Ladies' Night, Andrews, Kay [best time to read books .txt] 📗

law in this county for more than forty years, and he doesn’t like to rock the boat.”

“So, that’s that,” Grace said. “It was worth a try, though.”

“Would you stop being so negative! Carlton may be adverse to rocking the boat, but on the other hand, he is also a stickler on the matter of rules and ethics. And he was enraged when I told him how Stackpole has been ordering divorcing parties into therapy—and then steering those same parties to a woman with whom he’s romantically involved. He agrees with me that we should file a formal complaint with the JQC.”

“Remind me what the JQC actually is?” Grace said.

“Judicial Qualifications Committee. It’s the state agency that governs and disciplines judges,” Mitzi said. “So that’s our next step. First, we document every single instance we know of where Stackpole made attending therapy mandatory for divorcing parties. Then, we assemble an exhaustingly thorough and compelling complaint and take it to the JQC. And if all goes well, they take Stackpole to the woodshed. Metaphorically speaking.”

Grace scratched Sweetie’s ears absentmindedly. “And you really think this JQC will believe us? And they’ll do what?”

“They can do anything from a reprimand to a fine to a suspension from office to removing him from office,” Mitzi said. “He could also be ‘involuntarily retired due to illness,’ although I doubt it would come to that.”

“And what do you need from me?” Grace asked.

“We need Paula Talbott-Sinclair on our side. We need her to tell the JQC about her involvement with Judge Stackpole.”

“Is that all?” Grace shook her head. “Mitzi, how am I supposed to make that happen? What makes you think I can get Paula to turn on her sugar daddy?”

Mitzi gave her an appraising look. “You’re a woman of many talents, Grace, not the least of which is charm. So you do your thing, and I’ll do mine. Deal?”

Grace stared out the window for a while. “I’ll give it a shot,” she said finally.

“Good,” Mitzi said briskly. She reached out and patted Sweetie’s head. “What’ll you do about the dog? I mean, will you still split custody with Wyatt at night?”

“Gaaaawd,” Grace said, flopping backward onto the sofa again. “I hadn’t even thought about that. I won’t take her back to Wyatt’s. And I can’t take her to my mom’s place.”

“Well,” Mitzi said, looking around the condo. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt if the two of you stayed here for a couple weeks. It’s really coming along, Grace. I love the bright colors, and the lamps and things. I never would have thought of doing any of this.”

“I couldn’t just squat here,” Grace said uneasily. “It wouldn’t be right.”

“Why not? You’ve still got more work to do here, and I’m too busy to use it for the next month or so anyway. The complex is pet-friendly.” Mitzi picked up her oversized pocketbook and went to the door.

“I think you should stay,” she said, her hand on the doorknob. “You’ve been through a rough patch. Spend some time here alone, you and Sweetie. If all goes well, Ben will cough up an equitable settlement; we’ll get Stackpole out of our hair, if not off the bench; and then you can figure out the next chapter in the Grace Davenport story.”

Grace gave her lawyer a rueful smile. “Next chapter? Right now, I can’t even figure out the next five minutes.”

62

Grace lolled on the sofa, flipping through channels with the remote control. She paused when she got to The Real Housewives of Atlanta. Rochelle watched the show religiously, but Grace had never really seen it. But tonight, she thought, as she dipped a plastic fork into the paper carton of take-out kung pao chicken, and only tonight, she would watch trashy TV reruns and wallow in self-pity.

Her cell phone rang. She picked it up and looked at the caller ID. It was Camryn.

“Where are you and what are you doing?” Camryn demanded.

“I’m at a client’s condo, watching The Real Housewives of Atlanta,” she said warily. “Can I ask you a question? Who are these women? Why do they have their own television show?”

“Girlfriend, I do not have the time to explain RHOA to you. Anyway, you need to turn on channel eight. Now. Because, honey, this is priceless.”

Sweetie was sitting directly on top of the remote control. Grace gently slid it out from under the dog’s butt and pointed the remote at Mitzi’s forty-eight-inch flat screen. She was rewarded by fuzzy footage of what looked like two well-dressed women who appeared to be pelting each other with … dinner rolls? They were both screeching at the top of their lungs.

“A food fight? On the ten o’clock news? This is why you called?” Grace asked.

“Keep watching,” Camryn said, chuckling. “It gets better.”

A man’s deep voice cut through the shrill din. “Eileen! What the hell?”

“Did you get that?” Camryn asked. “Recognize that voice?”

Grace leaned forward and stared intently at the television, but the camera kept jerking back and forth between the two women. The older of the two, a brunette, lunged toward the other, clawing at her face. Now, a man was tugging at her arm, vainly attempting to fend her off. His back was to the camera, but, once, Grace glimpsed a vaguely familiar profile.

The younger woman, a strikingly attractive African-American woman with short, platinum-blond hair was batting away the other woman’s blows. “Get her off of me,” she hollered. “Cedric, do something.”

Cedric?

“It can’t be,” Grace whispered, dropping onto the floor, crawling closer to the television until her face was only inches from the screen. The man glanced over his shoulder at the camera, then flung his hand across his face. “Are you filming this? Stop that! Get that thing away from me.” He whirled around, and for a moment, just a moment, Grace saw the angry countenance of the Honorable Cedric N. Stackpole Jr.

“Hey, man,” another male voice protested. “You can’t do that.” And then the camera jerked violently, and the footage ended.

“Oh. My. God.” Grace was clutching