“I saw all I needed to see,” Stackpole interrupted, waving his hand dismissively. “Mr. Keeler?”
Betsy Entwhistle gave a brief nod and her client stood.
Stackpole’s eyes drilled into the hapless Wyatt Keeler. “Regardless of what that video did or did not show, I find the actions shown there to be alarming, bordering on criminal.” He looked over at the opposing lawyer. “When do Mrs. Keeler and Mr. Grigsby intend to relocate to Birmingham?”
After a brief whispered conference, the other lawyer cleared his throat. “Early August, Judge. Although Mr. Grigsby will move there immediately, Mrs. Keeler needs time to settle things here. But we’d ask that your custody order become effective immediately.”
Stackpole thought it over. “I don’t see any need for a rush. I’m going to take this under advisement. I have some thoughts, and I’ll issue a ruling, probably by the end of business today.” He glared at Wyatt Keeler. “And you, sir, are to stay away from Mr. Grigsby. If this court hears of even a hint of any more aggression from you, I’ll issue a temporary restraining order. Is that understood?”
“Understood,” Betsy Entwhistle said.
“Understood,” her client echoed.
Stackpole flicked his eyes over at Callie Keeler, who was dressed in a demure pale-blue, long-sleeved dress. “Mrs. Keeler, if there are any more incidents, you’re free to take that back up with the court again.”
“Oh, I will Judge,” Callie said, her high-pitched voice sounding defiant. “You better believe I will.”
Stackpole jerked his head at the bailiff. “Ten-minute recess. Then I’ll hear my next case.”
* * *
Mitzi touched Grace’s arm. “Let’s make a bathroom run before they call us.” Grace followed her lawyer out of the courtroom and down a long, narrow hallway.
As they walked, Grace spotted Wyatt Keeler. He was sitting on a wooden bench, focused on conversation with his lawyer. He was deeply tanned, and from here Grace could see that his dress shirt was ill-fitting, the collar too big, the sleeves too long. The shirt had obviously just come from a package, as the factory fold marks were still visible.
The other lawyer looked up just as they were passing. “Hey, Betsy,” Mitzi murmured, nodding. “Looks like Stackpole is in rare form today.”
Betsy Entwhistle rolled her eyes. Her client turned, noticing the two women who’d been in the courtroom earlier, and blushed, then looked down at his hands. For the first time, Grace noticed that his right hand was heavily bandaged.
“He’s a peach, isn’t he?” Betsy said. “I saw you sitting in the courtroom. Are you on his docket today?”
“Unfortunately,” Mitzi said. She gestured toward Grace. “This is my client, Grace Stanton.”
“And this is my nephew, Wyatt Keeler,” Betsy said.
Wyatt Keeler offered them a solemn smile, revealing choirboy dimples. His eyes were a deep chocolate brown, framed with stubby dark lashes. He was seated, but he had the lean, lanky look of somebody who spent a lot of time outdoors. “I hope you fare better with that guy than I did,” he said quietly.
Up close, Grace thought, he didn’t look quite as much like the deranged goon he seemed in the video shot by his wife. Up close, he looked sad. Defeated.
“I was just telling Wyatt he’s lucky Stackpole didn’t order him to be castrated,” Betsy said.
“He did seem pretty worked up today,” Mitzi agreed. “I was kind of surprised, since it’s usually the wives he’s antagonistic towards.”
“That damned video didn’t help us any,” Betsy said bluntly.
Mitzi glanced down at her watch. “Whoops. Sorry, but we’ve got to make a pit stop before Stackpole readjourns.”
“Good luck in there,” Wyatt said.
* * *
They slid into their seats at the front of the courtroom just as the bailiff at the rear of the room was closing the doors.
Mitzi Stillwell shot Grace a sideways glance. “You okay?”
Grace nodded. “As good as I’m gonna get.” She turned halfway in her chair and looked around the courtroom. There was no sign yet of Ben and his lawyer. She didn’t know whether to be glad or mad.
“What happens now?” she asked, turning back to her attorney.
“It should be pretty cut-and-dried,” Mitzi said. “We’ve asked the judge to order Ben to mediation for a financial settlement, since he’s so far resisted all our efforts in that direction. We’ve produced plenty of documentation that the business is yours and that he’s put you in an untenable situation. Even Stackpole should agree that you are arguably the rainmaker for Gracenotes.”
“And then?”
“Then we figure out a way to divide up the marital assets, seek a final decree for you, and Stackpole pronounces you unmarried.”
“You make it sound easy,” Grace said.
Mitzi shrugged. “Not easy. The statutes don’t want to make it too easy to get a divorce. But if Stackpole makes Ben play by the rules and divvy up the goods, this shouldn’t be too terribly complicated from hereon out.”
Grace heard footsteps coming up the center aisle of the courtroom and turned slightly before swiveling violently back toward Mitzi. “He’s here,” she whispered. “Oh, God. I don’t think I can breathe.”
She still hadn’t laid eyes on Ben since the night she’d driven his Audi into the pool on Sand Dollar Lane. He strode past her, eyes front, and sat at a table directly to the right of the one where she sat. He was dressed in a conservative charcoal suit, sharply pressed white dress shirt, and a purple silk tie. His glossy hair looked freshly cut, his black Gucci loafers were polished to perfection. He was carrying a briefcase Grace hadn’t seen in years, and he busied himself now, snapping it open and sorting through file folders.
Grace felt something tighten in her chest. “Breathe,” Mitzi instructed quietly. “In. Out. You can do this, Grace. Don’t let the bastard get you rattled.”
“I
am
rattled,” Grace said, feeling her face flush. She felt a hand clasp her shoulder and looked up.
Dickie Murphree smiled down at her. “Gracie,” he said, his hand lingering on her shoulder. “It’s great to see you.”
Dickie looked much as he had the last time she’d seen him, at an expensive restaurant on St. Armand’s Circle, not long after she and Ben had moved back to town. Had it been three years ago? His thinning brown hair was a little too long in the back and he had a rakish mustache and that same impish smile he’d used so effectively to get his way all through high school.
“No hard feelings, right, Grace? This is just one of these things. You’ll get past this, and you’ll be fine. Right?”
No hard feelings? Grace felt her jaw drop. With Dickie’s help, Ben had effectively impoverished her. Right this very minute, she was wearing the dressiest clothing she possessed, a pair of her mother’s cast-off sandals, and an ill-fitting rayon knit dress she’d picked up for $3.60 at a thrift shop near the hospital. No hard feelings? Not long ago, Grace wouldn’t have used this dress as a dishrag. Dickie didn’t wait for her reply. He nodded now at Mitzi, flashing his easy smile. “Hey there, Ms. Stillwell.”
“Dickie.” Mitzi gave him a curt, dismissive nod.
He finally removed his grasp of her shoulder and slid onto the chair next to Ben’s.
Ben was still busily sorting file folders, avoiding meeting her eyes.
“Exhale,” Mitzi said quietly. “Think about a happy place. Picture yourself there.”
“I don’t have a happy place anymore,” Grace whispered. “Ben got custody of it.”
“Then try this. Picture your ex with his dick caught in a rattrap.”
Implausibly, Grace began to smile. As the image formed in her mind, she began to giggle. Horrified, she clamped her hands over her mouth, but not before the giggle became a guffaw. Ben’s head turned sharply. His eyes narrowed and he looked, briefly, disgusted. He glanced at the back of the courtroom and gave an almost imperceptible shrug before returning to his paper shuffling.
“Feel better?” Mitzi asked, a smile playing at the edge of her lips.
“Much,” Grace said. Her eyes followed Ben’s gaze toward the back of the room. Sitting in the last row, wearing a form-fitting chartreuse dress and dark sunglasses, a raven-haired woman was staring down at her cell phone, her fingertips racing over the keyboard. Probably sexting Ben, Grace thought.
“I don’t believe it,” Grace said, her mirth short-lived. “She’s here. Right in this courtroom. She’s wearing sunglasses, and I think she’s dyed her hair, but that’s definitely J’Aimee. I can’t believe he had the nerve to bring her here.”
Mitzi turned all the way around in her chair to have a look, not bothering to hide what she was doing. “Oh. The green dress, right? What is she, about thirteen? Did he have to sign her out of homeroom?”
Just then, the blond-haired bailiff strode past them to the front of the room. “All rise for the Honorable Cedric N. Stackpole,” she intoned.
7
Mitzi laid out the case neatly before the judge, letting him know that Ben had locked Grace out of their home, canceled her credit cards, and denied her access to their joint checking and savings accounts.
“Your Honor,” Mitzi said, gesturing toward Grace, who was sitting straight in her chair, eyes forward, like an obedient schoolgirl on her first day of class, “Mr. Stanton has effectively impoverished my client. She has no funds, no home, and no way to make a living, thanks to him.”
“No way to work?” Stackpole looked startled. “Now how is that possible? Didn’t you tell me Ms. Stanton was some kind of professional writer?”
“Yes sir,” Mitzi said. “Ms. Stanton is—or she was before all this happened—one of the most successful lifestyle bloggers in the country.”
“A blogger?” Stackpole’s high forehead wrinkled and his lips thinned in distaste. He waved his hands in the direction of the neat printouts Grace had made of six months’ worth of Gracenotes. “Do you mean to tell me Ms. Stanton here makes a living writing this material?” He picked up one of the sheets and skimmed its contents.
“Recipes? Pictures of sofas? Directions for painting an old table? This looks like some kind of hobby to me, Ms. Stillwell.”
Grace’s heart sank. Mitzi had warned her that Stackpole might not take her work seriously.
“No sir,” Mitzi said sharply. “Not a hobby in any way. Ms. Stanton’s blog has 450,000 followers. That’s just people who have subscribed to her RSS feed. Her blog receives 1.3 million unique visits each month. Since Gracenotes was monetized, which means Ms. Stanton started accepting paid advertisers, the site has consistently generated twenty thousand dollars a month in revenues.”
“Impressive,” the judge admitted.
Mitzi beamed. “We think so. Judge, Gracenotes is named for Grace Stanton. It was conceived by her and it is written and photographed solely by her. There are no other outside contributors. In other words, this blog is intellectual property, and, as such, it belongs to her. But Ms. Stanton’s estranged husband, Ben Stanton, is deliberately blocking her from access to her blog.”
“I see,” Stackpole said. He swung his head to the left, smiling at Dickie Murphree.
“What do you say to that, Mr. Murphree?”
Dickie thrust his hands in his pockets and gave an exaggerated shrug. “Obviously, Judge, we’d refute just about everything Ms. Stillwell has just said. Grace Stanton is free to write whatever she wants, whenever she wants, and, as far as I know, there’s nobody stopping her from doing that. The Internet is a big ol’ marketplace, and there’s plenty of room in it for everybody, last I heard.”
“Mm-hmm,” Stackpole said. “And what do you have to say about the dire financial situation of your client’s estranged wife? Ms. Stillwell makes a convincing case that your client has effectively cut off her access to all the couple’s marital assets.”
Dickie’s face registered what passed for genuine shock. Grace wondered if Dickie had ever done anything in his life that was genuine.
“Judge, I would just point out to you that Ms. Stanton is the one who initiated all the turmoil in this marriage. It was she who abandoned my client, moving out of their home, of her own accord, after a violent outburst. And, I would add, she did so in a manner that was calculated to humiliate and embarrass my client—not just in front of this couple’s immediate neighbors, but in front of everybody in this community, and across the country, for that matter. If her business has been damaged, that is Ms. Stanton’s own doing.”
“He went there,” Mitzi muttered under his breath. “I should have known.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Stackpole said.
The lawyer clapped a reassuring hand on Ben’s shoulder. “Your Honor, I deeply regret having to trot this out again. My client certainly didn’t want me to drag all this out in the open again, but sometimes, sir, you have to get these things out in the open.”
“What things?” Stackpole asked, leaning back in his chair.
Dickie let out a long, anguished sigh. “Well, ahhh, it’s a long story, Judge.”
Mitzi stood up. “Your Honor? If Mr. Murphree is referring to the matter I think he is, that matter has no direct bearing on the issue of my client’s right to her share of this couple’s marital assets. And I strongly object to his trying to introduce it here today.”
“What matter?” Stackpole asked, looking peevish.
Dickie shrugged. “The matter of Ms. Stanton intentionally driving my client’s 175,000 dollar Audi convertible into the swimming pool of their home on Sand Dollar Lane, thus destroying it. The matter of her assaulting and slandering my client’s employee.”
“What?” Stackpole’s eyebrows shot up. “When was this?”
“The night of May eighth,” Dickie said. “Ms. Stanton misunderstood some communication between my client and his employee and flew into a rage. My client eventually began to fear for his life and locked himself into his home and called the police, who, unfortunately, arrived on the scene after Ms. Stanton destroyed the Audi.”
Stackpole gave Grace a stern look. “Is this true?”
Grace’s voice came out in a squeak. “It’s true that I drove the car into the pool, yes sir. But it’s not true that I assaulted J’Aimee. I would have, but I couldn’t catch her. And anyway, she was my assistant, not Ben’s. And it’s a joke to think that Ben would be afraid of me. But Your Honor, you haven’t heard the whole story.”