I glance down at the incoming number: no surprise there. Turning off the
power button without bothering to take my mother's call, I glance back at the
woman outside the window, but by then the bus is gone and so is she.
I open the door of the office, already barking orders for Kerri. “Call
Osterlitz and ask him whether he's available to testify during the Weiland
trial; get a list of other complainants who've gone up against New England
Power in the past five years; make me a copy of the Melbourne deposition; and phone
Jerry at the court 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 the door to my inner sanctum. Anna
Fitzgerald stands on the threshold with a spray can of industrial cleaner and a
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 beyond me—and try to get into my
office, but whatever Anna has put on the hardware makes it too greasy to turn.
I struggle 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 her daughter, polishing
a mere 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 spoke 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 lawsuit, I'll need to hear 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 this afternoon. 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 something you'd like to tell me?”
She shrugs. “Not really.”
“That's not what your mother seems to think. Then again, she's also
under the impression that you're out playing 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 go through with a lawsuit… if
this is a colossal waste of my time… then I'd appreciate it if you had the
honesty to tell me now, rather than later. Because I'm not a family therapist
or your best buddy; 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 you changed
your mind about this lawsuit?”
I expect this tirade to put an end to the litigation, to reduce Anna to a
wavering puddle of indecision. But to my surprise, she looks right at me, cool
and collected. “Are you still willing to represent me?” she asks.
Against my better judgment, 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. I wasn't old enough; I wasn't mature enough;
the weather was too iffy. What he really was saying was that having me crew for
him was more likely to lose him the cup than to win it. In my father's eyes, if
you weren't perfect, you simply weren't.
His boat was a USA-1 class, a marvel 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 rite of passage, all wrapped up in a gleaming white sail
and a honey-colored hull.
We hit the start dead-on, crossing the line at full sail just as the cannon
shot off. I did my best to be a step ahead of where my father needed me to
be—guiding the rudder before he even gave the order, jibing and tacking until
my muscles burned with effort. And maybe this even would have had a happy
ending, but then a storm blew in from the north, bringing sheets of rain and
swells that stretched ten feet high, pitching us from height to gulley.
I watched my father move in his yellow slicker. He didn't seem to notice it
was raining; he certainly didn't want to crawl into a hole and clutch his sick
stomach and die, like I did. “Campbell,” he bellowed, “come
about.”
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 the boat tacked
along an opposite course.
“I need coordinates,” my father ordered.
Navigating meant going down into the hull where the charts were, and doing
the math to figure out what heading we had to be on to reach the next race
buoy. But being below, away from the fresh air, only made it worse. 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
poked his head down and saw me sitting in a puddle of my own vomit. “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. He pretended I was not there. And when he
jibed, he did not call it. The sail whizzed across the boat, ripping the seam
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 had mellowed to a mist, and as he put our craft
between the airstream and our closest competitor, the other boat fell 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 to celebrate. It was an hour later when I finally
arrived, and by then he was in high spirits, drinking scotch from the crystal
cup he had won. “Here comes your crew, Cam,” a friend called out. My
father lifted the victory cup in salute, 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 bumper of practically every third car in Rhode Island you'll
find a red-and-white sticker celebrating the victims of some of the bigger
criminal cases in the state: My Friend Katie DeCubellis Was Killed by a
Drunk Driver. My Friend John Sisson Was Killed by a Drunk Driver. These
are given out at school fairs and fund-raisers and hair salons, and it doesn't
matter if you never knew the kid who got killed; you put them on your vehicle
out of solidarity 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 other victims, this was one I knew marginally. She was the
twelve-year-old daughter of a judge, who reportedly broke down during a custody
trial held shortly after the funeral and took a three-month leave of absence to
deal 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 carrying around so much baggage will be able to try a case
where a winning outcome for my client will precipitate the death 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 the brainpower 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'm nearsighted. He helps me read the road
signs.” Stepping around the guy, Judge and I head down the hall to the
courtroom.
Inside, the clerk is being taken down a peg 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 in this
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'm Campbell Alexander,” I say. “Is
there a problem?”
“I've been trying to explain to Mrs. Fitzgerald, here, that we only
allow attorneys into chambers.”
“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 says quietly.
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 finished with Old Home Day?” I ask, and
Sara Fitzgerald rolls her eyes at the sheriff: The guy's a jerk, but
what are you 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 genial conversation that heralds 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're meeting; it's downright likely. As we chat, I glance
over at Sara, who needs to understand which of us is part of 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 practicing law 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,
Counselor?”
“Mrs. Fitzgerald's youngest daughter is seeking medical emancipation
from her parents.”
Sara shakes her head. “That's not true, Judge.” Hearing his name,
my dog glances up. “I spoke to Anna, and she assured me she really doesn't
want to do this. She had a bad day, and wanted a little extra attention.”
Sara lifts 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 can be. 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 got one 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 a misunderstanding.”
Predictably, Sara's jaw 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 precisely my point, and the
reason Anna Fitzgerald's petition has merit. Her own mother isn't aware of
where she is on any given morning; medical decisions regarding Anna are made
with the 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 her father. One of her sneakers is untied. “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 coach her, so that she says the right things, so
that the judge doesn't throw the case out before she gets what she wants. She
is my client; by definition, she is supposed to follow my counsel.
But when I call her name, she turns toward her mother.
ANNA
I DON'T THINK ANYONE. WOULD COME, to my funeral. My parents, I guess, and
Aunt Zanne and maybe Mr. Ollincott, the social studies teacher. I picture the
same cemetery we went to for my grandmother's funeral, although that was in
Chicago so it doesn't really make any sense. There would be rolling hills that
look like green velvet, and statues of gods and lesser angels, and that big
brown hole in the ground like a split seam, waiting to swallow the body that
used to be me.