Custody (48 page)

Monday evening Randall and his father sat on the porch, drinking whiskey, looking out at the pasture where the horses ambled with their noses in the grass.

“At first I considered suicide,” Mont said.

“Oh, Dad.”

“Now, now, hear me out.” Mont tossed some of the warm amber liquid down his throat, appreciating the fire it lit inside him. “I’m not afraid of death, you know. Especially now that your mother’s gone. I’m kind of looking forward to seeing her again. Or being with her, some way. So suicide was my first thought. Here I am, a worthless old man. A pervert, Anne called me.”

“I’m so sorry, Dad.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault. It’s my fault, for looking like an old fool. For giving Anne ammunition against us in court. ‘Randall’s father’s senile, he wears women’s clothing, he could be dangerous to a young girl—’ ”

“Dad, I don’t—”

“Let me finish. I played it out in my mind. I commit suicide, and
I’m
okay. But that would really tie the package up in a pretty bow for Anne. You’d have a dead father. A father so nuts he killed himself. Certainly not the best timing to take on the full custody of a twelve-year-old girl. Plus your whole plan to have two adults in the house to take care of Tessa, someone here when you’re at work and she’s out of school, all that gets lost if I top myself.”

“Would you
stop
—”

“I made myself think of Tessa. What’s best for Tessa. I don’t want her ever to think that suicide’s an option, no matter how crushed a person feels.”

“Good.”

“I think I made a fairly good impression talking with Dr. Lawrence the other day. I think I appeared to be a rational man. So that’s good.”

“Yes. That’s good.”

“Randall, I intend to come to court every day you’re there. I’ll wear my best suit and do my damnedest to look like a respectable, optimistic, reliable member of your family.”

Randall swallowed. “Thanks, Dad.”

“And by the way. Just so you’ll know: I packed up the robe.”

“Mom’s robe?”

“Along with all her other clothes. I let Dorothy take them to the church for their fair.”

“Well, Dad. Good for you.”

“Yes, I suppose it’s good for me. Good for Tessa, that’s what I’m hoping for.”

They stood like conspirators, whispering together in the front hall.

“It’s all here,” Glen Phipps promised, handing Anne a manila envelope. “Exactly what you need.”

It was almost eleven, but Anne had insisted that the investigator come late, when she could be sure Tessa was asleep and she wouldn’t be interrupted by telephone calls.

“Here’s your payment.” She handed a white envelope to him.

Glen Phipps tore it open, pulled out the check, and looked at it. “Thanks,” he said, tucking it into his shirt pocket. “Anything else?”

“Not at this time.” She wanted him to go,
now
. She burned to read the material he’d given her.

“Okay, then. Thanks.” He reached out for a handshake.

She shook his hand. Pretended to smile. God knew she could summon up that much, a polite smile, these days.

Finally he went out the door.

She waited until she saw the car pull out of her drive, and lights winking, disappear into the darkness.

She went into her study, sat down behind her desk, pulled out the two neatly typewritten pages, and began to read.

GP Investigations

1474 Massachusetts Avenue

Arlington, Massachusetts 01742

September 1, 2000

TO: Mrs. Anne Madison

FROM: Glen Phipps

RE: Dr. Randall Madison

Monday, August 21 to Thursday, August 24

Dr. Madison followed routine schedule, going to apartment, Mt. Auburn Hospital, private office on Mass Ave., father’s farm.

Friday, August 25

Dr. Madison’s schedule was as usual for the day.

At six-forty-five Friday evening, he left office, made one stop at Al’s Liquor Store, then drove to the apartment complex on 441 Adams Avenue, the home of Lacey Corriea, with whom, you may remember from my earlier reports, Dr. Madison had a liaison last year before your separation.

Dr. Madison left Ms. Corriea’s apartment at eleven-thirty, drove to his apartment, and spent the night there alone.

Saturday, August 26 to Monday, August 28

Dr. Madison followed routine schedule, going to apartment, Mt. Auburn Hospital, his father’s farm, his own office. Sunday, briefly entered Forest Hills Cemetery, then went to your home to take Tessa to breakfast at Carla’s Café. Sunday afternoon at father’s farm.

Tuesday, August 29

Dr. Madison’s routine schedule for day. He left his office at five-thirty, drove to his apartment. At seven-thirty, he left apartment, drove to 441 Adams Avenue, and picked up Lacey Corriea. From there he proceeded to the Ritz-Carlton on Boylston. Dr. Madison and Ms. Corriea were in the dining room from eight o’clock until ten-thirty.

At ten-thirty Dr. Madison drove Ms. Corriea to her apartment. Parked his car on Adams. Escorted Ms. Corriea into apartment complex. Remained there until one-thirty on Wednesday morning, when he left the apartment complex to drive to his own apartment.

Wednesday, August 30 to Thursday, August 31

Dr. Madison’s routine schedule. Stayed at his apartment all evening and night.

Friday, September 1

Dr. Madison left his office at noon to pick up Tessa at your home.

Respectfully submitted,
           Glen Phipps, Investigator

Anne folded the paper, returned it to the envelope, and locked it in her desk. She pinched the bridge of her nose as hard as she could. She looked at the cold, clean objects on her desk—blotter, calendar, trays—and tried to remember the comfort they had always provided.

Thirteen

September 5, 2000

Tuesday morning Kelly dropped off Felicity, clad in a mixture of gothic and Gap, on Cambridge Street.

“Have fun,” Kelly said.

Felicity snorted. “Right.” She sauntered away toward the high school, her face a perfect mask of boredom.

Come on, God, Kelly implored, let her like her school
.

What a day this was. Her first day in her own courtroom. Felicity’s first day at school. The first day of Randall’s divorce trial. She wondered where Tessa was right now.

She put her car in gear and continued on down Cambridge Street, toward the courthouse.

She’d phoned earlier this morning, to tell her secretary she had to get Felicity to school and might be a few minutes late. She looked at the clock on her dashboard—she was right on time. Not surprising, since she’d been awake, tossing and turning, since dawn.

She turned off Cambridge Street onto Thorndike Street and drove into the lot behind the building. She amused herself with the fancy that her car actually purred as she pulled it into the parking space marked:
RESERVED FOR JUDGE MACLEOD
. She sat a moment, soaking in satisfaction; then she checked her lipstick in the mirror, took a deep breath, and stepped outside.

She locked her car. Striding toward the century-old, stately, redbrick courthouse, she found the newest key on her ring and let herself in through the back entrance. Nodding at the security guard and smiling at a pair of lawyers she recognized, she briskly wove through the crowd milling around the large lobby. Just last spring she had been one of the attorneys like the group huddled together next to the men’s rest room, engaged in a last-minute conference.

Most cases settled out of court. Often this exact moment, the magnificent reality of the courthouse, the thrilling, overwhelming buzz of confrontations and consultations, the sharp shine and scent of expensive leather briefcases, caused a client to physically,
viscerally
appreciate the significance of a courtroom trial in a way he or she hadn’t before. The sight of the judge in her black robe made them understand that they were about to put their lives in someone else’s power.

Too impatient for the ancient elevator, Kelly hurried up the smooth, wide steps, their marble worn into silky troughs. Her courtroom was on the fourth floor. She was glad for the exercise, knowing that she might be sitting for the rest of the day.

At the end of the hall were her chambers.

Her
chambers!

Printed in gold on the glass door were the words:

JUDGE KELLY MACLEOD

PRIVATE

DO NOT ENTER

She took a deep breath. She entered.

“Good morning, Judge.” Her secretary, an Asian woman in a plaid suit, was already at her desk, up to her elbows in cases and folders.

“Good morning, Luanne.”

“Good morning, Judge,” said the court officer, Ed Harris, a tall, bald, stately African-American,
in his navy blue uniform.

Kelly smiled. “Good morning, Ed.”

“Good morning, Judge.” Dignified in her beige silk suit and pearls, Sally Beale, Kelly’s clerk, was the key to a smooth transition into this court. Sally had been here for a dozen years. Sally knew everything.

“Hi, Sally. Great suit.”

“Thank you, Judge.”

“What have we got today?” Kelly asked, looking toward the door to the courtroom. That door was all that stood between this place of quiet and the storm of human lives.

Sally handed her the trial list. “First, a quick and easy divorce. Then a child custody case. That won’t be short, and it won’t be sweet.”

“Then we’d better begin.”

“Right. See you out there.” Sally slid through the door into the churning whispers of the courtroom.

Kelly took her black robe off the hanger, pulled it on over her gray pantsuit, adjusted the shoulders and collar. Quickly she scanned her reflection in the mirror hanging on the closet door. She’d subdued her blond hair in a twist at the back of her head, and not a hair had dared escape. Fine. She looked fine. No reason to hesitate. She nodded to Officer Harris.

He asked, “Ready, Judge?”

“Ready.”

He opened the door.

Kelly walked into the courtroom.

Her
courtroom.

She’d been in this room before, many times, as a lawyer representing one side or another in a divorce or child custody case. The enormous room was brightened by many windows, its walls painted a peaceful pale blue trimmed with cream. The ceilings were perhaps twenty feet high. The wood of the railings, witness stand, conference tables, clerk’s and judge’s bar, officer of the court’s station, was golden oak, darkened by the years, glowing with the patina from the touch of generations of petitioners, lawyers, registers, and judges.

It was a lovely room.

Behind her, his voice rich and solemn, Officer Harris announced, “Hear ye, Hear ye, Hear ye. Court, all rise. The Middlesex Probate and Family Court is now in session, the Honorable Judge Kelly MacLeod presiding. God save the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.
Turn off all cell phones and pagers.”

The Honorable Judge Kelly MacLeod settled in her chair behind the high bench, her black robe resting at her ankles. She nodded good morning to the court stenographer and then looked out, with confidence, at the courtroom.

She saw, as she knew she would, clusters of people seated in the gallery. She saw a young couple, well-dressed, elegant, and miserable, sulking next to their attorneys at the lawyers’ table. Their divorce. Her first case.

Beyond the railing, she saw a lovely, slender, blond woman, the female plaintiff in the child custody case, with her lawyer.

She saw another lawyer speaking to the male defendant in the child custody case.

And she saw, with a terrible thrill, that the man was Randall Madison.

She felt unmasked before him. She felt more exposed now than she had been when they made love. This is who I am, she thought: Randall, this is who I am. A judge. If that’s too much, if that makes it impossible for me to be a wife and mother, then so be it. Here I am.

Sally Beale called the first case, consisting of the name of the parties, the docket number, and the cause of actions before the court. Kelly forced herself to concentrate. She scanned the file in front of her. This was an easy, uncontested divorce, with no children involved. It would be over in minutes. She waved the group up to the bench. She was piercingly aware of her every move with Randall as an audience. She glanced at Anne Madison, curious and shamed by her curiosity. She had to send them to another courtroom, but not yet. Not just yet.

Four people gathered around the witness stand: a man, a woman, two lawyers, all clad in dark, expensive suits. The register swore them in.

“Good morning,” Kelly said. Her voice was level, assured.

“Good morning, Your Honor,” both lawyers chimed.

“I’m Bartholomew Towers, Your Honor, representing Mrs. Baker.”

“I’m Daniel Sanders, Your Honor, representing Mr. Baker.”