Breach of Promise (12 page)

3

“So much depends on the judge,” Alex said. “If we get a bad one, a pro-Mommy judge, or someone who just doesn’t trust men, it will be very bad.”

“There’s nothing we can do?” I had come into Alex’s office on Friday to show her the papers that had been served on me. It was three days after my last phone conversation with Paula. I had seen little of Ron. He was out looking for work, he said.

“We have one peremptory,” Alex said.

 

“What’s that?”

“It’s a 170.6 motion. Either party can reject a judge, one time, and the judge has to step down from that case. He can’t inquire as to the reason. It’s automatic. Problem is you might get one who’s worse. The presiding judge, who makes the assignments, might try to figure out why you made the move, and get you to a judge who’s just like the last one. We won’t do this except as a last resort.”

“It’s pretty much a crapshoot then? The judge?”
“Pretty much.”
“I’m so thrilled. So what’s going to happen at the hearing?” “Jennings will try to convince the judge you are not the right

parent for Maddie to be with, pending an evaluation.” “Evaluation?”
“A mental health evaluator will be assigned to make a recommendation to the judge.”

“Mental health? Am I going to have my head shrunk or something?”
“If he or she wants to shrink your head, you let them. The judge almost always follows the recommendation of the evaluator.”
“Who are these people?”
“It varies. You have Ph.D.s in psychology, social workers, licensed evaluators fresh out of grad school. But they’re people above all. Some have great judgment and insight into what kids need. Others are houseplants in shoes. Some are good-hearted, some are little Darth Vaders.”
“Man.”
“Exactly. We will cooperate with these people. You will treat them very nicely. You will not get angry, or you will not pass Go and collect your daughter.”
“What else can I do?”
“Pray.”
“That’s not a very comforting thought.”
She narrowed her eyes. “If you look at it right, it’s the most comforting thought of all.”

M
EMORIES
1

That evening I went to a Mexican restaurant with Ron. My treat. He’d landed a job with a car repair shop on Vineland. Good news. I was going to tell him to move out. I just didn’t know how to relate to him. And after the smoking incident, I didn’t think it was a good thing to have him around. But where did that leave us?

“Good news about the job,” I said as we went at a basket of tortilla chips.
“Yeah,” Ron said. “I’m a productive citizen again.”
“I’m glad.”
“Thanks for not throwing me out.”
“You thinking of getting a place?”
He nodded. “Soon. I promise.”
“You have any friends out here you can stay with?”
“Not really. Maybe some guys I could look up.” He crunched a couple of chips. If that can be done thoughtfully, that’s the way he did it. “Listen, is there anything I can do for you, Mark? I mean, I feel like I owe you.”
“Nah, you don’t.”
“But I do. I made some bad choices.”
“We all do.”
“Yeah, but you were my . . . you are my son.”
I still didn’t know how to take that. “That’s all past, Ron. I mean, I don’t think of you as my father. How can I? I don’t hold any bitterness toward you.”
He looked skeptical.
“All right,” I said. “Maybe I do. I didn’t have a dad around and that bothered me. It bothered me that you never wrote. But maybe I was better off.”
“How so?”
“You’re a pot-smoking ex-con.”
For an instant Ron looked stunned, then suddenly laughed. “I guess I deserve that.”
But now I wanted more. “What
are
you like?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what makes you up? What was your own father like?”
“Dad? He was a World War II vet, Navy. Man in the gray flannel suit type. Ran our house like a tight ship.”
“Where was this?”
“Indianapolis. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Got to San Francisco in time for the summer of love in ’67. It was some scene.”
“You did the whole drug deal?”
“It wasn’t like that,” Ron said, leaning forward. “It wasn’t ever drugs for drugs’ sake. We were looking for a higher reality to tune in to. It was like waking up from a deep sleep, which is what the fifties was like. We didn’t want to grow up to be Ward Cleaver or Ozzie Nelson. Would you?”
I shrugged. “When you have a child, your ideas about that change.”
“But it was an amazing time,” Ron said.
“A lot of brains got fried, didn’t they?” My mom, I remembered, had trouble holding a job. Gram always spoke about Mom with sadness, like Rainbow had been lost to her years before her actual death.
“Tell me about Paula.”
“What about her?”
“What’s she like?”
For a long moment I thought about it. “I don’t know anymore. I thought I knew her. I loved her. I thought she loved me. Then she heads off to Europe. Maybe I was being naive.”
“Stuff happens.”
“That’s very profound.”
“The Wheel goes round and round. You have to accept that, just accept it.”
“No,” I said. “I’m not going to sit back while this happens. I have to fight.”
“For Paula?”
“For Maddie.”
“You still love Paula?”
“I don’t know anymore.” And at that moment I honestly didn’t. You don’t have the kind of love I had for Paula and just kick it out of your system.
“Hang in there,” Ron said. “Just remember, the—”
“If you say anything about that stupid Wheel again, I’m going to throw the salsa at you.”

At night, when alone in bed, memories of Maddie swirled around like gnats. I couldn’t ignore them or get rid of them, so I let them come, even though they keep me awake.

I am sitting in the living r oom of the apartment, practicing some lines for an audition the next day. I’m supposed to be a young father with a kid. Typecasting. I can nail this.

Back and forth I walk, spouting line after line. (“Now don’ t you go out in the water unless I’m watching you!” my character dad says. “You stay where I can see you!”)

And then I hear a CLOMP CLOMP .
Did Maddie drop something on the floor?
I stop and turn.
CLOMP CLOMP.
Maddie clomps in wearing a pair of my dress shoes. And a pair

of pink underwear.

As I stand there trying to make sense of this new performance artist, Maddie holds her head up proudly.
“I am Queen of the Underwear,” she announces.
Which cracks me up. I almost fall on the floor laughing, all the while wondering where on earth that had come from.
Maddie CLOMPS around some more and sings, “I’m Queen of the Underwearrrr.”
That’s when my dad voice kicks in and tells me to get some control. “That’s a very funny song. Now what would you think about becoming Queen of the Clothes?”
“But I’m Queen of the Underwear.”
“All right. I’m King of the Apartment. So I get to tell you to put on some clothes now.”
Her Mussolini lip sticks out. “Do you have a duhjen?”
“You mean a dungeon?”
“You know, where you can put people.”
“No, I don’t have a dungeon.”
She folds her arms. “Then I can still be Queen of the Underwear!”
I kneel. “Your highness, if Daddy really, really wanted you to put some clothes on, would you do it?”
Maddie considers this a moment, smiles, nods. “I am a good queen.” She CLOMPS off to her room.
A short time later she comes out, having dressed herself in a shorts and a SpongeBob T-shirt. She puts her arms around my neck and kisses me.
“That was a fun game,” she says. “What else can we play?”

2

I called Nancy at home the next morning. Technically, I shouldn’t have. It was Saturday. But I didn’t care from technically. And I was suddenly
hot.
Or maybe warm enough to break a sweat. That meant Nancy wouldn’t be bothered so much to hear from me. I hoped.

“Any word on the contracts?” I asked.

“Working out some details,” Nancy said. “You’re going to be pleased.”
“When?”
“A couple of days, no more. Then we’ll get you a big fat check to cash. How’s that?”
“That would be great.”
“And what about you?”
“Me?”
“How you doing?”
“Fine.”
“I mean really.”
Really? I was not so good. I’d gone to the market earlier and saw something that almost flattened me. A father and his daughter holding hands, walking along the cookie aisle. The girl was about Maddie’s age. The father was a young guy, younger than me, and he was having a conversation with the girl.
“Where was I before I was born?” I heard the girl ask.
“You were inside Mommy,” the father said matter-of-factly.
“Before that where was I?”
The father thought a moment. Fascinated, I followed them. “You were a little egg and a little . . .” He stopped himself. “You just weren’t here yet.”
“Where was I?” the girl insisted.
“You were in God’s mind,” the father said, pointing to his head.
And I felt a crushing inside me. It was the kind of conversation I used to have with Maddie. We’d had a bunch of them. She was so full of curiosity about things, always asking me questions. Now I realized the big silent void in my life was there because Maddie wasn’t with me, asking questions.
To Nancy, who was my agent and not my psychotherapist, I said, “Really, I’m fine. I’ll be just fine. Just show me the money.”
She laughed. “Spoken like a true star in the making.”

3

Two days later, Monday, I was in the courtroom of a judge named Harold J. Winger.
“Fair man,” Alex had told me, which offered just a modicum of relief.
But any good feeling I had got sucked away when Paula entered the courtroom in the company of Bryce Jennings. Nor did it help that a train of reporters flowed in behind her. Paula was good copy now. I was just a subplot in her ongoing story.
Paula did not look at me. She wore sunglasses into the courtroom and was dressed like a star.
Bryce Jennings was dressed in a dark blue suit and a doubleedged smile. He nodded at Alex. Alex nodded at him. Choose your weapons.
Paula sat down at the table near the jury box. I was seated at the other table, looking at her. She kept her face forward. She took off her sunglasses. Her beauty was breathtaking.
Alex patted my arm. Today was supposed to get me some time with Maddie. According to Alex, there was little chance I’d be denied it. Even if it meant being supervised, I’d get some sort of bone thrown my way. Then we could prepare for the big fight over custody to come later.
Fight. Just what I didn’t want. But Alex said Jennings and Paula were taking a hard line, and we would have to do the same. And let the court sort it out.
Judge Winger walked in at precisely nine o’clock. He looked experienced. At least the lines in his face and gray hair indicated that. I hoped Alex was right, that he was a fair man.
He called our case immediately. Alex and Jennings stated their appearances for the record.
“We’re here on a motion to modify the
ex parte
order entered by this court on August 5,” Winger said. “The mother apparently has the daughter living with her, is that correct, Mr. Jennings?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“All right. The issue is immediate sharing of custody, pending a final disposition. The father wants to see his daughter. Is that it, Ms. Bedrosian?”
“It is, Your Honor,” Alex said.
“According to your moving papers,” the judge shuffled something in front of him, “the last contact the father had with the daughter was on . . . August 6?”
“Correct. Eight days ago.”
“Any phone contact with the child?”
“None. And Mr. Jennings threatened my client with a harassment charge under the penal code, of all things, for any phone calling.”
The judge looked at Jennings for a response.
“Mr. Gillen was calling my client constantly,” Jennings said, “and she is feeling threatened.”
Threatened?
That was absurd! I may have let my voice get a little heated, but Paula knew I would never try to hurt her.
Winger pressed his little finger to his lip. “Is that really an accurate characterization? The word
threat
is pretty loaded.”
Go judge,
I was thinking.
Tell him. Lay him out. Give me my daughter.

Bryce Jennings looked as cool as a Brioni-suited cucumber. “And we do not use that term lightly. This is all in the context of Mr. Gillen’s assault on my client.”

There was an audible gasp in the courtroom. And then I realized it came from me. Maybe Alex joined in, because she flashed a look my way that was both surprised and accusatory.

“You’re alleging an assault?” Winger said.
“I can have my client testify if need be,” Alex said. “Maybe you’d better.”
Alex said, “Your Honor, may I have a moment to confer with my

client?”
“Go ahead.”
Leaning over like an angry mother, Alex whispered, “What is

this all about?”
“I guess I didn’t mention it.” My face was flushing. I was sure
the reporters could see this.
“No, you didn’t. Is it true?”
“I didn’t throw the bottle at—”
“Bottle? You threw a bottle?”
“It was only water.”
“At Paula?”
“No, at the ground. I was frustrated. It got out of hand.” “Why didn’t you tell me?”
There was no good answer. Maybe I was just too embarrassed.
Maybe I thought it would just go away. “I’m sorry.”
“Is there anything else you want to add?” Alex said. “Any other
skeletons rattling around?”
“No, honest.”
Alex sighed and turned toward the judge. “May we approach
the bench?”
The judge waved her up, along with Jennings. There was no
jury, of course, but I think Alex wanted to keep something from the
reporters. There was some spirited discussion, then the lawyers returned to their respective corners. I could tell from the look on
Alex’s face that she had come out on the short end.
Which meant Paula took the stand.
After she was sworn, Jennings started to walk her through the
testimony. It was very clear to me that he had set this up, that he
was planning to have Paula get on the stand and testify all along.
It would make great copy.
“You met with Mr. Gillen on the afternoon of August 3, is that
correct?” Jennings began.
“Yes,” Paula said.
“At a restaurant in Beverly Hills?”
“Yes.”
“And at the time, Mr. Gillen met you and—”
“Objection,” Alex said. “Leading.”
“Preliminary matters,” Judge Winger said. “Overruled.” “Mr. Gillen met you and you sat at an outside table?” “That’s right.”
“Can you tell us briefly what you discussed?”
Paula, looking both beautiful and vulnerable, said, “I suggested that, for Maddie’s sake, we should discuss the divorce in a
friendly way.”
“What was Mr. Gillen’s emotional reaction?”
“Objection,” Alex said. “Speculation.”
“Overruled,” Judge Winger said. “The witness’s state of mind
is the issue.”
“Angry,” Paula said. “He was in denial and very antagonistic.” I almost jumped out of my chair. Finally I understood the
meaning of the phrase
raked over the coals.
I started writing some
notes on a legal pad.
“What led you to believe he was antagonistic?”
“Well, first he said he didn’t want anything to be easy for me.
He said he wanted to make things hard on me. When I finally saw there was no reasoning with him, I got up to go and he slammed
his fists on the table and screamed at me.”
Paula paused and Jennings said nothing. Letting it all sink in,
I thought. The judge looked intensely interested.
“And then,” Paula added, “he threw a bottle at me as I
walked out.”
Another dramatic pause. Like it had been rehearsed. “What sort of bottle?” Jennings asked.
“I think it was a bottle of sparkling water.”
“Did it hit you?”
“No, thankfully. It hit the ground and shattered.”
“Were you hit by glass?”
“Some, yes. But mostly I was terrified.”
Jennings nodded. “That’s all, Your Honor.”
“You may question the witness,” the judge told Alex. My lawyer rose, took my meager notes, and walked to the
podium between the counsel tables.
“Ms. Gillen—”
“Excuse me, Your Honor,” Jennings said. “My client’s professional name is Montgomery. We request counsel to address her
accordingly.”
At that moment, for some reason, Paula looked at me. I couldn’t
quite read her face. But my eyes cried out to her.
Why are you
doing this?
She looked away.
“Proceed,” Winger said.
“Ms. Montgomery,” Alex said, “the bottle you say was thrown
at you was actually thrown at the ground, was it not?” “I didn’t know that.”
“That’s not my question. The bottle hit the ground, not you,
isn’t that correct?”
“Technically.”
“What does that mean,
technically?
“He threw the bottle toward me.”
“That’s a little different than
at
you, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You know your husband was once a star baseball player,
don’t you?”
Paula looked as surprised as I was. “Yes, of course I know that.” “Don’t you think if he was going to throw a bottle at you he
would have hit you with it?”
For a moment Paula was silent. She shrugged.
“Please answer out loud for the court reporter,” Judge Winger
said.
“I don’t know,” Paula said.
“Well, if you don’t know,” said Alex, “then you can’t make this
accusation about Mark throwing the bottle at you, can you?” “The bottle shattered at my feet.”
“Please answer the question.”
“I have.”
“Yes,” Alex said. “Perhaps you have. I will leave that to Judge
Winger.” She turned to the judge. “No further questions, Your
Honor. This has been a bald-faced attempt to sway you in your
decision. I trust you will see through it.”
“The court appreciates the trust of counsel,” Winger said. Jennings smiled. A couple of reporters in the gallery laughed.
Everyone, it seemed, was amused. Except Alex and me.