Lawyer for the Cat (5 page)

“Except she woke up at five.” That rough tongue, and those huge eyes so close to mine.

“She probably wanted to play,” says Gina. “Where is she, by the way?”

“At home. Mom loves her, and Delores didn't bitch too much.”

Actually, Delores wasn't happy about the cat at all. “I thought you was a
real
lawyer,” she'd said. “For people, I mean.”

“What?” I was trying to revive myself with a third cup of coffee.

“First there was that dog, and now …
this.
What next, a possum?”

“I was appointed by the probate judge. I'm supposed to find her a good home.”

“I thought probate was about dead people's money,” she said.

“This cat inherited a lot of money.”

Delores's eyes brightened. “If I keep the cat, do I get the money?”

“It's not that simple. But if you help me out for a couple of days, I'll make it up to you.”

Delores has never had a pet. After her husband Charlie died, I'd made the mistake of suggesting she get a dog.

“You think some
animal
is gonna take the place of my Charlie?” she'd protested. “Besides, I keep a clean house.” But she thinks I've forgotten that. “Look here, this cat likes me.” Sure enough, Beatrice is rubbing her back against Delores's thigh. “This black girl knows a sister when she sees one!”

*   *   *

I spend an hour drafting a response to Derwood Carter's settlement proposal. This is something I could usually do in about half an hour, my brain darting along, but this morning I even stumble over the salutation. “Dear Judge Carter” would be respectful, but does it lend him an undeserved superiority? After all, he's chosen to represent himself, so he's his own lawyer, not a judge who can overrule me. But
Dear Derwood
invites familiarity, inviting him to cross the professional line. Hadn't he once called me back into his chambers after a trial to give me “a few pointers,” closed the door, then asked me if I'd like to join him for drinks at his hotel? I was stunned—not at the realization that he was coming on to me, because I knew his reputation, but that he was so blatant, so infuriatingly sure that he could do this and get away with it. I should have reported him to the Judicial Conduct Commission. Instead I said, “I don't want to keep you any longer, Your Honor,” and left. That was a long time ago, but I'm still angry at myself.

I'd like to write:

Dear Judge Carter,

Your wife and I have reviewed your proposal for settlement of the financial issues arising out of your marriage. Either you have a serious misunderstanding of South Carolina law on the division of marital property and alimony, or your misogyny has affected your judgment. My own experience with you, both in and out of your courtroom, has confirmed your reputation as a womanizer of the worst kind, one who preys on the opposite sex with an attitude of entitlement. Your wife has endured this behavior for years, until, with my assistance, she obtained proof of your adultery.… Your proposal is so absurd that it doesn't merit a response. You have a choice: Send a reasonable settlement proposal within two weeks of the date of this letter, or we will proceed with discovery and request a trial date. I would also suggest you retain an attorney, since it is clear to me that you need the advice of someone with experience in Family Court.

But of course that's not the letter I draft. The one I'll send to Natalie Carter for her approval is thoroughly professional, its tone dry, straightforward, drained of my loathing for her husband. It outlines her contributions as a homemaker, mother, and secretary for his law practice, and includes citations to some relevant cases. The demand of 50 percent of the marital property is standard for a long marriage like this, and the request for alimony is just as reasonable. There's little chance he'll accept the offer, or anything close, but I'll send it so that later I can tell the trial judge,
Yes, Your Honor, we made a serious attempt to settle this case early on. Judge Carter rejected it, and we had no choice but to litigate. I believe we're entitled to an award of attorney's fees.

Gina brings me a cup of coffee—a rare gesture, and not something I've ever asked her to do—along with a stack of phone messages and a file. “Don't forget the child neglect case this afternoon. That poor baby—”

“I thought the father got a continuance.”

“He did. That was two weeks ago.”

“It's not on my calendar.”

“You're looking at November. This is December. If you'd keep your calendar on your iPhone, it would be a lot easier. But don't worry, I've got the file ready to go.”

“You're wonderful, Gina.”

“You don't have to be sarcastic.”

“I'm not being sarcastic.”

“I know you're still pissed off about the cat,” she says.

“Just don't take on any more animal cases without asking me, okay?” I open my desk drawer. “But enough about that. Here's something for you.”

She opens the envelope. “Wow. I wasn't expecting this much of a bonus.”

“I couldn't do this job without you, and we had a good year.”

“Thanks. But what's this?”

“The College of Charleston course catalogue. Check out the night courses.”

“It would take me forever.”

“Six years, maybe.”

“I'd be fifty-six. What's the point?”

“You have to have a college degree before you can go to law school.”

She laughs. “That's another three years! Who wants to hire a sixty-year-old lawyer?”

“Maybe
another
sixty-year-old lawyer.”

“I'll think about it. By the way, I made the appointment for you, with Gail Sims.”

“Who?”

“The woman who takes care of the Mackay plantation. You're meeting her tomorrow at noon, at the house. I've got directions in the file.… It's really out in the boonies. Oh, and I almost forgot. Mr. Hart called, said he wondered if you'd like to watch Sherman for a while on Saturday, something about putting their house up for sale. I told him I was sorry, I'd love to do it, but I have the first session with my personal trainer. And you'll have your hands full with your mom and the cat.… Hey, you're disappointed, aren't you!”

“Don't be silly, he's just a dog!” But the moment I say this I want to take it back. Sherman looks back at me—black eyes behind heavy brows—from the framed photo on my desk.

“Liar. You keep that picture there like he's an old boyfriend or something. Maybe the vet should be jealous. Just think,” she says, “if the Harts hadn't reconciled, maybe you could have kept him.”

“He's better off with them. I'm not very good at long-term relationships.”

The truth is, I've been successful at only one long-term relationship: my twenty-five years with the law. My office is my real home. There's nothing grand about it, nothing like those oak-paneled lawyers' quarters with Persian rugs and expensive antique furnishings that announce to all who enter: “The firm of Venerable, August, and Esteemed has prospered here for three generations.” I've rented it for ten years now, and because I'm an easy tenant (I know how to deal with a blocked toilet) the landlord has been reasonable about rent increases. I have a reception area that houses Gina's desk, a printer-copier, some file cabinets, and four chairs; a bathroom that also accommodates the coffeemaker and a shelf for supplies; a conference room that doubles as a library; and, at the end of the hall, my own office, big enough for my desk, a sofa, and two comfortable chairs.

It's not a perfect situation—third floor, an elevator that rattles and shimmies, no parking for clients. On the hottest summer days, the air-conditioning's inadequate. If I moved to the suburbs, West Ashley or Mt. Pleasant, I could have a lot more space for less money, maybe even buy a building of my own, but I like being two blocks from the courthouse and having the old city all around me. It gives me a sense of perspective. I have a framed photo on my office wall of Charleston after the Civil War—“The War Between the States,” my mother calls it—with a view of Meeting Street looking south toward Broad. The devastation is horrible: buildings blown apart, rubble everywhere. When I've had an especially tough day I look at those ruins and remind myself that it could be a lot worse.

*   *   *

This afternoon, like every afternoon, the ruins are in the Family Court. This court is always about crumbling families—except for adoptions, when everyone is happy—but today the collapse seems total. This is DSS day, when two of the six courtrooms are set aside for the Department of Social Services to prosecute abuse and neglect cases. The waiting rooms are crammed with parents. The best of them are only adolescents themselves, who have no clue how to take care of a child. For a few of these, the system—a warning from the judge, parenting classes, monthly visits from the social worker—may work the way it's supposed to, but then there are the repeat offenders: the mother who leaves her toddler locked in the closet while she runs out for cigarettes, the father who smacks his kid hard enough to leave bruises. For these there are no easy fixes. Remove the child from the mom, and he's bounced from foster home to foster home. Give the dad a second chance, and tomorrow's headline may be a judge's nightmare.

Like every lawyer who practices in Family Court, I do my share of these pro bono cases. I'm searching the room for my client when the clerk calls the case:
“Department of Social Services vs. Tina White and Alfred Driggers.”
It's a neglect case. Someone called DSS to report that the baby had been left alone. By the time the police arrived the mother had returned, but when DSS sent a social worker in to investigate, he found that the baby was seriously underweight.

I met with Tina White a week ago. She was an hour late for the appointment. “Missed my ride,” she said. I studied her as she answered my questions: thin, pale hands trembling, her face much older than her eighteen years. I'd seen faces like this before. No, she said, she didn't use drugs, didn't drink “except a few beers now and then.” The father “don't come around much 'cause I bug him about the child support.” She admitted leaving the baby alone “for just half an hour while I walked to the grocery store. I didn't want to wake him up 'cause he had a bad night, bawling his head off.” No, she had no idea why the baby, three months old, wasn't gaining weight. “He throws up a lot, though. My mother says I was the same way.” While she sat in my office I called the clinic, made an appointment for her to take the child in the next day, got her to sign a medical release, explained what would happen at the hearing. “They can't take him away from me,” she said before she left, tears trailing down her cheeks. “They got no right.”

And now she doesn't show up for court. I do the best I can. “Your Honor, she lives in McClellanville. She doesn't have a car or a telephone. I'm sure she's on her way; if Your Honor could take the next case on the docket until…” But I don't sound convincing, even to myself. The father hasn't shown up either—undoubtedly he's afraid of going to jail for nonpayment of child support. The guardian
ad litem
for the baby, a young lawyer who's pro bono like me, has no choice but to agree with the department's request for temporary custody, and the judge orders DSS to pick up the child immediately and place him in foster care.

None of this is your fault
, I tell myself as I ride the elevator down to the first floor, where I can at least escape the overheated courthouse. It's almost dark, time to get home to relieve Delores. I'm thinking about what we'll have for dinner when I hear a familiar voice. “So, you're not speaking to me?” It's Joe, my ex.

“Sorry, I didn't see you.”

“Bad day?”

“A DSS hearing. The usual. Depressing.”

“You okay otherwise?”

“No complaints,” I say. Since the dog case we've abided by the terms of an unspoken agreement: We won't talk about anything personal—his marriage, my relationship with Tony.

“Heard you got a cat,” he says, his smile a little wicked. I hate the smile because, despite my best efforts, I still love it. “I promise I had nothing to do with that, but think about it—wouldn't you rather deal with a cat than your usual client?” Again the smile. “Take care, Sally. And if I don't see you again before Christmas, have a good one. My best to your mother.”

As I walk back to my office it starts to drizzle, a fine mist fracturing the lights of rush-hour traffic. A car slams on brakes, just missing a man who's jaywalking. He stops mid-street, curses, loses hold of his umbrella, his briefcase. I retrieve the umbrella, hand it to him. I recognize him—he practices in one of the big firms—but can't remember his name.

“Thanks,” he says. He brushes the rain off his coat. “You see that? She was going too damn fast!” We part ways. No need to remind him that he was jaywalking, that it wasn't all her fault.

When I left Joe, he said some things that cut to the quick, like
You're never going to find anyone who loves you like I do. You're not an easy woman to live with, you know!
But looking back, I'm amazed that he remained relatively calm. In fact, the more I think about it—and I do, often—the more I realize that I needed him to be angrier. Instead, he seemed helpless, accepting my decision as passively as he did the life that his family had designed for him. His choice of me as his wife was the one exception to this pattern of acquiescence. It made no sense.

This is one of those afternoons, though, when it's best
not
to try to make sense of things: A cat with three million dollars, a baby on his way to foster care. Love, and the mess we make of it.