Family Law, Gin Phillips [top novels of all time .txt] 📗

lowlife was standing in front of you, you wouldn’t have a response?” Marissa was already through the doorway, headed back to her own desk with its stash of Tic Tacs and thermos full of Coke. “You’ve got a potential at eleven. The outline is on your desk. Then you’ve got the luncheon at twelve thirty, as you know.”

Lucia eyed the rest of the mail, then pulled her Dictaphone from the drawer. Marissa was wrong. A response required thought and she refused to waste any. She settled the Dictaphone into her palm, running a thumb over the buttons that felt as if they’d been worn into the shape of her fingers. She propped an elbow on her desk and began her response. “Marissa, this is to Paul Price at Jackson and Price. Dear Paul, I’d be happy to meet about the Woodruff case.”

VI.

Beverly Leles was a woman who would radiate old money and fine china even if she were in overalls, not that she would ever own a pair. Collarbones sharp and hand trembling slightly as she pulled at her pearls, she had the look of a Gothic heroine.

Hopefully a heroine, thought Lucia, and not a madwoman in the attic. If you feel the need to cry, she had told Beverly, don’t hold back. It’s not bad for the judge to see your emotions. But sometimes a woman misunderstood that concept and cried the whole damn time, and there was such a thing as overkill.

“Didn’t you hope to be an architect yourself?” said Arnold Dobson, standing too close, his belly brushing against the stand.

Beverly’s hand dropped into her lap.

“No,” she said, leaning into the microphone. “Well, yes.”

“When was that?”

“When I was an undergraduate. I was never serious about it.”

Arnold cocked his large square head. His white hair scraped his collar. “You hoped to design office buildings,” he said. “You hoped to leave a mark on the world.”

Lucia caught Beverly’s eye. That exact line had come up in the deposition, and while Lucia considered objecting—could Arnold never remember to ask an actual question instead of preaching at them all?—she let Beverly handle it.

“At some point I did,” Beverly said, smiling slightly, exactly as they had practiced. “I liked the idea of building something that would last.”

“And you stopped wanting to leave your mark?” Arnold asked, too incredulous.

“No. But I realized there were other options that appealed to me more. I think I am leaving a mark.”

“Of course. You dig up marigolds and your husband has designed six different buildings from Atlanta to Mobile. Did—”

Lucia half stood. “Object. Your Honor, counsel is testifying. That’s not a question.”

“Sustained,” said Judge Harrison, eyelids at half-mast. His sleepy look was deceptive.

“Did your resent your husband’s success?” Arnold asked.

“No,” said Beverly. Not a hint of tears.

Arnold shook his head in what he surely imagined was a fatherly way. The man was a complete dick. Once Lucia had gone to his offices for a meeting, and she’d overheard him telling his secretary to hide the Tab because she would want one. As if having to drink a Coke would crush her soul.

“How many clients have you had so far this year?” Arnold asked.

“Two, but both are extensive projects. I’m currently redesigning the gardens at the F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald House.”

“Well,” said Arnold. “Isn’t that impressive.”

Lucia stood. “Your Honor, Mr. Arnold is not asking a question.”

“Sustained,” said Judge Harrison.

“Move to strike,” said Lucia.

Arnold barely paused. “The truth,” he said, “is that you stayed home with the children, and your husband continued to grow more famous.”

“Your Honor, there he goes again,” said Lucia. “We’re not in court to hear Mr. Dobson’s lecture.”

A slight raising of Judge Harrison’s eyelids. “That’s correct, Ms. Gilbert. But that’s not a proper objection.”

“I’m sorry, Your Honor,” said Lucia. “I object on the grounds that counsel made a statement rather than asking a question.”

“Sustained.”

“Has your husband grown to be an architect of some renown since you’ve been married?” snapped Arnold, his temper showing.

Go on, thought Lucia. Turn up the heat. See who burns.

“Yes,” said Beverly. “In the South, I’d say.”

“You hate him for it, don’t you?”

“No,” she said.

“In fact, you want to punish him by taking his children away from him?”

“That’s not true,” Beverly said, voice steady. “That’s not true at all.”

Lucia wished for a Kodak: she’d love to offer up this moment the next time someone asked why she left Legal Aid or the D.A.’s office and switched to private practice. The question always held a certain condescension.

I’m sorry. Those were the first words Beverly Leles had spoken to Lucia. Marissa had waved her into Lucia’s office, and Beverly had apologized for walking into the room. The husband had stripped her of every bit of value, like a thief coming back to the same empty house night after night, ripping out the copper and marble and hardware, bit by bit, until the place was gutted. The husband—he was sitting there now, big eared and bony—had told her that she was too heavy and that her laugh was too loud and her vegetables were too soggy. Bit by bit. Eventually her daughter and son started telling her the same thing.

At times Lucia grew furious with clients who seemed eager for court, but the truth was that some landed here through no fault of their own: they happened to be married to a narcissist or sadist or what have you. She’d watch amazed as a client sat there listening to a litany of their worst sins—real or invented. Nothing could be worse than looking across these scratched parquet floors at someone you had loved, someone who had stripped you naked and soaked up your secrets, and who had then brought you here to be stripped naked again.

Such a weapon, intimacy.

Arnold crossed his hands over his belly, making Lucia think of Rooster Cogburn. “You’ve been in therapy for quite some time, haven’t you?” he asked.

Enough, thought Lucia.

“Objection, Your Honor,” she said. “Privileged. Move to strike.”

She was sustained, of course.

“You’re depressed, aren’t you,