by Martin Clark
“Hi, Mom,” he said.
“Shhh. Please be quiet while I’m reading. There are children dying, going hungry, no clothes. Naked children from other places. They’ve written me, and I’ve got to help.”
Joel picked up an envelope from beside his mother, checked the return address, then peered at the letter she was clutching. From the Worldwide Children’s Relief Fund, it showed a beautiful, poor child with doleful eyes and dirty feet, asked for a dollar a day—or more—if Helen King could find it in her heart to contribute.
“I’ve got to do something,” she said.
“I don’t know how these organizations get your name,” Joel said, as much to himself as to her. “It’s probably a scam. I know almost every charity there is, and I’ve never heard of these people. Probably ten percent goes to the recipients, ninety percent for overhead and administration and fund-raisers in Hilton Head.”
“This little girl is hungry,” she said, totally obsessed by the letter.
“Did you understand what I just said?” he asked her, and it occurred to him how completely cynicism had set up shop in him, how less than a year removed from the pulpit, he took nothing at face value, dissected every situation and second-guessed every motive, constantly kept an eye peeled for the sag in generous deeds and the hidden agenda in beneficence.
On the verge of tears, she held the letter closer to Joel. “Do you know this child? I can’t remember who she is, but she’s written me for help. I think she used to come to the library when I worked there. I was a librarian for twenty-one years. I believe she was one of my reading-circle children.”
“I’m not sure who she is. We’ll take care of her, okay?” He sat on the bed and put his arm around his mother, trying to comfort her. “We’ll send her some money for food.”
“Yes. Yes, we should do that. Send her money soon.”
“We will.”
“Where’s my purse? I need to write a check.”
“I’ll send the money. You don’t have to worry yourself.” He took the letter. “I’ll take care of everything, and the little girl will be eating a hot meal by tomorrow night.”
“Thank you. You must be an angel.”
He smiled. “I’m your son, Joel.”
“I’d tend to her myself if I could. I would. But I can’t. My children took my car from me, stole it.” Her eyelids raised high enough for Joel to see the white above her pupils. “My Volvo. Joel and Sophie stole it from me.”
“I’m Joel, and Sophie and I didn’t steal your car.”
“It had another ten years left. I had the oil changed like you’re supposed to.”
Joel took hold of his mother’s hand and buried it in his. Her knuckles were deformed and several of her fingers were arthritic and skeletal, and the skin on her arm was as thin as tissue paper, mottled by black-and-blue ruptures. Eighty-one years had eroded her, taken the smooth color and suppleness from her small limbs, whittled her down to her last layer. He shook her gently, attempting to tune her in. “Mom, look at me. It’s Joel, your son. The preacher.”
“I want to go home,” she said, her eyes back to normal, droopy and translucent with film.
“Okay. I think you should.”
“I have a wonderful home in Indiana, filled with many expensive things. My grandparents adored me. They used to buy me licorice.”
“Licorice, huh?”
“They lived like royalty and treated me like a princess. My daddy was a dashing man.”
“He was. I’ve seen pictures.” Joel hadn’t turned loose of her hand.
“I need to go home,” she said again.
“How about this? Would you like me to take you for a nice ride? Enjoy some fresh air?”
“I can’t miss supper.”
“It’s two hours until you eat. I’ll have you back in plenty of time.”
“We line up at five sharp.”
“I’ll have you here before then. I promise.”
“What a lovely picture,” she said.
Joel searched the room for clues but had no idea what she was talking about. “While we’re gone,” he said, “we’ll drop off the money for the child at the post office.”
“All my children are grown. I give them money for their birthday.”
Joel released her hand. “Do you still want to send money to the little girl in the letter?”
“I was a librarian for twenty-one years. What a lovely picture.”
He showed his mother the letter, pointed at the pretty overseas girl who needed blankets, rice and clean drinking water. “What about her? Do you remember what we were discussing?”
Helen King was the dotty czarina of her own mismatched world, dwelling partly in the immediate moment, partly somewhere else, the starving child from the reading circle a cipher who’d sojourned in her head without leaving tracks or impressions or any permanent record. “I’m going home after my meal,” she said. “My family’s taking me out of this prison.”
Sophie had told him the worst ones, at the end, gaze in the mirror and don’t recognize who they’re seeing, lose all sense of self and live in constant apprehension, terrorized by marauding strangers in their rooms and foreign faces tracking them from behind. He hugged and kissed his mom, pocketed the Children’s Fund information and walked to the door.
“I love you,” he said. “I’ll see you soon.”
“Come again,” she answered. “I love you, too.”
Sweet Briar College was just the place for Christy to resume her education. It was a single-sex school, no men admitted, and the curriculum included a number of courses in horseback riding, film studies and French. The curriculum also included mixers and dances and parties and cotillions and formals and boathouse bashes and trips to Hampden-Sydney, Randolph-Macon, Washington and Lee, VMI and her old stomping ground, the University of Virginia. The Sweet Briar rules were simple— show up for class, don’t cause trouble, don’t be a bitch, and convince the folks writing the tuition checks that, oui oui, thirty thousand a year is well spent to teach your daughter how to sit an English saddle and do dressage and speak a second tongue. Most important from Christy’s perspective, the absence of men and the sheltered weekdays spent riding horses or playing field hockey or tackling the first chapter of The Great Gatsby or lighting candles for important vigils, all this restraint and denial granted the students an extreme license when weekends, holidays and special occasions came calling; it made good sense for the girls to break loose on Saturdays or Thanksgiving break, since they’d sacrificed and done without, paid their ascetic dues. Just don’t get busted, turn up pregnant or puke on someone’s riding boots.
A week into her new school year, at the beginning of September, Christy bought some mushrooms from a girl named Lisa who lived on her hall, skipped her last class and headed to Richmond in her BMW. It was two weeks after her deposition, and she’d been on the phone with Henry Clay Hanes almost daily. As agreed, she and Joel had not contacted each other. She purchased a beer with her fake ID when she left Sweet Briar, but she didn’t sample the mushrooms, didn’t want to meet with Mr. Hanes and have him melting and turning Fantasia colors while she was discussing her money.
Henry Clay Hanes was beaming when he ushered Christy into his office. He made Oliver fetch her a glass of ice and a bottle of water despite her saying she didn’t want anything to drink, and he slyly produced an ashtray from his desk, let her smoke a cigarette on the condition she promise not to tell anyone. “Hell, I burn one myself every now and then,” he said, giving her a conspiratorial wink. “Smoke-free building my ass.”
“Thanks. And thank you for the water, Oliver.” The lawyer adjusted his glasses when she acknowledged him. “So, uh, first off, I wondered if I could get you to do me a favor,” she asked Hanes.
“By all means. Certainly.”
“Good.” Christy fitted her Doral ultralight into an indentation on the lip of the ashtray. “Here’s the deal. I’ve sorta been talking to this other lawyer about the case, okay? Nothing
against you or anything. A friend kinda recommended him. It’s all very informal. Anyway, could you write him a letter and give me a copy?”
“I’m not sure I understand.” Hanes was seated behind his desk. He picked up two pieces of paper stapled at the corner, then laid them next to a stack of books and files. “I haven’t been contacted by any other counsel, or heard from anyone else about your case. Have you formally engaged another attorney?”
“No. Not at all. I’ve only, like, spoken to him. He’s not after any money. A friend said to talk to him, and this was way before I got hooked up with you.”
“I see. It’s odd I haven’t heard from him. Has he been monitoring the case? Does he have a lien I need to honor?”
She raised her cigarette, took a drag and blew the smoke toward the ceiling. “I don’t have any contract or anything. And there’s no lien, whatever that is. He’s just a friend of a friend who wants to make sure I get what’s fair. Anyway, I’d like for you to write him and, like, tell him I didn’t do so hot in Roanoke.”
“What do you mean?” Hanes asked.
“In my deposition. Let him know I was nervous and could’ve done better.”
“What a strange request. I think you did an exceptional job. I’m not following you.”
“I didn’t do very good. I should know. It’s me we’re talkin’ about.”
“I disagree.”
“If we’d practiced more, I could’ve given better answers.” She was growing frustrated, impatient. “Shit. Why can’t you just do what I ask? Isn’t that the way this works? I’m like paying you a million freaking dollars and you won’t even write a letter?”
“I’ll battle to the ends of the earth for you—write letters and briefs, squeeze every dime from this claim, slay dragons, anything moral and legal, but I won’t lie or say something I know is false. And I won’t put my name on something unless I know what I’m signing. My integrity is priceless, Christy.” Hanes’s manner was genteel.
“Great. Good for you and your integrity.”
“Sorry,” he said.
“Well, what’s the best you could do, like in a letter? I can’t believe how you’re being so damn unhelpful.”
“You want me to write this lawyer a summary of the case, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ll authorize me to release confidential information to him?”
“Yes,” Christy moaned. “It’s just a letter.”
“And you want me to say your deposition went poorly?”
“Yep.”
“Well, I’ll be glad to write a letter detailing the case so far, but I won’t say something I know to be false. I can certainly report that you feel you performed badly during your questioning, but I’m not going to suggest I feel the same way.”
Christy perked up. “Excellent. Do that. There we go. And you’ll put it on your, like, official stationery?”
“I’ll use our letterhead.” He turned to Oliver. “In fact, why don’t you go ahead and draft something along those lines for me to sign while Christy’s here?”
“Sure.” Oliver sat on a sofa and began scribbling.
“Cool. Thanks.”
“To whom should I send this?” Hanes asked.
Christy stubbed out her cigarette and bit her nails, started with her thumb and chewed in sequence until she reached her ring finger. “A guy named Sa’ad. ‘Dear Mr. Sa’ad.’ ” She spelled the name.
“Do you have an address? A firm name?”
“Yeah, it’s Las Vegas, Nevada. But do not send it. Give it to me, and I’ll see it gets delivered. And certainly you have some flunky who can find his whole address.”
Hanes pushed his tongue into his cheek, caused a lump to form on the side of his face. “You’re not in any kind of trouble, are you? Let’s not make a bad situation worse.”
“I’d just like to do things my way, okay? Is that somehow not allowed?”
“You’re telling me you’ll deliver this letter to Mr. Sa’ad, and I’m not to mail it?”
“Yes. That’s what I said like five seconds ago.”
“And there’s nothing amiss or wrong?”
“Everything’s cool.”
“You know, much of this information is public record. If Mr. Sa’ad wanted, he could most likely obtain transcripts of the depositions and see for himself what transpired. Especially if you’ve retained him.”
“I’m not worried about him wanting to do that,” she said. “I don’t think he’ll be lookin’ at much of anything. He has no reason to.” She smirked for an instant. “And if he wants to, more power to him.”
“If he contacts me, should I discuss the case with him?” Hanes probed further, suppressing a sphinx’s smile.
“I don’t care. But he’s not going to contact you. And don’t you dare call him.”
“Fine with me.” He glanced at his associate. “Oliver, make a file note. We’ll give you the copy before you leave,” he told Christy. “Don’t get into trouble with it.”
“Good,” she said. “Don’t forget—the original stays here.”
“It’s hardly my place to meddle, especially where another attorney is concerned, but I would suggest that if you’re dissatisfied with Las Vegas counsel, you simply terminate the relationship and pay him for the hours he’s spent on your case.”
“I’m not interested in firing him, Mr. Hanes. Okay? Why are you like harping on this forever and ever?”
Hanes shrugged. “I simply wanted you to know your options.”
“Thanks. I’m completely informed,” she said, making certain she sounded exasperated.
“Okay. Now, let’s discuss a more pleasant topic.” He toyed with a folder but didn’t look inside or remove anything. “Mr. Roland and I have tentatively agreed to settle the case for three million, nine hundred thousand dollars. As per your request, none of that comes from the church or the good reverend—it’s all insurance money, within their policy limit.”
“What happened to four million?” Christy asked. “Aren’t we, like, missing a hundred thousand here? I thought we talked about me getting the max and lettin’ Joel and the church off for nothing.”
“Exactly. You and I discussed that. Unfortunately, you and I don’t write the check for the insurance company.”
“So why won’t they pay what they owe?” She practically whined.
“Who knows what they owe, Christy,” Hanes lectured her. “That’s the point. A jury might award you ten million, or fifty thousand. Realistically, as poorly as Reverend King did when we took his testimony, it seems fair to assume a jury will set him on fire. He was arrogant and despicable and self-righteous and dangerous. The case went extremely well in Roanoke. You were an excellent witness, and I was proud of you.” He smiled at her, then continued: “Mr. Roland and Mr. White know we’re in high cotton, know we have a blockbuster claim, even better than I thought when I first evaluated it. But if we insist on four million, they have nothing to lose. That’s the worst that can happen, so they simply appear in court and hope for the best and wind up no worse off if you get twenty million. They pay four and that’s it.”
“So . . .” Christy was nodding her head, absorbing Hanes’s logic.
“So we give them a hundred thousand and get almost four million. Now they have something to lose, something to think about. Besides, if we go to trial, you’ll have to pay experts and court reporters and miscellaneous expenses.”
“When can I get my money?” Christy thought about smoking another cig, took the pack from her purse and slapped it against her hand until a filter appeared. She extracted a Doral but made no effort to light it.
“I’m not sure. Mr. Roland and I have a pretty firm agreement on the three-nine figure, but he has to sell it to his clients. They’ll want to read the transcripts and take a look at the file before they start writin’ million-dollar checks. Bottom line is that Roland will recommend they take the offer, and when they see the show the preacher put on in depositions, I imagine they�
�ll be happy to go along. Of course they might buck him and instruct him to return to us with a lower settlement. Nothing’s guaranteed yet.”
“How long do you think it will take?”
“I’m guessing I’ll hear from Roland within the next ten days.”
“How long after that?” Christy asked.
“Well, they have to cut the check and prepare releases. I’d say another two weeks, if everything goes smoothly.”
“Hurry them up as much as you can, okay?”
“I will,” Hanes promised her.
She lit the cigarette with a cheap lighter, had to click the flint twice before the flame caught. “One other thing. Could you get them to make me two checks?”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“The insurance people. Will they, like, make two different checks that add up to the total amount?”
“Oh.” Hanes paused and considered a request he hadn’t seen coming. “There’s usually a single insurance company check, for the full amount, written to you and me. We both endorse it, and I deposit it in my escrow account. I then write myself—well, my firm—a check for my fees, pay any costs and cut you a check for the remainder.”
“So the check comes from you, not the insurance company?”
“Well, yes, the final check would normally be written from my escrow to you.”
“Cool. So you could give me two checks, one big and one little?” Christy worked on an ash, tapped it loose from the tip of her cigarette. “You control that,” she said, her tone brightening.
“In theory. Of course I’d have to know why I was splitting the proceeds and make sure there’s no kind of tax dodge or illegality involved.”
“Sure. I’m going to give part of the money to Roanoke First Baptist to, like, show there’s no bad feelings.”
“Really?” Hanes’s mouth fell open, making a wet pop when his lips separated. “Well, good for you. How about that, Oliver?”
“Very admirable,” Oliver said.
“How much are you planning to donate?” Hanes asked.
