Lawyer for the Dog (19 page)

 

Neutered

“I apologize for yesterday,” says Gina.

“So do I.”

We're like two old married people. They always argue, but even while they're arguing, they know they're going to make up—unless, of course, they're the Harts.

“I guess you slowed her down this morning, huh?” she says to Sherman. It's already nine thirty. I usually beat Gina to the office.

“No, it was my mother. She wanted to keep him. Had a fit when I tried to leave.”

“Henry Swinton called. So did Michelle Marvel. They're considering asking for an emergency hearing—for a stay—before the supreme court. They want to know if you'll join in the petition.”

“It's nice to know they're agreeing on something for a change, but the South Carolina Supreme Court's not going to touch this with a ten-foot pole. And anyway, somebody would have to move for a stay before Judge Baynard first.”

“That doesn't make any sense. Why would he stay an order he just issued?”

“It doesn't make much sense, but those are the rules. You have to give the trial judge a chance to correct his own mistakes. If he won't, then you can ask the higher court for relief, but even then they won't grant a hearing unless they feel that some irreparable harm is going to occur as a result of the order. Remember, this isn't a final order. The Supremes try to discourage appeals from intermediate orders.”

“So what do you want me to tell them? Michelle and Henry.”

“Tell them I'll look over their materials.”

“And Mr. Vogel's lawyer sent another motion for continuance. Mr. Vogel still can't get around, even with crutches. I called Mrs. Vogel. She had a hissy, says he's always been a … what was her word … I wrote it down … here … a ‘malingerer'. She doesn't want you to consent to the continuance. I explained to her that he's got a surgeon's affidavit, but she wants to talk to you. And Rick Silber's coming in to review his interrogatories.”

“Maryann Hart will be in around ten,” I say. “I told her she could visit with Sherman for a while. Can you kind of watch over them?”

“You don't think she'd kidnap him, do you?”

“No, but I'm supposed to be ‘supervising,' whatever that means.”

“Sure. We'll have a good time, won't we, Sherman? I just happen to have something for you.” She reaches into her desk drawer, pulls out a bag of dog chews. “Sit! That's a good boy!”

“And by the way, you were right.” I say. “Anna is their daughter.”

“I told you.”

*   *   *

Rick Silber is wearing his usual sandals with white socks. And he does the usual, which is to take off the sandals and sit cross-legged on my sofa, like he's in some kind of yoga position. I wonder if he does this with his patients, but then I remember he doesn't have patients—he just teaches psychology.

“It's not really the interrogatories I need to talk to you about,” he says.

“Well, we need to get those done.”

“I know. I'm working on the answers.”

“I thought Gina said you were almost finished.”

“Yeah, that's what I want to talk to you about. Gina.” He pulls at his goatee, twists the tip of it into a little point. Someone should tell him the goatee looks ridiculous on his baby-smooth, pale face, but it won't be me. “She's really terrific,” he says.

“Yes, she's very smart. I keep telling her she should go to law school.”

“No, I mean she's a terrific
person
, in every respect.”

“She's good with people.”

“You didn't tell her about my problem, did you?”

“Which problem?”

“The.… uh.… kind of personal issue.”

“Of course not.”

“And you didn't put it in your notes, did you?”

“I don't think so.”

“Good. Because I'd like to have a chance with her. Would that be okay with you?”

“Rick, I'm not in charge of Gina's social life.”

“It wouldn't piss you off—if I asked her out?”

“Not at all, but you'd better wait until your case is over.”

“We could just go out to dinner, couldn't we? I promise I'll behave myself.”

“Is that all you wanted to talk about today?”

“Yes.” He looks at his watch. “Didn't take long, did it? But I guess you're still going to charge me.”

I've been patient so far, but now I can't help myself. “Rick, I'm going to give you some advice about Gina.”

“What's that?”

“She doesn't put up with a lot of nonsense. She knows what she wants, and she's not interested in men who need parenting.”

“So, in other words,” he says, “not me.”

“That's not what I said. I think you're fully capable of being a grown-up.” I'm not at all sure about this, but I figure I'll give him some hope.

“So, I have your permission to ask her out to dinner?”

“I'm not your mother, I'm your lawyer. Your lawyer advises you to wait until your case is over.” But even as I say this, I can tell he's only hearing what he wants to hear.

*   *   *

By the time Rick leaves and I've talked to Mrs. Vogel, explained that there's nothing we can do about the second continuance—her husband's leg hasn't healed, he's still in a lot of pain—and calmed her down, it's almost lunch time. Maryann Hart is still with Sherman in the waiting room. He's asleep in her lap.

“He looks like he's gained weight,” she whispers when I come in. “Remember not to feed him more than once a day, in the morning. And he needs his exercise. I'd be happy to walk him today.”

“I'm sorry, but I'm not supposed to let you—”

“That judge is out of his mind!” she interrupts, not whispering now, and Sherman's eyes open with a start. “No wonder you divorced him! Henry Swinton says he's going end up losing his job, the way he's behaving.”

I don't want to continue this conversation. “Mrs. Hart, I'm glad you had a chance to visit with Sherman this morning, but I have a lunch appointment, so I'm going to have to excuse myself.”

“But if you're going to be busy, I could stay a little longer…”

“No, I'm taking Sherman with me.”

“Please remember to keep him on the leash,” she says. And to Sherman: “Darling, I know this is hard on you, but be a good boy. We'll be back together soon, I promise!” There are tears in her eyes. I have to hold Sherman to keep him from following her.

*   *   *

My “lunch appointment” isn't really an appointment, and it isn't lunch. I want to check on Mr. Hart. He hasn't returned my phone call from last night, nor Gina's this morning. Sherman and I head down Broad Street, turn left on Meeting toward the Battery. It's a gorgeous day, everything washed clean by the rain, the street at least temporarily relieved of the accumulated stench from the horse-drawn carriages that carry tourists through the historic neighborhood. Charleston is always beautiful, green and lush even in the fall, the formal gardens always blooming with something. We pass the house where Joe lives—or used to live—with Susan, a brick antebellum with white columns and a circular driveway behind a wrought-iron gate. It's lovely, not pompous but dignified, like one of those old Charleston ladies who sit in the front row at church.

“You like this house?” I ask Sherman. He looks up at me, wondering why we're stopping. “They probably have a dog.” But I don't know for sure. Joe and I have been friendly all these years, exchanging pleasantries at bar association social events and in court, but never, until recently, risking anything beyond that. He's never confided any unhappiness beyond the predictable rants about his job—how it's his fate to be stuck in the family court forever—or occasional complaints about the adolescent exploits of his boys, complaints uttered with a smile, more like a proud father's preening.

It occurs to me, as I stand in front of his house, that I don't know much about Joe at all anymore, nor he about me, and maybe that's why it's been so easy for both of us to sustain our fantasies.

Sherman lets out a little bark, as if to say,
Let's get going!
We continue down Meeting Street past the Calhoun Mansion and take a left on South Battery. The breeze is strong enough to send sprays across the battery wall and the smell of sea creatures rides the damp air. Now the dog knows where he is; his little legs move along the sidewalk so fast he's pulling me behind him. Outside the Harts' house he heads toward the shrubbery to the left of the front porch, and when I try to drag him back, he barks a sharp protest, so I give him some leash. He comes out with a newspaper in his mouth. “Good boy,” I say. It's this morning's
Post and Courier
.

When Mr. Hart doesn't come to the door after several rings of the doorbell, I think the worst, but then he appears in his bathrobe, unshaven, the long strands of his usual comb-over falling down across one ear. He looks as if he's been sleeping for days. He takes a minute to adjust his glasses before he recognizes me. The scowl on his face isn't welcoming, but when he sees Sherman with the newspaper he grins and lets us in.

“You can take him off that damn leash, now,” he says, and I do. The dog runs in circles around him, sliding on the polished wood floor.

“You didn't return my call,” I explain. “I was worried.”

“Sorry. Guess I thought it would be more bad news.”

“I just wanted to let you see he's okay.”

He picks the dog up. Sherman licks his face. I notice they both have the same bushy eyebrows. “I guess I should be polite and ask you to sit down,” he says to me. “Excuse my appearance.”

I follow him into the formal parlor and we sit across from each other, Mr. Hart on the delicate Victorian sofa that groans under his weight, Sherman beside him. “She'd have a fit if she could see you on this thing,” he says to the dog. “But go ahead, get it dirty. I don't give a damn.”

“Your wife had a visit with him this morning,” I say. “So I thought it only fair…”

“There's nothing fair about this whole business.”

“It wasn't my idea.”

“But it's not so bad, is it? You get paid two hundred fifty dollars an hour and you end up with Sherman!”

“This is just a temporary arrangement. And again, it wasn't my idea.”

“You stretch the case out long enough, you make a fortune, and soon enough my boy here won't even remember me.”

“Mr. Hart, I'm doing everything I can do to expedite the case.” I pull out my legal pad. “Your wife told me about Anna. She thinks you're in contact with her. I'd like her phone number.”

“You don't need to talk to Anna.”

“I'm trying to be thorough.”

“If you want to be thorough, you can find out where my wife goes at night. She leaves the house several times a week, always at night, stays away for an hour or two.”

“If you're really that interested, you should talk to your lawyer.”

“I'm interested, but I don't want to pay a detective. I'm sure I'll end up paying for Maryann's spy before it's all over. So do me a favor, ask her where she goes.”

“I will, if you'll give me Anna's number.”

“Anna left home long before we got Sherman.”

“I know that, but I want to talk to her. Will you give me the number?”

“I'll have to look for it. I'll call your office.” He rubs a spot under Sherman's chin and the dog turns on his back, begging for a stomach rub.

“Why did you lie on your counterclaim, about Anna?”

“I didn't lie, I just didn't contradict my wife when she wrote that we had no children.”

“I think there's more to it than that.”

“It's what she insists we tell people when they ask. ‘No children.' I guess she almost made me believe it myself.”

“But you see your daughter, don't you?”

“Once in a blue moon.”

“So, I'm going to tell Anna you gave me her number, if that's okay.”

“What choice do I have? I'm like this poor little guy.” He rubs Sherman's belly again. “Neutered. That's what Maryann's done to us, isn't it, buddy?”

“I need to get back to my office. You promise you'll call with the number?”

“If a promise means anything anymore,” he says, “I promise.”

 

Golden Memories

Delores is surprised to see me home so early, and she ignores Sherman, who prances into the kitchen a couple of steps ahead of me, as if he's lived here all his life. “Your mama's been napping close to two hours now. I was about to wake her up, or she won't sleep tonight.”

“I talked to her doctor, got the names of some nursing homes. I'd like to visit one this afternoon, if you wouldn't mind looking after Sherman.” The dog is over by the trash can, circling it, sampling all its olfactory offerings.

“We going to be stuck with this dog forever?”

“It's not his fault.”

“The way you been acting with that dog, seems like you want to hold onto him,” she says.

“That's not an option, even if I wanted to.”

“When's the last time he did his business?”

“What? Oh, just a few minutes ago.”

“I don't like him, but I'll watch him.” Sherman's ears droop, as if he understands the insult, and he heads back toward my mother's room. “Now your mama, she sure does love that animal.” It occurs to me that Delores, despite her protestations, might be falling for Sherman, too.

*   *   *

There must be a national committee of insipid people who choose the names for nursing homes: Loving Hands, Golden Memories, Compassionate Care. The one closest to the condo, Golden Memories, is across the bridge in Mt. Pleasant, only ten minutes away. There's an impressive stone entrance gate opening onto a well-kept complex of buildings. The main building is faux colonial, with white columns and a row of rocking chairs on the wide front porch, but the chairs are all empty.