away from you, and Sam isn’t expecting you until four.”
“I’m calling him next. Otherwise, we’ll get there and he’ll still be sawing away! You said the boat leaves at five, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, let’s not cut it too close, son. Traffic could be heavy.”
“At four o’clock in the morning? I don’t think so, Pops. Why don’t you ask Mom for one of her pills? It’ll calm you down.”
“Calm me down? Whose side are you on, the bluefishes’?”
Tony laughed, just thinking about it.
But now as he advanced toward the district courthouse, each new step seemed to bring him down a little further. He was thinking about the bag in his right hand, its contents – including the tape recording of La traviata, that a courier had delivered to him just before seven thirty in the morning. He also was worried about the security checkpoint he would have to clear inside the courthouse in just a matter of minutes. Suddenly, the barber bag handle began to feel sweaty.
Sand’s imagination had been running wild with scenarios.
In one, he was at the checkpoint and had removed all the metal objects in the bag, but when he passed it through the metal detector, the alarm tripped anyway. Instantly, the sheriff’s deputies turned on him with their guns at the ready! He raised his hands. “OK, OK. You got me. Don’t shoot!”
They flipped him around, pressed him against the conveyor belt, spread his legs, and handcuffed his hands behind his back.
“You have the right to remain silent,” one of the sheriff’s deputies said. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…”
“Jeeze!” Sands moaned, annoyed at his inability to control his thoughts. Real sweat was now pouring down his face. He pulled out a couple of paper napkins he had grabbed at the pizza parlor and began wiping his brow. He willed his brain to shut down and prayed his handlers knew what they were doing.
It was 12:35 p.m. when he pressed the large, polished stainless-steel door handle and slowly pushed open the courthouse’s tall glass door. A frigid blast of air hit him like a Maui wave.
Inside the lobby, lighting was minimal. He saw a sign directly ahead that read, “Please have your driver’s ID ready. Remove all metal objects from your person, and open your bags for inspection.”
A line of well-dressed men and women had formed ahead of him – attorneys, he figured – with an occasional, less formally attired person – a client, perhaps? – interspersed between them.
Ahead three guards – two men and a woman – manned the scanners. The woman waved a wand up and down the female visitors while the male guard screened the men.
A thin, Latin-looking man in his early twenties, wearing a loose-fitting, patterned Caribbean shirt, walked briskly through the scanner arch and triggered a loud “bleep.”
“Hold on,” the third guard said. He stepped forward and cut the man off from his attorney.
“Empty your pockets.”
“I already did,” the young man said.
“Did you take off your belt?” the guard asked.
“Whaaat?”
“Lose the belt, sir.”
“Ahh, that’s mean, man,” the young man said as he undid his belt and handed it to the guard. A large pen knife was attached in the center of the back of the belt.
The guard smiled. “Say ‘goodbye’ to your little friend. You’re never going to see it, or the belt, again.”
“Say, what?” the young man said, stamping his feet. “How am I going to keep my pants up?”
The attorney had moved around the guard and was now standing at his client’s side. “Shut up, Rodriguez, before he charges you with carrying a con
cealed weapon. Use your hands.”
After what felt like hours, Sand’s turn finally came. The larger of the two guards, an African American man in his late thirties, asked for his ID.
“I’m Tony Sands, the barber’s, son,” he said, handing the guard his driver’s license. “I treated Pops to a charter fishing trip today, so I’m here to give Judge Farnsworth his weekly haircut.”
“OK,” the guard said. “Take off your belt and put it in one of these little trays, along with all of your metal items.”
He handed a tray to Sands, so that he could begin emptying his pockets. Afterward, Sands took off his shoes and put them on the conveyor belt as well, along with his barber’s bag. “Should I take the metal objects out, or just leave them all together?” he asked.
“Yes. Take them out.”
Sands emptied the bag into one of the larger trays. The guard glanced, momentarily, at the tools. Then, to Sand’s horror, he asked for the bag.
He opened the top, looked inside and examined the outside. “Wow, some nice bag!” he said. “Your dad’s rundown old thing looks like hell, in comparison.” Then, he noticed that the bag’s interior stopped two inches short of the bottom.
He frowned. “What’s this about?”
Sands suddenly felt lightheaded and scared. What was he supposed to say? He decided to live dangerously.
“It’s a cushioned bottom,” he said. “To make sure we don’t break anything, like aftershave bottles, or damage equipment by setting it down too hard.”
The guard looked at him skeptically.
“Hey,” Sands continued. “You’ve seen my dad’s bag. It didn’t get like that without a lot of help from him! We barbers are notorious for banging them up.”
The guard considered that for a moment and smiled. “Makes sense to me. Here,” he added, picking up the bag and tossing it back to Sands. “Put it on the conveyor belt, and then walk through the arch.”
Sands did as he was told, but when he was halfway through the arch, the buzzer went off. “Oh, shit” he muttered to himself.
He stretched his arms out, waiting for the guard with the wand to come over and scan him again. When the guard reached him, he smiled and shook his head, as if to say, ‘Gotcha, fool!’ Then, to Sands’ surprise, he reached his arm out and unfastened Tony’s wrist watch. “A bit absent-minded today, huh?”
