Lawyer for the Cat (10 page)

“You really complement each other,” I continue, doing the best I can. Gina is tall, beautiful, energetic, and upbeat. She had a baby right after high school, never went to college, split up with the dad after a couple of years, married again, divorced; but except in matters of romance she exhibits uncommon common sense. Rick is short, balding, and pudgy. Gina convinced him to buy a real pair of shoes to replace the sandals, and to shave the goatee, but her makeover did not extend to his neurotic self-absorption. He has a PhD in narcissism.

“Yes, I think so,” she says, still admiring the ring.

“So, when's the wedding?”

“We haven't set a date. He wants to talk to you first.”

“He needs my permission?”

“He just wants to talk to you. You know Rick. Sometimes he needs reassurance. Anyway, how did Beatrice do last night?”

“Okay. She slept with me half the night.”

“Maybe you should keep her.”

“I'm not on Mrs. Mackay's list. Speaking of which, would you make an appointment for that librarian to come in … what's her name … Katherine something … to come in next week?”

“Harleston,” says Gina. “I already did. Monday morning.”

“Would you mind watching Beatrice while I run over to Probate Court?”

“Sure, but I'm going over later, if you want me to pick up something.”

“No, I need to talk to the judge.”

“Don't forget the Vernelle deposition, here, at ten thirty.”

“I should be back in plenty of time.”

*   *   *

Judge Clarkson's desk is still covered with stacks of old files. When he stands to greet me he has to hold on to it to steady himself. “Too much history,” he says, sighing. “I thought when I got elected probate judge I'd be escaping the frenzy of law practice, but every one of these”—he waves his hand over the files and the boxes cluttering the floor—“is a little drama. Sometimes a
big
drama with a lot of screaming and yelling. Even the ones that go smoothly can break your heart. Like this one.” He picks up a thin file. “Widow had almost nothing. Paid her lawyer more money to draw up her will than her estate was worth. Mostly just a bunch of old furniture and costume jewelry, but she wanted to make sure each of her three daughters got some. Turned out she collected paperweights, and one of the damn things was worth a couple of thousand. Of course they fought over that one.” He gestures for me to sit. “Normally I wouldn't be involved in such a small estate, but the deceased was a friend of a friend, so I helped them work it out. Anyway, I need to quit reminiscing if I'm ever going to close up shop and get out of here.”

“Can't your secretary help you with these files?”

“Sure, she'd do a great job—put them all in order, send them out for storage—but then I wouldn't be able to say goodbye to them. You probably think I'm feeble-brained, but I spent my life with these people. But you didn't come in here to listen to an old man ramble.… What can I do for you?”

“I need your advice on the Mackay case.” I tell him about my visit to Oak Bluff, the interview with Gail Sims, Randall Mackay's surprise appearance and his proposal. “I'm tempted to go along with it. Gail seems responsible, and the cat loves her. The only catch is that she doesn't want to live in the house. I know what the trust specifies, but it seems to me the most important thing is Beatrice's welfare, and if Gail is the right person, what difference does it really make whether she's living in a big house or a trailer?”

“Sounds like you've already made up your mind,” he says.

“Not yet. That's why I wanted to talk to you. I've scheduled an interview with Katherine Harleston, the librarian, and I've made reservations to fly up to New York to see the other candidate, the nephew, but frankly it seems like a waste of time, and that I'd only be using up trust assets. And—Your Honor, with all due respect, when you asked me to take this case I didn't realize I was going to end up taking care of a cat.”

“Let me ask you a question,” he says. “Suppose a judge appointed you to represent a child whose parents had been killed in an automobile accident. They left no wills, no instructions as to who should be the child's guardian in the event of death. Three family members have come forward to say they'd be happy to take the child. You interview the first one, an aunt, say, and she seems nice enough, responsible, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Would you go to that judge and say,
I'm satisfied this one will do a good job, I don't need to investigate further.
Would you do that?”

“But sir, this is a cat, not a child.”

He leans forward, locks his eyes on mine. “Apparently Lila Mackay felt closer to the cat than she did to her child. And just as a matter of principle, I wouldn't accept any ‘deal' with Randall.”

“But if he contests the trust, the cat could be in limbo for months … years, maybe.”

“He has a year from the date of his mother's death to contest it, but he won't. He's a spoiled brat who never made anything of himself despite having all the advantages, but he's not stupid. Remember, if he challenges the trust and he loses, he forfeits what she left him. You know the law on testamentary capacity, I assume?”

“I've been reviewing it.”

“He'd have the burden of proving incompetence at the time she signed the trust. Mind you, the legal test isn't that she must have had a reasonable basis for what she did, but that she had the capacity to
understand
what she did. Look at
Gaddy vs. Douglass
: ‘Even an insane person may execute a will if it is done during a sane interval.' So once Randall consults a lawyer, he should come to his senses. Of course, I can't guarantee that. He might just be angry enough to … But look here,” he says, “if you can't handle this, I'll find someone else. Probably plenty of starving young lawyers out there who'd be happy to take it on, black cat and all.”

He hardly knows me, has no inkling of how the words “you can't handle this” bring back the Sally Baynard who'd stay up all night preparing for a trial, who would stand before the jury the next day making her opening argument, fighting exhaustion, fending off the judge who made a pass at her at lunchtime, battling a paternalistic prosecutor, dealing with the ungrateful and almost certainly guilty client. But when Sally Baynard took a bathroom break, she'd stand in the stall for an extra minute and silently repeat her mantra:
You can handle this.

*   *   *

On the way back to the office I stop in Washington Park. It's a mild day, the air heavy with humidity. I need this five-minute respite, this brief anonymity. These tourists don't know me, hardly notice the middle-aged woman in the gray suit sitting on the bench under the giant live oak. The tour guide tells them about the earthquake of 1886, after which Charlestonians who'd lost their houses set up a tent city here. Some even brought their oriental rugs and silverware from home.

I try to imagine living in a tent with my mother. She would definitely insist on bringing her silverware. I'm lost in this thought when my cell phone rings.

“You still at the Probate Court?” asks Gina.

“Just left.”

“Joe Baynard called. Said he needs to talk to you. I told him you had the deposition at ten thirty. He said it would just take a minute.”

“What about?”

“He wouldn't say. For God's sake don't let him stick you with another bizarre pro bono … No, nothing much going on here except that Natalie Carter's husband—the judge—made an appointment for four thirty.”

“I was going to try to leave a little early.”

“He was pretty insistent. Said he wants to talk to you about the offer. He sounded kinda nice.”

“That's a ruse.”

“Anyway, I told him you could give him half an hour.”

“How's Beatrice?”

“Fine. Curled up back there on your sofa, sleeping. She was playing with a big palmetto bug and that must have exhausted her.”

“Yuck.”

“She chased it around the office, caught it once and batted it around a little, then it got away.… You know how one minute those things are running around the floor and then all of a sudden they fly? It was a huge one. I've already called the exterminator.”

*   *   *

My relationship with Joe is an ongoing drama for the Family Court set, the story line based loosely on fact but routinely spiced with fiction, which in the telling and retelling reinvents itself, acquiring new details, such as: (1) we split up because I wouldn't join the Junior League (true that Joe's mother wanted me to, but that had nothing to do with my leaving), and (2) that his father and uncle forced me out of the family firm (false). The drama experienced a revival during the dog case, with regular and sometimes contradictory broadcasts, such as: (3) I kept his name because I never fell out of love with him (false), and (4) I recently had sex with him at my condo, with my mother in the next room (false—it wasn't Joe, it was the vet).

And then there's: (5) I visit him in his chambers on a regular basis and we “do it” behind closed doors. False, of course. Though we've met in his office many times since our divorce, it's almost always with the door open. Yes, things did get messy during the dog case, but now that the case is over and Joe's back with Susan, I'm especially careful not to do or say anything he might misinterpret.

Which is why, when he motions for me to come in and close the door, I'm on guard.

“Thanks for coming,” he says.

“I have a deposition at ten thirty.”

“This won't take long. Relax—I'm not going to jump across the desk and grab you. This has nothing to do with you and me.”

“Good!”

“You don't have to sound so relieved,” he says. We're like two people fencing—lots of guarded dancing around each other, and then, when I least expect it, a lunge. “I had a strange call this morning,” he continues. “from a guy I used to do some hunting with. Randall Mackay.”

“He mentioned he knew you.”

“I haven't seen him in years—which is why it's odd that he just calls me out of the blue, asks how I'm doing, lots of chitchat, then he finally gets around to the point, which is you.”

“He's involved in one of my cases.”

“The cat case.”

“Right. But what was he calling
you
for?”

“Fishing.”

“For what?”

“Feeling his way around, said he wanted my take on how you operate. I told him you're straightforward, honest. Tough but fair. I told him I hold you in the highest regard despite our divorce.”

“Thanks.”

“It happens to be true,” Joe says. “But just after I said that, he says, ‘Well, if you feel that way about her, you might want to tell her she'd be wise not to make this case any more difficult than it has to be.'”

“Don't worry, I've got it under control.”

“You need to be careful around this guy, Sally.”

“He's just angry because the cat's got his inheritance.”

“He has a bad reputation. His first wife divorced him on physical cruelty. The second one disappeared.”

“What do you mean, ‘disappeared'?”

“The story was, he was teaching her how to shoot, they were doing target practice, she got hurt. Luckily the bullet just grazed her. She told everybody it was her fault, but a couple weeks later she left town and hasn't been heard from since.”

“You think he shot her on purpose?”

“Word was, they'd both been drinking. She was some floozy who ran a roadhouse out on Edisto and he—at least he used to be—is a big boozer. Imagines himself quite the lady-killer.”

“Well, I'm not going to fall for him, if that's what you're getting at.”

“Okay, joke around if you want to. Just be careful.”

“Warning accepted. Everything going okay with you?” This is a dangerous question.

He shrugs. “Livin' the dream: nice house, nice wife, kids in expensive prep schools, Yacht Club. And a great job, of course!” Some people might miss the hint of sarcasm in his voice, but I don't.

“You're frustrated in Family Court.”

“You could say that.”

“You still want a Circuit Court judgeship?”

“I'm thinking about it.”

“If you want it, you'll get it. Your family can help you with the politicking.”

“It's not as easy as it used to be.” He's picking his nails. “
Nothing's
as easy as it used to be.”

I almost ask him about his marriage, but catch myself. “Listen, I've got a deposition in ten minutes. Thanks for the heads-up on Randall Mackay.”

“How's the dog?”

“It's a cat.”

“No,” he says, “I mean the little schnauzer. Sherman.”

“He's fine. Never thought I'd miss him so much.”

“Still got that photo of him on your desk?”

“Yeah. It's kind of silly, I guess.”

“I don't remember you ever having a picture of
me
on your desk.… Never mind, scratch that.” He follows me to the door. We shake hands. “Take care of yourself, Sally.”

 

A Headache

I'm stuck in late Friday afternoon traffic on my way to Tony's, the dull throb of a headache starting at the base of my skull, when I hear myself talking to the cat. She's on the seat beside me in her carrier, listening intently, as if there's absolutely nothing unusual about having a human unleash all her frustrations, beginning with the disastrous Vernelle deposition, at which my client, an anesthesiologist, complained that the temporary child support was “breaking” him, while later admitting that he'd just bought a new Maserati because he “got a great deal on it.” The Maserati, of course, came as a surprise to me, despite our pre-deposition conference last week, during which we'd updated his financial declaration.