Lawyer for the Cat (23 page)

I've spent two decades as a lawyer in this court, and though I've won more cases than I've lost, I've rarely felt victorious. Sure, it's gratifying to hear a judge rule in my client's favor, but in your average divorce there's not enough money to go around, and even when there's plenty, the divvying-up is a depressing business.

I've been here myself as a plaintiff, in the case of
Sarah Bright Baynard vs. Joseph Henry Baynard.
I had no illusions. I didn't come to court imagining that a divorce would be my ticket to happiness. I wanted it to be the official end to our struggle, so that we could quit our squabbling and blaming, but I've never felt more bereft than when the clerk handed me my certified copy of the Final Order and Decree of Divorce. There was nothing final about it at all.

*   *   *

This morning I have the rare experience of representing happy people. I spot them in the far corner of the waiting area, Allison and Tom Farrell, both in their mid-forties, a couple who'd given up on children until I got a call from an old law school acquaintance who remembered I handle adoptions. The daughter of one his one of his clients was six months pregnant, wanted to find a good home for her baby.

Almost twenty years ago I represented Tom Farrell in a juvenile case. He'd taken his uncle's car for a joyride and wrecked it. Tom was sixteen, but the uncle was unforgiving. I can still remember how his whole body shook as I stood next to him in the courtroom, my arm around his shoulder. The judge gave him a lengthy lecture and probation. He stayed out of trouble after that. Now he's got a good job at Boeing and he's been married to Allison for ten years. Baby Suzannah is in her lap.

“We'll never be able to thank you enough for this,” says Tom, who carries the diaper bag and the foldable stroller. “It's the best day of our lives!” This has been a long time coming. I'd found a baby for them a couple of years ago, but the birth mother changed her mind once she saw her newborn daughter.

“Who's the judge?” asks Allison.

“Beverly O'Neill. She has two adopted kids herself.”

“She won't give me any trouble about the juvenile thing, will she?” asks Tom.

“The guardian
ad litem
's not concerned about that at all. She thinks you hung the moon.” But where is she? Martha Query should be here already. “And Judge O'Neill's very easygoing.”

But when we walk into the courtroom the judge behind the bench is Joe Baynard. I whisper into Tom's ear, “They've switched judges on us, but it doesn't matter.”

“Good morning, Your Honor,” I begin. “We're ready to proceed, except for the guardian
ad litem
. I'm sure she's on her way, if Your Honor would—”

“If she can be here in five minutes, we'll proceed.”

I search the file for Martha's number. It should be on the inside of the folder along with the Farrells' phone numbers and addresses. “I'm looking for her number, Your Honor.” Could Gina have forgotten to notify her of the hearing?

“I suggest you try Information, Ms. Baynard. That is, if you haven't lost your cell phone, too.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It isn't like you to be disorganized, Ms. Baynard,” says Joe. “But this is such a nice-looking family, I won't hold you in contempt!” It's the kind of joke that isn't funny to nervous clients. He addresses the next comment to them: “As I'm sure you're aware, your attorney is highly respected in the Charleston bar, and now she's developing a national reputation. Let's hope the sudden fame hasn't gone to her head!” Why is he acting like this? Is he angry because I wouldn't commit to help him with his judicial race?

Tom Farrell sweats in his too-tight suit. Allison does her best to calm the squirming baby. Just then the guardian
ad litem
walks in, breathless. “I'm so sorry, Your Honor. I got stuck in traffic.”

After the hearing, I wait for the clerk to certify the adoption order so that I can present a copy to the Farrells. They're ecstatic.

“We'll never be able to thank you enough,” says Allison. “Here, you hold her for a minute so I can take a picture. When she's old enough, we can tell her all about you.”

The baby feels incredibly light, as if she's going to fly out of my hands. She opens her eyes, stares up at me with unfocused wonderment.

“There,” says Allison. “I think I got a couple of good ones.”

“Let me take one of you and Tom and the baby,” I offer.

“Isn't it amazing?” says Allison. “She's really ours. I just want us to be worthy of her.”

“Is that judge related to you?” asks Tom.

I could lie, but why bother? “He's my ex-husband. We were married briefly, a long time ago.”

“Maybe I shouldn't say it,” says Allison, “but he seems like kind of a jerk.”

I nod. Why do I feel guilty about not defending him?

“But nothing can spoil this day for us,” says Tom. “She's an angel, isn't she?”

 

A Preponderance of the Evidence

Back at the office, I try to concentrate on Gina's draft of the interrogatories in the Carter case. No matter how well they're crafted, how careful we are in asking these questions, Derwood will do his best to evade a truthful answer. He'll object to some of them as “overly broad,” to others as “repetitive.” He's trying to intimidate me with his premature request for a trial date, but he can't have it both ways: If he wants a quick trial, he'll have to cooperate with discovery.

But I can't concentrate. I keep thinking about Beatrice, wondering what advice old Judge Clarkson would have given me. I can see him leaning back in his chair, rubbing his belly as he considers the problem.
The cat's been missing for two days now. If she were a child, and you were her guardian, what would you do?

Carmen's as restless as I am. “Lie down,” I say, a little too sternly, and then, “I'm sorry. It's not
your
fault.”

I call the Probate Court to schedule a conference with Judge Wilson. “Yes, it's an emergency,” I explain. “She's swamped, as you can imagine,” says her secretary, “but I'll see if we can't work you in sometime later this week, okay?”

I call Ellen. I need her steady voice, her reassurance. She's in trial, says the receptionist, so I leave a message. My head is starting to pound, my mind spinning in a labyrinth of horrors: Turn here, a cat starving in Randall's basement. There, my mother and Ed Shand, contorted like the couples I saw in those photos I stole so long ago.

I close my eyes, feel something rest against my thigh, a warm weight. It's the beagle. I stroke her forehead. “Don't worry,” I say, “everything will be okay.” She looks up at me as if she believes me.

*   *   *

“Randall Mackay is coming at two,” says Gina.

“Did he say anything about Beatrice?”

“He was pretty cagey. He said … Wait a minute, I wrote it down: ‘I'm glad your boss is finally coming to her senses.' You think he's crazy enough to hurt her?”

“He can't use a dead cat as a bargaining chip.”

“If he killed her, it doesn't seem right that he'd get the plantation.”

And then it comes to me, the memory from law school: the overheated classroom, the fat textbook open in front of me, the professor droning on and on. The course in Trusts and Estates, which I'd taken only because it was required for graduation. I'm sitting in the back row, trying to stay awake, when he surprises me with his question:
And what if there are two beneficiaries, and one kills the other? Can the surviving beneficiary claim the deceased's share?
I snap awake:
No, sir.
My answer is a gut reaction, but of course he wants more, and I can't remember the relevant case law. I stammer as he moves on to another student.

It wasn't like me to be unprepared for class. My excuse wasn't one I could share: I'd been up all night with one Joseph Henry Baynard, the fellow student sitting next to me. We'd started the evening with good intentions, determined to study, but we took a break for a beer and soon found ourselves less interested in Trusts and Estates than in each other.

“You're right: If he kills the cat,” I explain to Gina, “he can't profit from his wrongdoing. Wait a minute.…” I log on to the South Carolina Bar website, type the words “homicide beneficiary wills” into the search bar. “Here it is—they've codified the old case law, expanded on it. Section 62-2-803:
Effect of homicide on intestate succession, wills, joint assets, life insurance, and beneficiary designations.
”

“So,” says Gina,“the bottom line is that if he kills the cat, he can't get what he wants—which is the plantation. You think he knows that?”

“I doubt it, but we'll educate him.”

*   *   *

He smiles like a man who's sure he's already won, his tongue sweeping his bottom lip as if he's tasting his victory. “Well, I'm glad you finally came to your senses,” he says. I'm two feet away, but I can smell the alcohol on his breath.

“I have indeed,” I say, opening the volume of the Code to the place I've marked. I seldom use these books anymore, but today I need what old Judge Clarkson would call their “heft
.
”

“You don't need a law book to settle this thing.” He stands on the other side of my desk, a massive man, his chest and shoulders straining the seams of his sports coat. “And you don't need a guard dog, either.” He glares at Carmen, who's growling. “Shut up, you runt.”

“Please sit down,” I say.

“Okay, okay. Don't want to make anybody nervous.”

“Are you intoxicated?”

“Nah.”

“Good, because I want you to understand what I'm about to say.”

“You'd better say I'm going to get what I'm entitled to.”

“Mr. Mackay, what you're entitled to is what your mother left you, by way of a legal document that's enforceable under South Carolina law.”

“Not if the old bitch was out of her mind.”

“Based on what I've learned about you, I think it's amazing your mother left you anything at all. I'm not your lawyer, but if you hire one, she'll explain that you can contest the trust if you choose to, but if you lose, you'll forfeit your right to the remainder.”

“I'm not here for a lecture,” he says, still holding on to the desk.

“You need to return Beatrice to me by five
P.M.
this afternoon.”

“That's what you made me come here for, just to tell me that?”

“You're in a bind, Mr. Mackay. If anything happens to the cat, this law”—I pat the Code as if it's my best buddy—“says that you don't get a thing. I'll be happy to make you a copy, but let me read it to you: ‘An individual who feloniously and intentionally kills the decedent is not entitled to any benefit under the decedent's will or trust … and the estate of the decedent passes as if the killer had predeceased the decedent.' Now, of course, the decedent is your mother, and you didn't kill her, she died in the hospital.”

“Right, so you're wasting your breath.”

“But the statute further provides … Let me read you the exact words: ‘A beneficiary whose interest is increased as a result of feloniously and intentionally killing shall be treated in accordance with the principles of this section.' That means that if you kill Beatrice, you can't get the property any earlier than you would have had she lived, and I will take the position that the statute precludes you from
ever
getting it.” I close the book. “As I said, I'll be happy to make you a copy.”

“I never said I had the damn cat,” he growls. “If something's happened to her, you can't prove I had anything to do with it. Cats disappear all the time.”

“I'm not going to outline my case for you, Mr. Mackay, but suffice it to say that I have more than sufficient evidence to prove you took her. And the statute I just referred to helps me in that regard. You're familiar with the standard of proof in criminal cases—‘beyond a reasonable doubt'?” He doesn't answer, just glares. “That standard is a difficult one to satisfy, but in this case I won't have to worry about it, because this statute gives me a break. It says that I only have to prove my case by a ‘preponderance of the evidence.' That's a lot easier.”

He stands up, “You tricked me into coming here. You don't want to talk settlement.”

“I wouldn't talk settlement with you unless I was worried about losing. But
you're
the one who's going to lose if Beatrice isn't safely in my office by five
P.M.
this afternoon. And let me say one thing further: If someone else is holding her for you, you're taking a big chance, because if anything happens to her, I'll take the position that she died as a result of your recklessness. Do you understand that?”

He looks at his watch. “You're not giving me much time.”

“It's plenty of time for you to produce the cat, unless she's dead.”

He turns to leave. “She was a terrible mother.” His voice is almost inaudible.

“Excuse me?”

“Lila Mackay was a terrible mother.”

“It's not my job to defend your mother. My job is to protect the cat, to choose the best caregiver for her, to make sure, as best I can, that your mother's wishes with regard to Beatrice are carried out.”

As he's leaving he mutters, “Maybe you won't believe it, but when I was little, I really loved her.”

*   *   *

Just before five o'clock, Ellen returns my call. “Sorry,” she says. “I was in trial. Horrible murder case. I feel like I need to stand under a shower for a couple of hours, just to wash the blood away. What's up?”

“I needed a pep talk, but I think I've got it under control now.… I'll know in another five minutes.”