The Ditto List (23 page)

After the calls, D.T. fixed himself a drink and plucked a file from the bottom of the high pile on the back corner of his desk and dictated a motion for a modification of separate maintenance and child support, along with the standard points and authorities and a declaration by the ex-wife that her husband had recently been promoted to assistant vice president at the bank, that she was informed and believed that his salary had increased from eighteen hundred to twenty-one hundred a month, and that therefore she should be entitled to an additional one hundred fifty a month for support of their two increasingly expensive sons. A large portion of that amount, if awarded, would go to the boys' video game habit, D.T. happened to know, but what the hell. Divorced kids got a right to play Pac-Man, too. And if the guy was too stupid to keep his promotions secret, well, that was
his
problem.

D.T. flipped the cassette into his Out Box and went over to his library table and tried to advance the current appellate brief-in-progress. This one challenged the constitutionality of a state statute decreeing that the cohabitation of a supported former spouse created a presumption of a decreased need of support. His claim that the Person-of-the-Opposite-Sex-Sharing-Living-Quarters concept violated equal protection and due process standards had less chance than a snowball in Siam. Fortunately he was getting paid for it. The client who was shacking up happened to be sharing the shack with a guy who'd made a fortune in the chocolate business and the woman was suing to keep her ex-husband's alimony level at its dizzying height only because he had once screwed his mistress in their waterbed.

The brief wasn't finished because he wasn't motivated. When he wasn't motivated, legal research held the same attraction as hardrock mining in the month of July. Still, there was a deadline. Something else he had to do.

He was musing over a bet on the Celtics-Lakers game when Bobby E. Lee poked his head in the door once again. “Lunch,” he said.

“Already?”

“I'm hungry.”

“Okay. Don't book anything for the rest of the day; I have to prepare for the Stone deposition. Where is it?”

“Here.”

“Time?”

“Two.”

“Has Mrs. Stone called about anything?”

“Not for a long time.”

“Has she paid her bills?”

“Yes.”

“How much did we get her in temporary support?”

“Three thousand per month.”

“Okay. Dine well.”

“At Leo's? You must be kidding.”

Bobby E. Lee went away, leaving D.T. to his routine. He fixed another drink, then went to the file cabinet in the anteroom, pulled out the Stone file, and took it to his desk. Not much in it, really. Petition and Response. Income and Expense Declaration. Order for temporary custody and support and property restraint after the motion for same. D.T.'s perfunctory set of interrogatories to the petitioner and a basic request for admissions, drawing predictable answers and objections from Dick Gardner, Chas Stone's attorney. He noticed he had attached a subpoena duces tecum to the notice of deposition, requesting production of a host of Chas Stone's business records. Which meant he would need the copy machine. Which meant he would have to pay the bill. He picked up the phone and bet a nickel on the Celtics, taking the points.

Oddly, there had been no corresponding notice of deposition filed by Dick Gardner. Apparently he had no wish to examine Mareth Stone. Indeed, the only document filed by Gardner was a memo to set the case for trial. D.T. had not opposed it, and the trial date had been set for some three months hence. Quick, but why not? Unless there were disasters lurking in the testimony of Chas Stone, allegations and charges that D.T. had not considered. Then he would have to scramble, perhaps beg the court for a continuance, perhaps lie like hell to get it. All in a day's work.

D.T. pulled out a legal pad and started making notes. While he was crafting the opening questions the telephone rang. In the absence of Bobby E. Lee, D.T. pushed a button and answered it.

“D.T.? Dick Gardner.”

“Dick. How are you?”

“Fine, D.T. You?”

“Great.”

“The Stone thing still set for tomorrow?”

“Yep.”

“Two o'clock? Your place?”

“Right.”

“Good.”

A silence. The inevitable prelude to negotiation. D.T. could hardly wait.

He considered Dick Gardner a friend, had picked Gardner to be his own lawyer during his divorce from Michele, had once nominated him for president of the bar association, in the days before he quit paying his dues. In a world where there were three kinds of lawyers—those committed to their clients, those committed to the system, and those committed to themselves—D.T. placed himself in category one, and Dick Gardner definitely in number two. Gardner was among that most endangered of species—a generalist, a trial lawyer as comfortable in the criminal courts as he was doing commercial litigation on behalf of a major bank or business that held a mortgage on half the world. He was the one they called when things got sticky and slimy and hit the papers, when the only way out was hardball. Dick Gardner, in other words, was the lawyer D.T. had always wanted to be himself, was the lawyer D.T. would have been had a different kind of person walked through his door and asked for help.

“I had a talk with my client yesterday,” Gardner began.

“How uncommonly professional of you.”

Gardner chuckled dryly. “He's not looking forward to his deposition. Nothing to do with the case, of course, but it's come at an inconvenient time, businesswise, and, well …”

“I know, I know,” D.T. interjected. “So what's your offer?”

Gardner coughed and cleared his throat. “Mr. Stone has instructed me to tell you he's prepared to be very generous to Mrs. Stone.
Very
generous. Much more so than I would advise him to be.”

“Okay, Dick. I'll play the game. How generous is ‘very'?”

“Well, we haven't discussed the details, but basically he's talking property settlement of fifty thousand, lump sum, plus the house, plus the newest Mercedes. Plus two thousand a month alimony.”

“How much child support?” D.T. asked quickly.

Gardner hesitated, telegraphing what was coming. “That's the quid pro quo, of course. Stone gets exclusive custody of the children. With generous visitation, naturally.”

“Naturally.” D.T. said nothing further.

“Well? How's it grab you?”

D.T. swore. “You know damned well it's out of the question, Dick. Even putting the custody thing aside, the money is ridiculous. And even if it wasn't, no way she's going to give up those kids.”

“It's possible he'd go a bit higher with the property division, D.T. If a schedule could be worked out so it's paid over ten years or so, couch it as alimony so it would be deductible to him.”

“Forget it, Dick. Mrs. Stone's not going to push her kids into the pot. Now, if he's willing to concede custody, and talk sense on the money issues, then I'm certainly willing to listen.”

“Will you mention our offer to your client?”

“Oh, sure, Dick. I'll do that. And you mention to
your
client that we'll settle for four hundred thousand property, plus house and car, plus four thousand alimony plus three thousand child support plus exclusive custody. With generous visitation rights. Naturally.”

Dick Gardner laughed, then paused. “You're not going to like what you're going to hear tomorrow, D.T.,” he said seriously.

“I don't suppose I will. Prevarication invariably depresses me.”

“Stone's not a bad guy.”

“Sure. That's why he sprang this thing on his wife like a clown with a whoopee cushion. That's why he emptied the bank accounts and deposit boxes before he told her he was bailing out. Christ, he even snatched her jewelry.”

“I didn't advise that particular tactic, by the way,” Gardner said. “One of his business buddies told him that was the way the game was played.”

“Well, he was right, wasn't he?”

Gardner paused. “I guess he was.”

“At least he didn't snatch the kids. These days that entitles him to a good conduct medal.”

“Have you seen them?” Gardner asked.

“Who?”

“The kids.”

“No.”

“Beautiful.”

“All kids are beautiful for about ten years. Then they're not kids. What's the point?”

“They could be in a significant degree of jeopardy, D.T. I just thought I'd mention it.”

“Jeopardy from whom?”

“Your client.”

“Oh, bullshit. Why would Mareth Stone endanger her own children?”

“Because she's not well. Based on what Stone tells me, I'd say she was unquestionably antisocial. Perhaps even psychotic.”

“I guess that's why I haven't seen you around lately, huh, Dick? Been over at the med school, doing your psychiatric residency.”

Gardner laughed. “Just trying to help, D.T. I don't expect you to take my word for it.”

“Good.”

“Also, I wanted you to know why I haven't been playing games with this one. We want an early trial and a final determination of custody as soon as possible.”

“So do we.”

“Then I guess I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Right.”

“Buy you a drink afterward?”

“You're on.”

“Who do you like in the Jets game?”

“Whoever's playing the Jets.”

D.T. hung up, supercharged by the taste of combat. Toe to toe with the great Dick Gardner. D.T. was going to whip his ass. He called his bookie and bet a dollar on a junior welterweight he had had his eye on for six months, and another on whoever was playing the Jets, he didn't need to know the line.

The routine dittos came and went, one uttering oaths, the other prayers. When they had gone, D.T. snuck out to the greasy spoon down the block, the one that obeyed him when he declined the special sauce and made the only double-breaded cheeseburger in the state. Then he returned to the Stone file and his note pad, wondering about the fix Mareth Stone might have put him in by leading him to believe she was normal.

In the beginning he had believed them all. Later, he had assumed they all were liars. Now, hostage to experience, he was beyond generalization. He had believed Mareth Stone because it was convenient, as a result had done less than he should have to prepare a defense to the charge that she was unworthy of her children. He should already have talked to friends and enemies, doctors and teachers and preachers, everyone who was in the bleachers as she lived her life. Instead, he had let it slide.

More and more of them seemed to be sliding lately. Maybe because the kind of truth he needed took hard work to uncover. Maybe because it was the kind of truth he liked less and less to learn. Maybe because these days he frequently found himself intoxicated by about three in the afternoon. Maybe, in Mareth Stone's case, because she was rich and confident and thus reminded him of his ex-wife, who needed no help from him or anyone. Clearly it was he who was unfit. Luckily, fitness was a standard lawyers never had to meet once they'd passed the bar.

He went back to the file. The notes he had made after his conversations with her over the three months since she'd first walked through his door—his initial calls so frequent he seemed willing her to have a problem he could solve—indicated she was adjusting nicely to the breakup. When the order was entered giving her temporary custody and support she had brought the children back from her parents' home and continued their lives more or less as usual. She had provided D.T. with the lists of assets and expenses he requested, a description of her children's typical day, a few other odds and ends, and had ended every conversation as soon as was politely possible. As far as he knew she had received no communication from her husband beyond the arrangements necessary to visit the kids. She had never called for help, never for advice or reassurance, never to criticize, never for anything. Each time he had prodded she had insisted life was fine. Which made him uneasy as hell. From just such stuff came ruin.

In a light sweat, D.T. began making further notes for his interrogation. By the time he finished he was thirsty. As he was on his way out the door, plunging headlong for the corner bar, he encountered a pristine apparition that moved toward him down the dingy hall like the ghost of all his former clients, determined to lay him waste.

ELEVEN

“Hello, Miss Holloway. On duty, I see.”

She came up short, startled. Reflexively, she raised her attaché case, blocking him. The look on her face suggested she perpetually feared assault. He wondered if all women did. “Oh. Mr. Jones. Hello.” She blinked and lowered the case to her side, exhaling enough air to sail a sloop.

“I was just thinking about you,” D.T. said.

“Really?”

“I was wondering what had happened to you, and hoping nothing bad had happened to Mrs. Preston.”

Rita Holloway shook her head. “She's fine, given her circumstances. Which are pretty much the same as when you saw her. I've just come from there, in fact. Can I talk to you about it?” She looked toward the dark door to his empty office.

D.T.'s eyes followed her glance. “I was about to go have a beer. How about joining me? We can talk there.”

She thought it over, then nodded. D.T. took her arm and led her back to the elevator. Three minutes later they were entering the Walrus, inhaling fumes of disinfectant and stale beer, hearing the hush of regulars who had begun their task long before noon, viewing a dispiriting tableau that featured only respect for your troubles. D.T. loved the place. Russ, the bartender, waved at D.T. and shouted. “Who you like on T-Day, Steelers or Lions?”

“Neither,” D.T. yelled back. “Boredom in a walk.” D.T. looked at Rita Holloway. “We'll have a beer and …”