Authors: Stephen Greenleaf
D.T. went back to his own car and drove nearer to the apartment building and parked again, close enough, he hoped, to hear any screams that might emerge. He rolled down his car window and slumped down in the seat and felt the night air turn cool as the moon rose and the hours passed. No one came or went. One by one, all the lights in the apartment building went out, including the one he watched dejectedly.
TWELVE
The funeral crept over D.T. like a fog, lingering, hushed, insubstantial. The words he heard were senseless, appropriate to no one, particularly not to the man who lay within the teakwood box, the man who had urged, cursed, threatened, and bluffed his way through the city's courts for twenty years, asking no quarter and giving none, sworn enemy of every being who disputed him, whether judge or lawyer or lying mortal. D.T. smiled to himself behind the reverent drone. Ben Styles had been a brawler, feared because he respected only victory, honorable only in his candor, laudable only in his energies. No religion could contain him, though most would try.
The chapel was full, Styles' many clients shoulder to shoulder with the lawyers who hoped to fill his shoes and thus usurp his clients. Joining the long line of hypocrites, D.T. expressed his condolences to the tiny widow. She seemed not to know him from the others fore and aft, though he had met her several times. He wondered if she knew Ben had once discussed with him the financial ramifications of divorcing her. Their immensity had dissuaded Styles from making the move. D.T. recalled Styles' mention of a younger woman. He cast his eyes across the mourners for a conceivable candidate, but found either none or many.
He was on his way out the door when a hand grasped his arm. “Mr. Jones? May I speak with you a moment?”
The man was Carter Mullins, leader of the bar, pillar of the community, paragon. D.T. wondered what strange debt Mullins owed Ben Styles, and how Mullins knew his name. “How are you, Mr. Mullins?”
“I'm fine. A sad occasion, though. Ben was important to the bar, I think.”
“How?”
“He stretched the limits of the law, pushed at its edges, reminded the rest of us what it needs to encompass if it is to remain respected. Lawyers like Ben are particularly important to those of us engaged in drafting the new code of professional responsibility, don't you think?”
“I do, indeed.”
“I believe you are such a lawyer yourself, Mr. Jones.”
Mullins eyed him from beneath a craggy brow. D.T. didn't know what to do so he just thanked him. Mullins nodded, then guided D.T. toward the door.
“One of my partners is on the ethics committee this year; specifically, the Client Relations Board. He mentioned there have been complaints filed against you recently.” Mullins looked him in the eye.
D.T. said, “Oh?”
“Apparently the problem is nothing more than a failure to keep the client informed of the progress of the case. Happens to all of us, of course. They don't understand why the machinery of justice must grind so slowly. I don't understand it myself sometimes, to be honest.” Mullins chuckled once. “In any case, I thought an informal word might be in order. There's no danger of a formal inquiry at this point, as I understand it. A few status letters to the clients involved will take care of the matter, I'm sure.”
Mullins expected a response, so D.T. said, “Right.”
Mullins patted his shoulder. “Well, it was nice to see you again, Jones. There's a bar meeting next week. At the Hilton. Perhaps I'll see you there.”
“Perhaps.”
Mullins moved down the steps and entered a limousine and floated off D.T.'s portion of the earth.
The avuncular bastard. An informal word, was it? A threat, more likely. He could guess which ones had squealed on him. The bitches. Run to the bar association, would they? By the time he was through their cases would be so old the papers in the files would rot.
He seethed during the long drive back to the south side. After parking the car he stopped in the Walrus for a quick one, then went to the office. By the time he was behind his desk his thoughts were off himself and on Lucinda Finders.
She hadn't called the night before, or by the time he left for the funeral. He had fought off an impulse to return to Houston Street, knock on the door to Apartment Two, and see just what the hell was going on in the way of condonation. So as he had no facts as to her behavior, only suspicions, and like a jealous husband he imagined the very worstâthat Lucinda and Delbert had once again entwined and that afterward he had punished her for straying and then for coming back.
His mind a tub of Del's malevolence, D.T. buzzed Bobby E. Lee and asked him to bring a sandwich back from lunch. Then he placed a call to Mareth Stone. Her voice still had the protective coloration he remembered, as though, like him, she had learned to beware her phone. D.T. asked her how she was getting along.
“Fine. Just fine.”
“No troubles at all? Money? Loneliness? Regret? Revenge?”
“No. Nothing.” Her voice was lifeless. “What is it you called about, Mr. Jones?”
“I'm taking your husband's deposition in an hour,” he said. “Since you two came to blows at the mediation session, it looks like the thing will go to trial. I just wanted to touch base to see if you'd heard from him at all since he moved out.”
“The closest I've come to personal contact is to see him sitting in his Jaguar on Saturday morning, waiting for the kids to run out and jump in and go off and spend money. And of course I cash his check.” Her laugh was as dry as the leaves outside. “What do you expect to learn from his deposition, Mr. Jones?”
“Oh, just an update on his personal finances. And why he thinks you're not fit to have the kids.”
He had meant to provoke her but she didn't respond. “Mrs. Stone?”
“I'm here. And I'm not unfit, and there's no basis for him to say I am, so you should have a very brief afternoon. Is there anything else?”
“Not at the moment, I guess. When the transcript of the deposition is ready I'll send it over to you so you can tell me what you think of his charges.”
“Oh, I can tell you that right now, Mr. Jones. Do you want to hear it?” The tone was as righteous as the words he had heard beside the casket. He sensed Mareth Stone was convinced she could not be hurt by anything her husband had to say. Maybe in the old days, when a woman had to be committable for a court to take the kids from her, but not today. Not in the days of equal rights, which, while most firmly advocated by women, had in domestic relations law come to be of more substantial benefit to men, proving that the product of the union of sex and politics could only be ironic.
He considered trying to enlighten her, but decided it was not the time. “Why don't we wait?” he said wearily. “Why don't we just wait to talk about that later?” He hung up as Bobby E. Lee was bringing him his sandwich.
“Is the copy machine fixed?” he asked.
Bobby E. Lee nodded.
“Is there enough in the account to cover the rental payment?”
“Unless you've been kiting checks again.”
D.T. shook his head wordlessly and Bobby E. Lee left him with his pastrami. By the time Dick Gardner and his client arrived, D.T. had forgotten everything but the allegations they were bringing with them.
Bobby E. Lee showed the two men into the private office. They shook hands all around and D.T. cleared a space at one end of his library table, brushing books and papers to the floor in the process, leaving them where they fell.
The court reporter arrived. D.T. had dated her for a time, as had many of the trial lawyers in the city. She was handsome and energetic and solely interested in making money, which she did in abundance because, like D.T., most of her dates patronized her professionally as well. Her name was Phyllis, and from the smile she exchanged with Dick Gardner he was one of her professional and private customers as well. But it wouldn't make a difference in the deposition. Once a lawyer had offered her five grand to substitute a “yes” for a “no.” She had filed the original as is, but changed the lawyer's copy to “you're damned right I did.”
It wasn't until D.T. switched on the ceiling lamp that the sense of Chas Stone reached him. The man was a template of propriety, theatrically handsome, immaculately dressed, with a chin that reached to Pittsburgh and a forehead that was still undamaged. He used oil on his hair and wore white shirts. His clear bright eyes and his new crisp clothes made both D.T. and Dick Gardner skulkers by comparison.
Stone seemed tolerantly amused at being where he was, above it all and then some. He smiled easily as the introductions were made, more the host than guest, wearing his holy aspect like a sash. His charm dimmed only when Bobby E. Lee entered to take orders for coffee and Chas Stone momentarily found himself the second most beautiful object in the room.
Bobby E. Lee left. Phyllis nodded she was ready. D.T. told her to go ahead. She asked Chas Stone to raise his hand, administered the oath to tell the truth, and they were under way. D.T. assembled his notes and eyed his foes. They seemed at ease and confident. He considered whether to let them remain that way.
“Usual stipulations, Mr. Jones?” Dick Gardner asked.
“To the extent you mean the deposition will proceed according to the rules of procedure for the courts of this state, then yes,” D.T. said. “Signing is not waived, however.” Dick Gardner nodded. D.T. cleared his throat and continued.
“Let the record reflect the presence of the deponent, Charles Stone, petitioner in the action, and of his counsel of record, Richard Gardner, Esquire. “Have you been advised of the nature of this proceeding, Mr. Stone?”
“Objection,” Dick Gardner said immediately. “What Mr. Stone may have been advised is a privileged communication from his attorney. I instruct him not to answer the question. Let's get on with it, Mr. Jones.”
D.T.'s smile broadened. “So that's the way it's going to be,” he said.
Dick Gardner only blinked. D.T. felt adrenaline snake through him, filling channels long unused. “A subpoena duces tecum was served along with the notice of deposition. Have the requested documents been produced?” D.T. eyed Dick Gardner.
“My assistant will be delivering them shortly,” Gardner said.
“Are any being withheld?”
Gardner smiled. “There are certainly ample grounds for objection, Mr. Jones. However, my client has expressed his desire to conclude this action as rapidly as possible. Therefore we have withheld our objections at this time and have produced the material requested. We of course reserve the right to object if further discovery attempts are made by you, and to object at trial should any of these documents be offered as evidence.”
“Your cooperation is deeply moving, Mr. Gardner,” D.T. said. “Mr. Stone. Previously in this case you answered some interrogatories I sent you, many of them concerning your financial status, both currently and at the time of your marriage to Mareth Stone. Have you any reason to believe any of your answers were incorrect or incomplete?”
Stone exchanged a glance with his lawyer, then spoke under oath for the first time. “No. But I have not reviewed those materials since I first answered them, so I can't be certain. And of course my financial status fluctuates. Lately the fluctuation has all been upward.” His voice and his implied net worth drew a glance and smile from Phyllis, even as her fingers kept pressing the buttons on her machine. D.T. wondered if Phyllis confined herself to lawyers who could send her business. He looked at her again and decided she did not.
“If my memory serves,” D.T. began, “in the year in which you were married you had just left the Dean Witter office to form your own financial consulting firm, and in that year your income from all sources was approximately fifteen thousand dollars. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Since then you have been engaged in the same business, and it plus your investments have constituted your sole sources of income to this day? No inheritances, no gifts?”
“Correct.”
“And in the past calendar year you earned approximately ninety thousand dollars, from all sources. Is that right?”
“I believe that's correct.”
“How are things going for you this year? Better than last?”
“Much. The market has improved substantially, as I'm sure you know, both in volume and in price. This will be a very good year.”
“How good?”
“I can't say exactly.”
“Guess.”
Stone looked to Gardner for an objection but got only a shrug. “It's speculative but I'll allow him to answer,” Gardner said. “You can guess if you can. By the time of trial the actual figures will no doubt be available.”
“No doubt,” D.T. agreed. “Mr. Stone?”
“I would say two hundred thousand this year, including capital gains. It would be more if your restraining order hadn't prevented adjustments in my portfolio.”
D.T. looked at Chas Stone closely. The man was not at all embarrassed by his adjusted gross iniquity. D.T. was cheered. A moral disparity always made these jobs easier. “Let's get to it then, Mr. Stone. Shall we?”
“It's what we're here for, I believe,” Stone said easily.
D.T. took a deep breath. “You are seeking exclusive custody of your children, is that right?”
“It is. Most definitely.”
“Are you willing to accept joint legal custody? In which you and Mrs. Stone have equal say in the way they are brought up?”
“No. I am not.”
“If Mrs. Stone agrees to waive all claims to alimony would you agree that she could have exclusive custody of the children?”
Stone didn't even look at Dick Gardner. “No. I will accept nothing less than my own exclusive custody, no matter what financial considerations might be offered. My children are not for sale.”
“Very noble,” D.T. said. “My question is, why do you want such custody?”