“Well, they weren’t in the room,” says Melanie. “I would have noticed.”
Laughter from the few courthouse groupies in the audience, and one reporter in the front row, a paper from Jack’s old district, getting the local angle. The judge slaps his gavel on the bench and the laughter stops. “That’s not what I asked,” says Hemple. “I asked you whether the children were in the house?” There’s an edge to her voice this time. “I don’t know.”
“You slept with the man in the family home and you don’t know whether the children were present in the house at the time?”
“No.”
“Well, who was watching the kids?”
“Not me,” says Melanie.
This brings more laughter, a smile from the bailiff whose eyes are glued to Melanie’s dress, something more sedate than her usual attire. I have seen her outside the courtroom in a red satin halter-top stretched tight as a drum at the bodice. Melanie Vega is not a big woman, except in the upper regions. I am told she works with weights to maintain this, a regimen that gives new meaning to the maxim “build it and they will come.” She has the complexion of a ripe peach, clear, with the softness of film shot through silk gauze. She is the kind of woman for whom “blonde” jokes were invented. At twenty-six, she is young enough to be Jack’s daughter. The two have been married now for five months, and Jack is starting to show a little wear. He keeps yawning in court, something that makes me think he and Melanie are doing things other than discussing courtroom strategy in the evenings. With the practiced skill of a fly caster, Melanie flings her head to the side and whips the blond tresses that have slid over one eye, back out, past her shoulder. Hemple is looking through some documents, a quick conference with Laurel, a cupped hand to one ear, client to lawyer. At the counsel table with his own attorney, Jack smiles encouragement to his young bride, like she’s doing a standup job. Hemple is back to the witness in the box.
“Now earlier you testified that Mrs. Vega had a drinking problem?”
“I’m Mrs. Vega,” says Melanie.
Hemple looks at her. “The first Mrs. Vega,” she says. Laurel’s lawyer refuses to concede the point. “Is this correct? Did Mrs. Vega Laurel Vega have a drinking problem?”
There are mean little slits for eyes from Melanie.
“Like a fish,” she says.
“I think your words were, She always had her head in a bottle.’ Is that what you said?”
“That’s what I said.”
“And what exactly does that mean?”
“An expression,” says Melanie. “I see.” Hemple paces a little in front of the witness box for effect. “So you didn’t really mean that she actually put her head inside a bottle.”
A pained expression from Melanie, like give me a break. “I meant she was always drunk,” she says. “Always drunk?” Hemple jumps on it.
A face from Melanie. If the lawyer likes this answer so much, maybe she should change it. Hemple doesn’t give her the chance. The first canon of the courtroom.
Never talk in absolutes. “So if she was always drunk,’ that means that in all the times that you saw Laurel Vega you never saw her sober?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Well, you just said she was always drunk.”
“Most of the time.”
“Ah. So she wasn’t drunk all the time, just most of the time?” says Hemple. “Yes.”
“So we’ve gone from someone who always has her head in a bottle,’ to someone who is always drunk, to someone who is drunk just most of the time.” Hemple waltzes a few steps over in front of the bench. “Sounds like a picture of the recovering alcoholic,” she says. No reply from Melanie. Hastings appears to be dozing up on the bench.
Good point, but no score. Hemple moves on to a Capital Christmas party last year, at which Jack disappeared with Melanie, leaving Laurel with the office help. “Might someone who saw you drinking at the party say that you had your head in a bottle?” says Hemple. “I wasn’t falling-down slobbering drunk,” says Melanie.
“And Mrs. Vega was?”
“Yes.”
Hemple shakes her head as if to say are we going to have to do this again? “Fine and how many times did you see Mrs. Vega actually fall down at this party?” Exasperation from Melanie, a look like “picky, picky.”
“Okay, so I didn’t see her fall down.”
“I see. Just a little more license?” says Hemple. “Call it what you want. The lady was a lush. On her ass,” she says.
“Another of your sayings?” asks Hemple. Wary of having to define the anatomy or describe the posture, Melanie does not respond. “Were you sleeping with Mr. Vega at the time of the Christmas party?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Why? Because it was not memorable or because by then you’d done it so many times with the Petitioner that you can’t keep them straight?”
“Objection, your honor.”
“Withdrawn.”
A quixotic look from Melanie, a spark of light in the eyes, then an expression that could kill. “She did drugs too,” she says. This little gratuity is added to her testimony like the last dollop of frosting on a crude cake. “Objection, your honor.” Hemple’s now taken up the chorus.
“That’s a lie and you know it!” Laurel’s halfway out of her chair.
“I’ve never done drugs,” she says. “Some people call it an illness.”
Melanie ignores her, smiling into the growing rage that is Laurel’s face at this moment. This last added as a flourish for credibility. “You’d know about illnesses, wouldn’t you?” says Laurel. “My husband picked you up at a cocktail party like some communicable disease.”
“Former husband,” says Melanie.
The judge gavels them to silence. Laurel sits down and turns to look at me, a face of anger I have not seen before. Perhaps it is a measure, her own assessment of how this case is going. I lean across the railing and tell her to calm down. She is now clearly hurting herself, giving credence to Jack’s shrinks and their weasel words about instability.
“And you personally saw this… drug use by my client?” says Hemple. A look in Melanie’s eye like maybe she could say yes and wing it. But what to do about the details? Where and when? Who was there? And what they were doing when Laurel was doing drugs? “No. I didn’t actually see it.
But I heard about it enough times to know it’s true.” With this Melanie looks at Jack, sitting with their lawyer at the other counsel table. The smile between them removes any doubt as to the source of this information. “Move to strike, your honor.” Hemple bears down. Not that it will do much good. Jack will repeat all of this, the dirt as to drinking and drugs, when his turn comes. No doubt whatever Laurel swallowed or inhaled Jack had bought and probably shared. “The reporter will strike the last answer,” says the judge. “Now,” says Hemple, as if she is finally getting down to it, “let me ask you: In the five months that you’ve been married to Mr. Vega, and in the time before that when the two of you were busy consenting as adults. During this period how many times did you actually see or meet Laurel Vega?”
“We met… ” She thinks for a moment. “Four… no, three times.”
“That’s all?”
“It was enough,” she says. “You didn’t find these meetings pleasant?”
“No.”
“I can’t imagine why,” says Hemple. “Objection.” Jack’s lawyer is up again.
“Sustained. Get to the point, counsel.”
“The first time you met Mrs. Vega was she drunk?”
“I can’t remember.”
“You do remember the first time you met her?” A long sigh from Melanie. “Yes.”
“Can you tell the court the circumstances of that meeting?”
“It was at Jack’s home… ”
“The home he then shared with his wife, Laurel, and their children?”
Hemple would like to paint Beaver Cleaver running across the lawn with his school books strapped by a belt, while Melanie was busy humping their old man upstairs. “Yes it was at the home.” Melanie looks at Hemple like maybe she’d like to meet this bitch in the alley outside after court. The lawyer is all sweetness and smiles.
“And would you please tell the court what you were doing when you first encountered Laurel Vega in her home?” A look from Melanie, something between anger and a train-struck deer.
“We, ah… We were in the living room… ”
” We’ meaning who?”
“Jack and I,” says Melanie. “And she came in.” Melanie nods toward Laurel at the counsel table. “You mean Mrs. Vega, who was then Jack’s wife?”
“Laurel whatever you want to call her,” says Melanie.
“Then we’ll call her Mr. Vega’s wife,’ at least at that point in time.”
“Fine.”
“And what were you doing you and Jack when his wife came in?”
“Umm.”
Melanie is stalling for time. A lot of anxiety focused in the eyes. She makes several false starts on an answer. Then suddenly a smile.
Resolution has descended like a chariot from the heavens. “Necking,” she says. “We were necking.” She settles back in her chair, satisfied with this. “Necking.” Hemple says this, nodding her head as if she understands.
“Can you describe this necking to us, or is this just another of your expressions?”
“We were kissing,” says Melanie.
“Kissing?”
“And hugging,” she adds.
“Kissing and hugging.” More nodding from the understanding lawyer. “And can you describe to the court your attire? How were you dressed when you were doing all this kissing and hugging?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“Isn’t it a fact that the first time you met Laurel Vega you were completely naked on the carpet of her living room floor, engaged m full-blown sex with her husband?” This brings a lot of forced indignation to Melanie’s expression, a prim posture in the box that speaks loads of denial. “No. That’s not true,” says Melanie. “I can state categorically, for a fact, that is untrue,” she says. “Because Jack didn’t like it by mouth.’ There’s a second of dead silence, then open laughter from the audience as it settles in. Vega’s head is in his hands. Melanie looks out wide-eyed. Clearly she’s misunderstood something. “Who told you that?” she says. A lot of fluster and denial, what Shakespeare said about protest.
In a voice marked by uncertainty almost inaudible: “Jack didn’t like it, she says, as if maybe this will clear up any confusion. It begins another swell of laughter. The judge raps his gavel and this subsides to little tiflfs, a contagion of muffled barks and hacks. “We just didn’t do that.” Melanie puts moral tone to her voice this time, leaving it unclear whether like Shakers they didn’t do the act at all, or if it’s just the oral stuff they shunned. In her eyes I can tell Melanie’s still wondering what it is that she’s gotten wrong. “Well, thank you for that insight,” says Hemple. She starts to move on.
With points like this you don’t press. For the most part, the two days of hearings over contested child custody have been like a legally sanctioned gang bang. While Hastings is not likely to give much credence to the likes of Melanie, a legion of experts hired by Jack have been beating up on Laurel with professional jargon, enough syndromes of dependence to cause real problems for her case, to leave Hastings with a serious doubt as who is best to now take the children. “How much more do you have for this witness?” The judge cuts Hemple off. She asks for a couple of seconds to confer with her client. Hemple’s at the counsel table talking with Laurel. Clearly they are concerned about this latest revelation on drugs. Hemple will now have to draw and quarter Jack on the stand to have any chance to get them back to level ground. “An hour,” she says. “Maybe more.”
Melanie’s expression droops like a basset hound’s.
“And how many more witnesses?”
“Just one,” says Hemple. She looks over at Vega like maybe he might wish to marinate parts of his anatomy overnight for the roasting he is sure to get in the morning. “Then we’re going to adjourn for the night. And we’ll finish tomorrow,” says the judge. “Is that understood?” Jack’s lawyer is on his feet, nodding, like the sooner the better. With Jack on the stand, the press will be here in spades. “Your honor, one more thing,” he says. “We would like a conference in chambers with opposing counsel after adjournment.” Hastings slaps the gavel and is down off the bench, trailed by the lawyers to his chambers. Outside the courtroom I am leaning over the water fountain for a drink when he comes up behind me. “I guess we’ve both seen better times,” he says. Jack Vega’s voice has the quality of a wood rasp drawn across the broken edge of a tin can, the vocal legacy of cigars and alcohol. He’s tracked me to this little corridor and boxed me in between the water cooler and the rest rooms. Jack’s idea of a good meeting place. When I turn he is smiling, standing there with his hand out extended in greeting, a goofy look on his face. To those he has never married, or conceived, Jack is probably harmless. “What can I say, Bro?” He still refers to me as his brother-in-law, which we have not been for some time now. It’s an awkward moment. I give no reply, but stand looking at his offered hand until it is dropped, limp at his side. I can see Laurel looking, focusing on me over her lawyer’s shoulder as she and Hemple talk fifty feet away. Whatever happened in the judge’s chambers has them agitated.
A lot of hand gestures by the lawyer, manual conversation. But at this moment I am certain Laurel is hearing none of this, wondering instead how I could possibly exchange anything but profanities with this man.
Having his peace-offered hand rejected, Jack is now posturing for defense, circling the wagons around his ego.
His hair has less gray, more color than I remember from our last family outing, a year ago. It seems Melanie has driven Jack to a different kind of bottle. There’s a bald patch the size of a pitcher’s mound on top.
This is surrounded by tufts and wisps in sundry tones of orange. Still, by any measure he is a handsome man in the way middle-aged and austere men can be. He is like most of the pols I have known, a wannabe statesman, come up rug merchant. Over the years he has managed to learn a little style, and now wears it like the thousand-dollar suit that frames his angular body. The freckles that seem to run over his face like flyspecks seem more pronounced, a kind of ruddy out-of-door look.
Jack has been in the sun. He lives for golf, especially the courses peopled by celebrities where they run a water wagon with iced cocktails to every hole. He passes some pleasantries, that look good, that life seems to be treating me well. This despite the fact that my wife is now dead, something Jack seems to avoid. He is testing for other more pleasant subjects, anything that might lead to a friendly opening. All the while he is bobbing and weaving, prancing from one foot to the other, up on his toes. This is a nervous tic that Jack has never controlled. In the Capitol, among the lobbyists who ply their trade kissing collective legislative ass and twisting arms, Jack Vega is known as the Dancer, at least behind his back. Like his voting record, Vega’s body seems to constantly migrate toward the last loud noise. “I’m glad at least that you didn’t take her case,” he says, “for old times’ sake.”