The Ditto List (40 page)

He strolled down the hall inspecting the signs. The file room was where he remembered. Now to get the one he wanted. If he was unlucky, Jerome would have the Preston file in his office. If he was even less lucky, someone would discover he wasn't an employee of the firm but rather was a spy, and would call the cops. He would spend the night in jail and maybe lose his license. Maybe not the worst of fates, that latter. Maybe a manumission. He took a deep breath and went into the restroom and took off his blazer and folded it carefully and put it inside his briefcase, then loosened his tie, rolled up his sleeves, tucked the case under his arm, and went to the door marked “Active Files.”

The girl behind the Formica counter was young and bright-eyed and seemed delighted by whatever was in all those folders on the metal shelves that stretched behind her into another zip code. When D.T. approached the counter she said “Hi” and slid a pad of paper to him. “File Request Form” it said, and “File—Number—Date Out—Date Returned—Name of Requester—Supervising Partner.” D.T. filled in all but the number and the date returned, signing the name Ralph Branca as his own and Robert Thompson as the Supervising Partner, then tore off the top slip and handed it to the girl.

She glanced at it with irritation. “Do you know the number?”

“No. I'm sorry. I just keep forgetting.” He rolled his eyes helplessly, a nitwit, the firm fool. The girl was incompletely mollified. “What year was it opened?”

“Last year. November.”

“Okay. Just a minute. But try to remember the number next time, Mr. Branca. It makes it much faster.”

He assured her he would.

She went away. A sweaty minute passed beneath the hum of the central air conditioning and the icy rays of the fluorescent lights that brightened things that should have remained dull. Behind him, the door opened and closed. A man came in, dressed much as D.T. would have been if he'd worked there. They eyed each other. “Wilson?” D.T. asked.

The man shook his head. “Balwell.”

“Right. Right. I'm Branca. I think we met at the firm outing last year.” They always had an outing. He hoped.

“Right. How's it going?”

“Great.”

“What department again?”

“Litigation. You?”

“Estates.”

D.T. grinned sheepishly. “I don't even have a will,” he said truthfully. “Guess I'll have to do something about that some day.”

Balwell frowned. “You certainly should,” he said, suddenly nonplussed at encountering someone so cavalier about contingent remainders and
inter vivos
trusts.

The file clerk returned and greeted Balwell cheerily and handed D.T. a folder. He glanced at it, thanked her, said “Let's have lunch,” to the estates man, and gathered up his briefcase and left the file room. Back in the restroom he made certain he was alone, entered a stall, locked the door, lowered the seat, and sat down to examine the Preston case from the opposite side of the dispute.

There wasn't much. Legal documents, of which D.T. of course had duplicates. Research memoranda by two associates in preparation for the earlier demurrer and the current motion for summary judgment. Leaden and redundant. Some correspondence keeping Doctor Preston abreast of developments in the case. Brief and perfunctory. And then the file memos and notes of Jerome's conversations with independent witnesses. D.T. flipped quickly through them.

Most contained Jerome's thoughts on tactics and strategy, the trite and shallow memorialized forever. There were comments to Jerome from senior partners, and Jerome's instructions to junior associates, and the usual back-and-forth, repetitive, trivial, nit-picking, fee-enhancing, ass-covering blathering of the corporate law firm. The contents of these memos would have helped him at the hearing, no doubt, but that wasn't what he was after. He was happy to meet Jerome on the field of battle on approximately equal terms. What he wanted to know was what he had missed about Nathaniel Preston—why the man was so reluctant to go to trial, a reluctance that went contrary to his pugnacious personality, according to his former partner. D.T. didn't stop to read until he came to the memos of Jerome's conversations with Dr. Preston.

Their first meeting had simply reviewed the facts of the case—the marriage, the divorce, the property settlement, the passage of time, Dr. Preston's discovery of the investigation conducted by Rita Holloway, the encounter between D.T. and the doctor at the party, the ensuing lawsuit. Nothing new. The same with the next memo. Additional dates and details already known to D.T., except for the doctor's assertion that the shares of East Jersey Instruments had been included in the catchall phrase “other personal property” in the settlement agreement and thus were not concealed from his wife but rather disclosed and shared. A good defense. He wondered if the doctor could prove it.

He kept reading, through two more memos that chiefly chronicled the doctor's outrage at the injustice of it all. He reached the final page. Jerome's notation was at the bottom, following his memo of a routine phone call: “Preston states that under no circumstances should this case be allowed to proceed to trial. When I asked him why he refused to say, merely instructing me to settle on the most advantageous basis possible. I advised Dr. Preston that opposing counsel had certain reasons to wish to see the case tried, even against his client's best interests. I disclosed my personal history with Jones, and offered to withdraw from the case as his counsel. Dr. Preston refused impatiently, instructing me to ‘just take care of it.' I feel some apprehension about this case, for more than the usual reason. It is a no-win situation, given Jones' antipathy toward me and my own inexperience at such lower forms of lawyering.”

And that was it. No more than a confirmation of his suspicions that Dr. Preston could be had in a big way, and a calming of his fears that he should have taken the twenty grand and run. D.T. closed the file, returned it to the file clerk, got a smile and a wave and a have-a-good-day in return. He retrieved his blazer from his briefcase and his car from its noxious burrow and left downtown as quickly as he could, inhaling the breath of a bus all the way to the on-ramp.

EIGHTEEN

The house was as conventionally impressive as the last time he had visited, but now the lawn needed mowing and the flowerbeds needed weeding and someone needed to pick up their toys. Still uneasy at his brief larceny from the Bronwin, Kilt and Loftis file room, D.T. climbed slowly to the porch and pressed the doorbell twice, then pressed it twice again. A progression of slow sounds emanated from the house, and the door inched open.

Mareth Stone stood before him, swaying. She looked at him with puzzlement, rubbed her eyes, looked at him again, and gathered her housecoat more tightly around her narrow chest. “Mr. Jones. I'm sorry. I was napping or something.” She yawned, masking it belatedly. “What are you doing here, anyway? You didn't tell me you were coming. Did you?”

He shook his head while she struggled to remember whether his presence was foretold. “I just thought I'd drop by.”

“Why?”

“We go to trial tomorrow, Mrs. Stone. I think we'd better talk it over. Can I come in?”

She backed up, looking disconcerted. Her housecoat escaped, then was recaptured. “It's a …” she began, then shrugged. “Why not?”

She turned and almost tripped over a backpack that lay on the floor like a pet, then shuffled down the hall on deerskin slippers that were speckled with stains and collapsed at the heels. Her housecoat was red and quilted, with a drooping hem. Her hair was tousled. The house smelled of burned pizza or something like it. It took a long time to get where they were going.

Newspapers and magazines and self-help books were scattered like leaves over the living room. D.T. cleared a space for himself beside the latest issue of
Vanity Fair
and sat down. “So how's it going?” he asked.

Mareth Stone rubbed her face and perched gingerly on the edge of the chair across from him, as though she feared it would collapse or she would. “What time is it?” she asked.

He looked at his watch. “Almost four.”

“The kids should be home. No. That's right. They went somewhere with Chas.”

“Where?”

“I don't know.”

“They're listed on his witness list, you know.”

She nodded slowly. “He won't dare try to use them. The kids can't
stand
Chas. Especially David.” She patted the pockets of her robe and stood up. “You want a drink?”

“No, thanks.”

“Cigarette?”

He shook his head.

“I'll be back in a minute.”

She slogged from the room as though its floor were mud. D.T. wondered what she had smoked or sniffed or swallowed to get the way she was, then got up and looked around the room.

Dust and dirt and clutter. Bowls of spilling sunflower husks, glasses with dregs in the bottom and stains on the rims, sport shoes, a warm-up jacket, a Nerf ball that seemed to have been chewed. A light-brown something that had once been edible but now was definitely not. He heard her coming and sat back down.

When she appeared in the doorway Mareth Stone was sucking on a cigarette as though it might yield hope. She sat across from him again and stared into his eyes without expression. “Are we going to win?” she asked thickly.

He shrugged. “I learned a long time ago not to make predictions. We've got some problems, I can tell you that.”

“What kind of problems?”

“The people we rounded up to testify on your behalf, for one. My secretary tells me they're not exactly eager.”

“Shit.” She leaned forward to tap her cigarette on an ashtray full of them. “I told you not to talk to those people.” She paused to inhale, then released the smoke with words. “The bastards. They spent ten years drinking our booze and eating our food and dipping in our pool, and now that I don't let them do it any more I automatically become unfit to raise my kids. Huh? Well
fuck
them. I told you I don't
want
any witnesses. Just me.
I
'm the one on trial, right? So I'm the witness. Put me in that chair and ask whatever you want.”

D.T. looked at her. “I hope you're taking this thing seriously, Mrs. Stone,” he said finally.

“I'll tell you how I'm
taking
it, Mr. Jones. I'm taking three Valium a day, that's how I'm
taking
it.”

“Is that what you're on now?”

She nodded, then shrugged.

“I wouldn't volunteer that kind of information at the trial, Mrs. Stone. Also I wouldn't take any more tranquilizers, or anything else, till after it's over. Also, I wouldn't swear, or use buzzwords, or get mad, or argue with me or with your husband's lawyer or the judge or anyone else in the courtroom. Also, I wouldn't wear anything weird and I wouldn't volunteer any information that wasn't called for and I wouldn't guess or speculate or surmise. If you don't know, say so. If you don't understand, say so. Can you remember all that?”

“I suppose so.”

“Good. For the next two days the only job you want is Mom. No more, no less. So try to sound like one. Have you been working on your story?”

Her eyes seemed smaller, more focused. “I've been working on a hell of a case of insomnia, is what I've been working on.”

“What are you going to say about the affair, for example? Your paramour is also on their list, I suppose you noticed.”

She nodded. “After Chas left me, Richard wanted to take up where we left off. I didn't. He was furious. God knows what he'll say. Does it count against me that I don't douche?”

Her laugh was raw and morbid. D.T. smiled despite himself. “That's the kind of thing that will sink your ship, Mrs. Stone. Judges don't like smart-ass women, tough broads, cute chicks, or mothers who've gotten in touch with their feelings or actualized their creative potential. They like Moms who are like
their
mom. It may be lousy, but that's the game, and if you want to win it you'd better play by the rules. And if you don't want to win I can call Dick Gardner right now and cut a deal that will make you financially secure for the rest of your life unless you start playing commodities or free-basing cocaine. So what'll it be?”

“I want to win,” she said simply. “I'll do what I have to do.”

“Okay. Then think over your answers before you give them. Don't blurt any smart remarks. I'm not kidding. The judge is like God in there. If he decides you're a bitch then you're on your way to hell.”

“Are you saying I should try to
seduce
him, Mr. Divorce Lawyer?” She batted her red-scratched eyes.

“I'm saying you should convince him you love your children and will raise them with care and affection, reverence and humility, and perpetual good cheer.”

“Well, that's true. I do and I will.”

“I believe you, Mrs. Stone. But there's one believer to go. He wears a long black robe. I suggest you make him like you.”

She nodded silently. There was no sound in the house. He should inspect the rest of it, on some ruse or another, but it would just depress him. And he should wait to see the kids, but he didn't like putting kids on the stand, asking them who they liked best, where they wanted to live, why Mommy was great and Daddy was not. He was especially leery of doing it in this case, since Mommy very likely was something quite short of great, even in the eyes of her children.

“Have you seen the detective hanging around?” he asked into the silence.

“Yes. A few times.”

“Have you been discreet?”

She smiled thinly. “Chaste, is closer.”

“I hope you're telling the truth. After the trial you can screw the Chinese army if you want to. But not till then.”

“Why, Mr. Jones. That
is
what I want. How perceptive of you to notice.” She followed the sarcasm out of the room and returned with a drink in her hand.