The Ditto List (28 page)

“I … no.”

“How about since you left home?”

“Mr. Fellows has advised me that my wife has been seeing a variety of men, on an indiscriminate basis, at all hours of the day and night, in her house and elsewhere. On some occasions the children have been there when a man has visited, late at night, for purposes which are all too obvious.”

“Do these men have names?”

“Too many for me to recount from memory. None of them were previously familiar to me.”

“They are listed in the report?”

“Yes. Of course, your own client could tell you. That is, if she bothered to learn them.”

“Move to strike as nonresponsive.” D.T. leaned toward his adversary. “Did the good Mr. Fellows provide you with pictures, Mr. Stone? Or tape recordings? Any other evidence of the activities of Mrs. Stone?”

“No. Only the report.”

“Have you contacted any of the men yourself?”

“No.”

“Have you yourself spied on your wife at any time since you filed this action, or did you confine yourself to mercenaries?”

“I have done no spying.”

“Have you received reports on her conduct from anyone other than Mr. Fellows? From friends or anyone?”

“No.”

“Have you yourself engaged in sexual intercourse with any woman other than your wife since the day you moved out of the house?”

“Objection,” Dick Gardner blurted. “Instruct you not to answer.”

“No,” Stone countered loudly. “I
wish
to answer. My answer is no, I have not had sexual intercourse with a woman other than my wife since the day I left home. I am still a married man.”

D.T. smiled and leaned back in his chair. There was so much more to be done with Chas Stone, questions of his work schedule, his time spent with the children, his own private behavior, the judgmental swath he cut through his marriage, that sort of thing. But this was not the time to go into it. If he quit now, Stone would leave the deposition confident that his story was unshakeable, that his version of the marriage was etched in stone. Not a bad position for him to be in, all things considered. D.T. decided to wrap it up.

“We've discussed your wife's drinking habits, Mr. Stone, and her contacts, of whatever nature, with other men. Are these the primary reasons you feel she is unfit to have custody of the children?”

“The primary ones. Yes.”

“Are there any other reasons? Any at all?”

“Many. Mareth is far too permissive. The children stay up till all hours. They lack discipline. They never clean their rooms; their table manners are atrocious. The boy never lifts the toilet seat when he urinates, or flushes afterward. Many things of that nature I find highly objectionable, though thankfully curable once they are living with me.”

“What else?”

“Mareth's own habits are quite slovenly. The house is covered with dust. The bathrooms reek of urine. The dishes are frequently encrusted with food even though she has the finest dishwasher on the market. Meals are frequently some frozen thing she has purchased for the sake of convenience. That type of thing I find highly objectionable.”

“Have you discussed these matters with your wife in the past?”

“Of course, but nothing ever seemed to change. I'm sure the situation is far worse now that I'm not there to supervise, to insist on certain standards. That's why I want an immediate trial. The children must be rescued from that environment, which, incidentally, includes no religious training whatsoever.”

D.T. sighed as Stone's fists clenched in front of him and his eyes gleamed like a redeemer's. “You may be sure we will do all we can to accommodate your desire for an early trial, Mr. Stone,” D.T. said. “Now, is there anything else about her that is a basis for your claim she is an unfit mother?”

“As I said, there are a great many items. Her reading material, for example. Feminist tracts, with a distinctly anti-male bias. Her attendance at women's meetings, where I'm sure she was urged to have an extramarital affair, to give ‘meaning' to her life.” D.T. waited for Stone to begin to froth. “Naturally she no longer wears a bra. Naturally she no longer does her duties around the home. In sum, she is no longer the woman I married. Her faithlessness alone is unforgiveable.”

“Is unforgiveness the religion you wish your wife to teach, Mr. Stone?”

Stone had no answer and D.T. had had enough. He pushed back his chair. “I think that about wraps it up. Any questions, Dick?”

“None at all.”

“Then the deposition is concluded. Off the record, Phyllis,” he said, and all of them exhaled as if on cue. “I'd like a transcript as soon as possible,” D.T. said as Phyllis collapsed her equipment.

“Wednesday?”

“Fine.”

“Anything else?” D.T. looked briefly at each of them. They all shook their heads.

Phyllis packed up and left, her final act an admiring glance at Stone. A few seconds later Stone departed after telling D.T. he was pleased to meet him, that he knew D.T. was only doing his job, that he didn't take his questions personally, that he only hoped D.T. would keep the best interests of the children in mind when he was advising his client. D.T. managed to keep his hands off Chas Stone's neck, made do with a silent vow to smash the bastard when they got to court.

“How about that drink?” Dick Gardner asked.

THIRTEEN

“I told you it would be ugly.”

Dick Gardner's eyes oscillated easily in their sockets, taking in the bar, taking in the patrons, taking in Russ, who had just told his latest Polish joke and gone off to get their drinks. Clearly Gardner's lawyer's mind raced even in the Walrus, where the provocative was as avoided as bright light.

“The kid stuff is never pretty,” D.T. said. “Lucky for me Stone's a bastard.”

“I wouldn't say that.”

“I wouldn't expect you to. Till after he pays your bill.”

They flashed brief grins, then leaned back to allow Russ to deliver the libations. After he left they raised their glasses.

“Here's to Holmes.”

“Here's to Brandeis.”

“Here's to sin.”

“Here's to vice.”

They took deep drinks and tabled their glasses in unison. “Got any hot ones in the fire, D.T.?” Gardner asked him.

He thought of Lucinda Finders. Of Esther Preston. Of the Friday Fiasco. “Nope. How about you?”

“Couple of criminal things. Rape defense: defendant's fifteen, victim's sixty-seven. Coke bust: two kilos inside some tennis balls. Embezzlement. A sexual harrassment. And the usual two thousand or so drunk drivers, bless their souls.”

D.T. shook his head. “How the hell can you represent those creeps?”

Gardner smiled easily. “Everyone's entitled to a competent defense, D.T., as all lawyers say and a handful even believe. And you should talk. How can you represent ball-busters like Mareth Stone? She fucked over her husband worse than a mugger, and now she wants half his dough as a reward for making the guy's life miserable.”

“It's not even close to being the same. Mareth Stone was unhappy. The marriage wasn't working and Stone wouldn't give her the time of day. It's not her fault she hit the booze and fooled around; your guy drove her to it.”

“Hey. My rapist grew up in twelve different foster homes. You think
he
can help anything? So don't give me that deterministic crap. Not about broads like Mareth Stone. She sandbagged him, D.T. She went into the marriage playing by one set of rules, then changed them in midstream and got pushed out of shape when Stone didn't go along with the new little game she invented. Why the hell should he? He wanted a wife and mother and she knew it from day one. It's not his fault the bitch decided those jobs weren't good enough any more. She wouldn't even do his fucking laundry, did you know that?”

Gardner paused for breath. D.T. frowned, started to reply, then held his tongue because what either of them thought about it didn't make any difference and because he never won arguments with Dick Gardner, only bets.

“You ever think about fighting for custody of Heather?” Gardner asked after a minute.

D.T. shook his head. “Michele could offer her about ten million advantages,” he said, “each of them with ‘Federal Reserve Note' engraved on the top.”

“Money can backfire, though. I've seen a lot of fucked-up rich kids.”

“Yeah, but Michele's different.”

“How?”

He thought about it. “She doesn't think her money makes her better than other people. She's damn glad she's rich, don't get me wrong, but she'd be just as happy if everyone else had as much as she does. Most rich folks wish the rest of us were even poorer, so they could feel all the more exalted.”

Gardner smiled and loosened his tie. “Michele sounds like quite a lady.”

“She is.”

“Maybe you should have kept her.”

“It wasn't entirely my decision.”

“Bet you miss the kid.”

“Sure I do. But what the hell. It all goes away after a few belts. Or a few more than a few.” D.T. drained his glass and tried to clear his mind of Heather.

“So why don't you petition for amended custody? Have her live with you every other year or something.”

D.T. shook his head. “I'm old-fashioned, Dick. I think kids need mommies more than daddys, especially little girl kids. I think it's biological and I think it's a shame the law doesn't see it that way any more.”

Gardner shrugged. “One thing's for sure. Kids got a lot of pressure on them these days. Used to be, us middle-class jerks proved what big-shots we were with houses and cars and clothes and like that. Now, hell, it's all the kids. Gourmet babies, computer camps, cello lessons. You been to a playground lately? The goddamned blacks are the only ones let their kids be kids any more.”

“Yeah, well, that's one thing about divorce; it keeps you from fucking up your own kid's life.”

“I guess that's one way to look at it.”

“Yeah. I just wish when I looked at it that way it didn't look back.”

Both men smiled. D.T. signalled Russ for a second round.

Dick Gardner spoke after a long moment of melancholy. “Be nice to have a kid. Something that made it all worth it, you know? For me it's just the trials. Getting some asshole up there on the stand, showing him up for what he is, seeing that look in his eyes when he knows he's whipped. Sure, half my clients are scum—hell, the corporate guys are worse than the hoods. But it's the challenge, you know? Break open the lie, watch it crack and crumble till there's nothing left but truth. And not just any truth.
My
truth. A gunfighter, is all I am. High Noon, baby. God help me if the world runs out of felons.”

D.T. nodded, then scraped the condensation off his glass and wished it was as easy to clear his conscience. Somewhere by the bar a bottle broke and a man laughed.

“Speaking of changes in the law,” Gardner said abruptly. “I'm in charge of the continuing education program next month. Recent Trends in Domestic Practice. Want to serve on it, D.T.? Might lure some referrals your way.”

D.T. shook his head. “I haven't been keeping up on current trends, Dick. Maybe because so many of them are lousy.”

“Come on, D.T. It's mostly beginners at those things. Just out of law school, trying to build a practice. They could learn a lot from you.”

“Hell, Dick, I can't keep my letterhead in print, that's how successful I am at this business. I'm in hock to my secretary, for God's sake. The best advice I could give them is to go into something respectable. Like worm farming.”

Dick Gardner laughed, apparently assuming D.T. had joked. “How about premarital agreements? Drafting problems and so on?”

D.T. shook his head. “Don't use them. They're a mistake unless both spouses are independently wealthy to begin with, and my clients don't begin that way. Plus, the women always get fucked. If the guy gets rich she doesn't get enough, and if he doesn't he ends up breaching the deal and she has to sue him. We both know who wins when that happens. All us Juris Doctors.”

Dick Gardner shook his head. “You're a cheery soul today. What's wrong, your love life turn stale?”

“Lately stale and fresh taste a lot alike.”

“You still seeing that, what's her name?”

“Barbara.”

“The jock. Yeah. Hell of a physical specimen, as I recall. Must be like the Olympics every night. The thrill of victory.”

“The agony of defeat.”

Gardner laughed. “What's the matter, the old hose won't stiffen up for you any more?”

D.T. shrugged. “The sex is okay. For me, at least. And I like Barbara. A lot. But it's over. We both know it, too. I guess we're each waiting for the other to blow the whistle.”

“If the sex is good then what's the problem?”

“We're in violation of the Fourth Principle of Modern Matrimony.”

“Which is?”

“Opposites attract. But not long enough to make plans.”

“Opposite how?”

D.T. drank his drink with urgency. For the first time in years he was about to talk to another man about a woman.

“The main thing is, Barbara's a participant and I'm an observer. She sees plots and conspiracies all over the place, but basically she's an optimist. I empathize and sympathize and romanticize and all that, but basically I'm a pessimist. I think my useful life ended about five years ago, that I'm just waiting my turn to die. Barbara, on the other hand, thinks every day it's getting better and better. She's got answers; all I've got are questions. Plus, there's the little things.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, like she's absolutely convinced that running umpteen miles a day will make you live longer and that living longer's good. That all would be right with the world if women were exactly the same as men. That groups of women sitting around using words like relating and sharing and feeling and stroking are engaged in something more meaningful than a discussion of the nickel defense or the 24-second shot clock.”