“Mother,” I interrupt, “I doubt that she’s actually sixteen.”
“You underestimate your father, Campbell.”
Maybe, but I also know that he’s a federal judge. He may leer after schoolgirls, but he’d never do anythingillegal. “Mom, I’m late for court. I’ll check back in with you later,” I say, and I hang up before she canprotest.
I am not going to court, but still. Taking a deep breath, I shake my head and find Judge staring at me.
“Reason number 106 why dogs are smarter than humans,” I say. “Once you leave the litter, you sever2 contactwith your mothers.”
I walk into the kitchen as I am knotting my tie. My apartment, it is a work of art. Sleek3 and minimalist, butwhat is there is the best that money can buy—a one-of-a-kind black leather couch; a flat screen televisionhanging on the wall; a locked glass case filled with signed first editions from authors like Hemingway andHawthorne. My coffeemaker comes imported from Italy; my refrigerator is sub-zero. I open it and find asingle onion, a bottle of ketchup4, and three rolls of black-and-white film.
This, too, is no surprise—I rarely eat at home. Judge is so used to restaurant food he wouldn’t recognizekibble if it slid its way down his throat. “What do you think?” I ask him. “Rosie’s sound good?”
He barks as I fasten his service-dog harness. Judge and I have been together for seven years. I bought himfrom a breeder of police dogs, but he was specially5 trained with me in mind. As for his name, well, whatattorney wouldn’t want to be able to put a Judge in a crate6 every now and then?
Rosie’s is what Starbucks wishes it was: eclectic and funky7, crammed8 with patrons who at any time might bereading Russian lit in its original tongue or balancing a company’s budget on a laptop or writing a screenplaywhile mainlining caffeine. Judge and I usually walk there and sit at our usual table, in the back. We order adouble espresso and two chocolate croissants, and we flirt9 shamelessly with Ophelia, the twenty-year-oldwaitress. But today, when we walk inside, Ophelia is nowhere to be found and there is a woman sitting at ourtable, feeding a toddler in a stroller a bagel. This throws me for such a loop that Judge needs to tug10 me to theonly spot that’s free, a stool at the counter that looks out on the street.
Seven-thirty A.M., and already this day is a bust11.
A heroin-thin boy with enough rings in his eyebrows12 to resemble a shower curtain rod approaches with a pad.
He sees Judge at my feet. “Sorry, dude. No dogs allowed.”
“This is a service dog,” I explain. “Where’s Ophelia?”
“She’s gone, man. Eloped, last night.”
Eloped? People still do that? “With whom?” I ask, though it’s none of my business.
“Some performance artist who sculpts13 dog crap into busts14 of world leaders. It’s supposed to be a statement.”
I feel a momentary15 pang16 for poor Ophelia. Take it from me: love has all the lasting17 permanence of a rainbow—beautiful while it’s there, and just as likely to have disappeared by the time you blink.
The waiter reaches into his back pocket and hands me a plastic card. “Here’s the Braille menu.”
“I want a double espresso and two croissants, and I’m not blind.”
“Then what’s Fido for?”
“I have SARS,” I say. “He’s tallying18 the people I infect.”
The waiter can’t seem to figure out if I am joking. He backs away, unsure, to get my coffee.
Unlike my normal table, this one has a view of the street. I watch an elderly lady narrowly avoid the swipe ofa taxi; a boy dances past with a radio three times the size of his head balanced on his shoulder. Twins inparochial school uniforms giggle19 behind the pages of a teen magazine. And a woman with a running river ofblack hair spills coffee on her skirt, dropping the paper cup on the pavement.
Inside me, everything stops. I wait for her to lift her face—to see if this could possibly be who I think it is—but she turns away from me, blotting20 the fabric21 with a napkin. A bus cuts the world in half, and my cell phonebegins to ring.
I glance down at the incoming number: no surprise there. Turning off the power button without bothering totake my mother’s call, I glance back at the woman outside the window, but by then the bus is gone and so isshe.
I open the door of the office, already barking orders for Kerri. “Call Osterlitz and ask him whether he’savailable to testify during the Weiland trial; get a list of other complainants who’ve gone up against NewEngland Power in the past five years; make me a copy of the Melbourne deposition22; and phone Jerry at thecourt and ask who the judge is going to be for the Fitzgerald kid’s hearing.”
She glances up at me as the phone begins to ring. “Speaking of.” She jerks her head in the direction of thedoor to my inner sanctum. Anna Fitzgerald stands on the threshold with a spray can of industrial cleaner anda chamois cloth, polishing the doorknob.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“What you told me to.” She looks down at the dog. “Hey, Judge.”
“Line two for you,” Kerri interrupts. I give her a measured look—why she even let this kid in here is beyondme—and try to get into my office, but whatever Anna has put on the hardware makes it too greasy23 to turn. Istruggle for a moment, until she grips the knob with the cloth and opens the door for me.
Judge circles the floor, finding the most comfortable spot. I punch the blinking light on the call row.
“Campbell Alexander.”
“Mr. Alexander, this is Sara Fitzgerald. Anna Fitzgerald’s mother.” I let this information settle. I stare at herdaughter, polishing a mere24 five feet away.
“Mrs. Fitzgerald,” I answer, and as expected, Anna stops in her tracks.
“I’m calling because…well, you see, this is all a misunderstanding.”
“Have you filed a response to the petition?”
“That isn’t going to be necessary. I spoke25 to Anna last night, and she isn’t going to continue with her case.
She wants to do anything she can to help Kate.”
“Is that so.” My voice falls flat. “Unfortunately, if my client is planning to call off her lawsuit26, I’ll need tohear it directly from her.” I raise a brow, catch Anna’s gaze. “You wouldn’t happen to know where she is?”
“She went out for a run,” Sara Fitzgerald says. “But we’re going to come down to the courthouse thisafternoon. We’ll talk to the judge, and get this straightened out.”
“I suppose I’ll see you then.” I hang up the phone and cross my arms, look at Anna. “Is there somethingyou’d like to tell me?”
She shrugs27. “Not really.”
“That’s not what your mother seems to think. Then again, she’s also under the impression that you’re outplaying Flo Jo.”
Anna glances out into the reception area, where Kerri, naturally, is hanging on our words like a cat on a rope.
She closes the door and walks up to my desk. “I couldn’t tell her I was coming here, not after last night.”
“What happened last night?” When Anna goes mute, I lose my patience. “Listen. If you’re not going to gothrough with a lawsuit…if this is a colossal28 waste of my time…then I’d appreciate it if you had the honestyto tell me now, rather than later. Because I’m not a family therapist or your best buddy29; I’m your attorney.
And for me to be your attorney there actually has to be a case. So I will ask you one more time: have youchanged your mind about this lawsuit?”
I expect this tirade30 to put an end to the litigation, to reduce Anna to a wavering puddle31 of indecision. But tomy surprise, she looks right at me, cool and collected. “Are you still willing to represent me?” she asks.
Against my better judgment32, I say yes.
“Then no,” she says, “I haven’t changed my mind.”
The first time I sailed in a yacht club race with my father I was fourteen, and he was dead set against it. Iwasn’t old enough; I wasn’t mature enough; the weather was too iffy. What he really was saying was thathaving me crew for him was more likely to lose him the cup than to win it. In my father’s eyes, if youweren’t perfect, you simply weren’t.
His boat was a USA-1 class, a marvel33 of mahogany and teak, one he’d bought from the keyboard player J.
Geils up in Marblehead. In other words: a dream, a status symbol, and a rite34 of passage, all wrapped up in agleaming white sail and a honey-colored hull35.
We hit the start dead-on, crossing the line at full sail just as the cannon36 shot off. I did my best to be a stepahead of where my father needed me to be—guiding the rudder before he even gave the order, jibing37 andtacking until my muscles burned with effort. And maybe this even would have had a happy ending, but then astorm blew in from the north, bringing sheets of rain and swells38 that stretched ten feet high, pitching us fromheight to gulley.
I watched my father move in his yellow slicker. He didn’t seem to notice it was raining; he certainly didn’twant to crawl into a hole and clutch his sick stomach and die, like I did. “Campbell,” he bellowed39, “comeabout.”
But to turn into the wind meant to ride another roller coaster up and down. “Campbell,” my father repeated,“now.”
A trough opened up in front of us; the boat dipped so sharply I lost my footing. My father lunged past me,grabbing for the rudder. For one blessed moment, the sails went still. Then the boom whipped across, and theboat tacked40 along an opposite course.
“I need coordinates,” my father ordered.
Navigating41 meant going down into the hull where the charts were, and doing the math to figure out whatheading we had to be on to reach the next race buoy42. But being below, away from the fresh air, only made itworse. I opened a map just in time to throw up all over it.
My father found me by default, because I hadn’t returned with an answer. He poked43 his head down and sawme sitting in a puddle of my own vomit44. “For Christ’s sake,” he muttered, and left me.
It took all the strength I had to pull myself up after him. He jerked the wheel and yanked at the rudder. Hepretended I was not there. And when he jibed45, he did not call it. The sail whizzed across the boat, ripping theseam of the sky. The boom flew, clipped me on the back of the head and knocked me out.
I came to just as my father was stealing the wind of another boat, mere feet from the finish line. The rain hadmellowed to a mist, and as he put our craft between the airstream and our closest competitor, the other boatfell back. We won by seconds.
I was told to clean up my mess and take the taxi in, while my father sailed the dory to the yacht club tocelebrate. It was an hour later when I finally arrived, and by then he was in high spirits, drinking scotch46 fromthe crystal cup he had won. “Here comes your crew, Cam,” a friend called out. My father lifted the victorycup in salute47, drank deeply, and then slammed it down so hard on the bar that its handle shattered.
“Oh,” said another sailor. “That’s a shame.”
My father never took his eyes off me. “Isn’t it, though,” he said.
On the rear bumper48 of practically every third car in Rhode Island you’ll find a red-and-white stickercelebrating the victims of some of the bigger criminal cases in the state: My Friend Katy DeCubellis WasKilled by a Drunk Driver. My Friend John Sisson Was Killed by a Drunk Driver. These are given out atschool fairs and fund-raisers and hair salons49, and it doesn’t matter if you never knew the kid who got killed;you put them on your vehicle out of solidarity50 and secret joy that this tragedy did not happen to you.
Last year, there were red-and-white stickers with a new victim’s name: Dena DeSalvo. Unlike the othervictims, this was one I knew marginally. She was the twelve-year-old daughter of a judge, who reportedlybroke down during a custody51 trial held shortly after the funeral and took a three-month leave of absence todeal with his grief. The same judge, incidentally, who has been assigned to Anna Fitzgerald’s case.
As I make my way into the Garrahy Complex, where the family court is housed, I wonder if a man carryingaround so much baggage will be able to try a case where a winning outcome for my client will precipitate52 thedeath of her teenage sister.
There is a new bailiff at the entrance, a man with a neck as thick as a redwood and most likely thebrainpower to match. “Sorry,” he says. “No pets.”
“This is a service dog.”
Confused, the bailiff leans forward and peers into my eyes. I do the same, right back at him. “I’mnearsighted. He helps me read the road signs.” Stepping around the guy, Judge and I head down the hall tothe courtroom.
Inside, the clerk is being taken down a peg53 by Anna Fitzgerald’s mother. That’s my assumption, at least,because in actuality the woman looks nothing like her daughter, who stands beside her. “I’m quite sure that inthis case, the judge would understand,” Sara Fitzgerald argues. Her husband waits a few feet behind her,apart.
When Anna notices me, a wash of relief rushes over her features. I turn to the clerk of the court. “I’mCampbell Alexander,” I say. “Is there a problem?”
“I’ve been trying to explain to Mrs. Fitzgerald, here, that we only allow attorneys into chambers54.”
“Well, I’m here on behalf on Anna,” I reply.
The clerk turns to Sara Fitzgerald. “Who’s representing your party?”
Anna’s mother is stricken for a moment. She turns to her husband. “It’s like riding a bicycle,” she saysquietly.
Her husband shakes his head. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“I don’t want to do this. I have to do this.”
The words fall into place like cogs. “Hang on,” I say. “You’re a lawyer?”
Sara turns. “Well, yes.”
I glance down at Anna, incredulous. “And you neglected to mention this?”
“You never asked,” she whispers.
The clerk gives us each an Entry of Appearance form, and summons the sheriff.
“Vern.” Sara smiles. “Good to see you again.”
Oh, this just keeps getting better.
“Hey!” The sheriff kisses her cheek, shakes hands with the husband. “Brian.”
So not only is she an attorney; she also has all the public servants in the palm of her hand. “Are we finishedwith Old Home Day?” I ask, and Sara Fitzgerald rolls her eyes at the sheriff: The guy’s a jerk, but what areyou gonna do? “Stay here,” I tell Anna, and I follow her mother back toward chambers.
Judge DeSalvo is a short man with a monobrow and a fondness for coffee milk. “Good morning,” he says,waving us toward our seats. “What’s with the dog?”
“He’s a service dog, Your Honor.” Before he can say anything else, I leap into the genial55 conversation thatheralds every meeting in chambers in Rhode Island. We are a small state, smaller still in the legal community.
It is not only conceivable that your paralegal is the niece or sister-in-law of the judge with whom you’remeeting; it’s downright likely. As we chat, I glance over at Sara, who needs to understand which of us is partof this game, and which of us isn’t. Maybe she was an attorney, but not in the ten years I’ve been one.
She is nervous, pleating the bottom of her blouse. Judge DeSalvo notices. “I didn’t know you were practicinglaw again.”
“I wasn’t planning to, Your Honor, but the complainant is my daughter.”
At that, the judge turns to me. “Well, what’s this all about, Counselor56?”
“Mrs. Fitzgerald’s youngest daughter is seeking medical emancipation57 from her parents.”
Sara shakes her head. “That’s not true, Judge.” Hearing his name, my dog glances up. “I spoke to Anna, andshe assured me she really doesn’t want to do this. She had a bad day, and wanted a little extra attention.” Saralifts a shoulder. “You know how thirteen-year-olds can be.”
The room grows so quiet, I can hear my own pulse. Judge DeSalvo doesn’t know how thirteen-year-olds canbe. His daughter died when she was twelve.
Sara’s face flames red. Like the rest of this state, she knows about Dena DeSalvo. For all I know, she’s gotone of the bumper stickers on her minivan. “Oh God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
The judge looks away. “Mr. Alexander, when was the last time you spoke with your client?”
“Yesterday morning, Your Honor. She was in my office when her mother called me to say it was amisunderstanding.”
Predictably, Sara’s jaw58 drops. “She couldn’t have been. She was jogging.”
I look at her. “You sure about that?”
“She was supposed to be jogging…”
“Your Honor,” I say, “this is precisely59 my point, and the reason Anna Fitzgerald’s petition has merit. Her ownmother isn’t aware of where she is on any given morning; medical decisions regarding Anna are made withthe same haphazard—”
“Counselor, can it.” The judge turns to Sara. “Your daughter told you she wanted to call off the lawsuit?”
“Yes.”
He glances at me. “And she told you that she wanted to continue?”
“That’s right.”
“Then I’d better talk directly to Anna.”
When the judge gets up and walks out of chambers, we follow. Anna is sitting on a bench in the hall with herfather. One of her sneakers is untied60. “I spy something green,” I hear her say, and then she looks up.
“Anna,” I say, at the exact same moment as Sara Fitzgerald.
It is my responsibility to explain to Anna that Judge DeSalvo wants a few minutes in private. I need to coachher, so that she says the right things, so that the judge doesn’t throw the case out before she gets what shewants. She is my client; by definition, she is supposed to follow my counsel.
But when I call her name, she turns toward her mother.
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jabbers
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| v.急切而含混不清地说( jabber的第三人称单数 )；急促兴奋地说话 | |
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sever
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| v.切开，割开；断绝，中断 | |
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sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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ketchup
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| n.蕃茄酱，蕃茄沙司 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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crate
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| vt.(up)把…装入箱中；n.板条箱，装货箱 | |
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funky
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| adj.畏缩的，怯懦的，霉臭的；adj.新式的，时髦的 | |
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crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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sculpts
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| 雕刻( sculpt的第三人称单数 )； 雕塑； 做（头发）； 梳（发式） | |
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busts
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| 半身雕塑像( bust的名词复数 )； 妇女的胸部； 胸围； 突击搜捕 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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tallying
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| v.计算，清点( tally的现在分词 )；加标签（或标记）于；（使）符合；（使）吻合 | |
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giggle
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| n.痴笑，咯咯地笑；v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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blotting
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| 吸墨水纸 | |
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fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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deposition
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| n.免职，罢官；作证；沉淀；沉淀物 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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mere
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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lawsuit
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| n.诉讼，控诉 | |
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shrugs
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| n.耸肩（以表示冷淡，怀疑等）( shrug的名词复数 ) | |
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colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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buddy
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| n.（美口）密友，伙伴 | |
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tirade
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| n.冗长的攻击性演说 | |
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puddle
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| n.(雨)水坑，泥潭 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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rite
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| n.典礼，惯例，习俗 | |
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hull
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| n.船身；(果、实等的)外壳；vt.去(谷物等)壳 | |
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cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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jibing
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| v.与…一致( jibe的现在分词 )；（与…）相符；相匹配 | |
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swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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bellowed
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的过去式和过去分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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tacked
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| 用平头钉钉( tack的过去式和过去分词 )； 附加，增补； 帆船抢风行驶，用粗线脚缝 | |
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navigating
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| v.给（船舶、飞机等）引航，导航( navigate的现在分词 )；（从海上、空中等）横越；横渡；飞跃 | |
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buoy
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| n.浮标；救生圈；v.支持，鼓励 | |
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poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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vomit
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| v.呕吐，作呕；n.呕吐物，吐出物 | |
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jibed
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| v.与…一致( jibe的过去式和过去分词 )；（与…）相符；相匹配 | |
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46
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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47
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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bumper
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| n.(汽车上的)保险杠；adj.特大的，丰盛的 | |
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salons
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| n.（营业性质的）店( salon的名词复数 )；厅；沙龙（旧时在上流社会女主人家的例行聚会或聚会场所）；（大宅中的）客厅 | |
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solidarity
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| n.团结；休戚相关 | |
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51
custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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52
precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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53
peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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54
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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55
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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56
counselor
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| n.顾问，法律顾问 | |
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57
emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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58
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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untied
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| 松开，解开( untie的过去式和过去分词 )； 解除，使自由； 解决 | |
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