Ever After (20 page)

The hearings don't stop. There are questions and faxes and parcels arriving by Federal Express. And finally, worst of all, there is a demand for depositions—from Rosemary, Wills, and me. Why do we have to give depositions? Rosemary and I weren't even in the state at the time. I don't want to do it. I don't want to travel to Portland. I write to say I can't make it, that the trip will be expensive and difficult. We are assured it is absolutely necessary, that not going will seriously damage our case. We succumb. I'm not accustomed to spending this kind of money on plane fares, merely to give a deposition, a word I've never even seen or heard before.

Robert Wilson, our long-time friend, picks us up at the airport in Portland. Wills has travelled with us, having spent the summer in France. We'll be staying at the Wilsons' home. It's good to spend the first night in such family surroundings with old friends.

The next day we find the offices of Steele, Cutler and Walsh, a pink building in the center of town, and zip up the high-speed elevator to the wood-paneled offices of Ted Mitchell. He's a smooth-looking man in his middle fifties, well-dressed, his hair carefully cut. He'll be the one presenting our case in court.

His desk is located so that we have to look into the light, past him, to the view outside his huge plate window. We can't see his face clearly. But he can see us. I'm wearing a pair of stone-washed jeans, more or less clean. Rosemary is dressed in her usual ladylike way: low heels, her hair carefully combed. Wills is in typical pre-teen clothes.

We talk in generalities for several minutes, then two other people come into the office; the meeting seems to be well-orchestrated. There's an older man, introduced as Clint Williams, a former federal judge, and a younger woman, about forty, who is Mona Flores, with whom we've had so much correspondence. We all smile. They invite us to sit down.

Mr. Ted Mitchell describes what a deposition is, how it is an extension of the courtroom itself, how we are to answer the specific questions asked us and nothing more. He explains how the group asking the questions will consist mostly of insurance representatives and attorneys for other plaintiffs, as well as attorneys for the defendants. Rosemary is watching him as closely as he's watching us. I'm looking out the window. Wills is bored and restless. Clint Williams and Mona Flores contribute comments.

It is obvious who the boss is, and he doesn't want his steam stolen by subordinates. They, in turn, seem quite subordinate to him, or, at least, play the role well. I'm glad when we say goodbye and agree to meet the next day. I guess they were just looking us over. It seems such a waste of time and money. Thank God for Robert and Karen, the friends with whom we're staying.

The next day we dress up for the show. Even Wills, with Rosemary's help, spruces himself up. I wear a suit I bought at the Salvation Army for six dollars. It's a good suit, just a mite old-fashioned, vest and all.

We park and are met by Ms. Flores, who asks us to call her Mona. She cautions us.

“Don't answer quickly. If they say, ‘Would you tell us your name?' you answer ‘Yes.' Make them ask you for your name directly. That's a kind of general rule at depositions. Give nothing away.”

We file into a long room with a gigantic table. Rosemary will be first. Wills and I are to wait in another room. This whole thing begins to take on some of the characteristics of an inquisition. I can't help wondering, who's working for whom here? It's our money which is being spent.

They close Rosemary in the room with what looks like fifteen or more people, mainly men. They're all dressed in lawyer-type clothes. Mona Flores and Clint Williams go in with her. I ask one of the secretaries for some paper and a pencil. Wills watches as I draw the scene out the window. I find some paper for him and he draws along with me. He's quite talented.

It seems forever before Rosemary comes out. Mona is with her. Rosemary is crying. I'm just old-fashioned enough that I don't like the idea of my wife crying. I jump up and take her hand. She's wiping her eyes with her handkerchief.

“What is it, Hon? What happened?” She's quiet for a minute, waves me off, trying to pull herself together.

“It was nothing they did. It was just talking about Kate and the questions they wanted answered, it upset me. I'll be all right in a minute.”

Mona Flores has come forward.

“You don't need to go back if you don't want. Those damned lawyers: they just don't seem to know what's too much.”

“No, I'm fine. It was my fault as much as it was his.”

Rosemary leads the way back into the room where the deposition is being held. She's there another half-hour. Wills and I are beginning to tire of drawing. I start on a portrait of him. Just then, the door opens and they come out. They've been in there most of the morning. Rosemary seems to be all right. She's a little pale but she's not crying. Mona stays right beside her.

“She was great. She fended off those wolves like a queen. They're not used to dealing with a tough, classy lady like your wife.”

Rosemary sits down, looks out at the view.

“I'm starving. Can we go look for something to eat?”

We find a good Mexican restaurant—not TexMex, but real Mexican food.

Mona is curious about our lives, why we're in France, about our living on a houseboat. I think she's genuinely interested. She's good-looking with dark hair and green-blue eyes. She has a nice figure but is wearing one of those weird suits that makes her look as if she's been pumping iron or is wearing football shoulder-pads, or both. She looks directly into your eyes—I can tell that Rosemary likes her, as does Wills—and is a good listener. I guess that's the way lawyers are supposed to be with their clients. She tells Rosemary she's not to talk with me about what happened in her deposition.

After lunch, it's Wills's turn. Mona is gentle with him, trying to prepare him. Mona has a five-year-old son of her own and is very sympathetic. But I still can't figure out what they expect to find out from him.

Rosemary has a book and starts reading while I go back to drawing. What would happen if she started telling me what occurred in there? Rosemary is not one to cry easily in public.

Ten minutes later Mona comes out with Wills. He's sobbing. This is even worse than it was with Rosemary. At least Rosemary is a grown woman, has a fair idea of what's going on. We both rush over to be with him. Mona waves us back to our seats and sits Wills in a chair between us. She's looking from Wills to us.

“He was very brave. But when they started asking about his mother, it just broke him down. I can't really say they were trying to do that, but there's a terrible lack of empathy and sympathy in lawyers as a group. When they want something badly enough, they can be incredibly cruel without even knowing it.”

Wills looks at Rosemary.

“I'm OK now, Grandma. I just didn't expect so many people looking at me, and I have a hard time even thinking about Mom let alone talking about her to all those strange people.”

Mona leans close, looks him in the eyes which are all reddened. His eyelids are swollen.

“You don't need to go back in if you don't want, Wills.”

“No, we've come all this way, we should finish it anyway.”

He stands up. Mona stands beside him, smoothing her black skirt over her hips. She looks at us. We both nod our heads, yes. Wills is right. After all this travel, we need to carry this thing through.

Mona turns to Rosemary.

“I think it would be better if you came in and sat beside him, Rosemary. That is, if you can bear it.”

Rosemary stands and puts her arm around Wills.

“OK, Wills, sweetheart, let's go back. It can't last much longer.”

They leave. This time I'm too upset to draw. I pace back and forth as if I'm an expectant father.

After about another hour, they come out. Wills's eyes are still red but not much worse than before. Rosemary and Mona are leaning over him. They look up at me and smile. Mona steps forward.

“You should really be proud of him. I am. He was wonderful. I don't think I've ever seen such a young person make monkeys of such a large group of lawyers in my life. It was well worth the price of admission.”

Rosemary's smiling, too. She looks over at Mona.

“Is it all right if I tell Will about one incident that really established the mood of the entire deposition?”

“Let me. I don't think we'll be violating the deposition then. As your lawyer, we can have discourse regarding a thing like this. It's too good to keep to ourselves, anyway.”

She looks at me.

“It was Harry Fox again. Out of the absolute blue, he asks Wills if his mom and dad ever had fights. Before I can catch Wills's eye, he's started answering. After he's started it would have been worse to try stopping him than just letting it go.

“Wills looked him in the eye and said, ‘Sure they had fights sometimes, but not many.'

“Fox leaned in for the kill.

“ ‘What did they fight about?'

“ ‘Well, Mom is a very good cook and Bert was always putting pepper or catsup on his food. This would always make Mom mad.'

“Well, there was silence for a few seconds, then the laughing started. Even Fox had to smile. Rosemary's right, it sort of broke things up.”

We talk some more. It's about quarter to four.

“Well, do I go in now?”

“No, they'll want to really lean on you. We'll start your deposition at nine o'clock tomorrow. Come on. I'll help you down to your car. The traffic will be picking up just about now. You can miss it if we hurry.”

We get back to Karen and Robert's at about five. Neither one is home, but we have the key. We're tired. We flop out on the beds and before we know it, we're all asleep.

Next morning, Karen and Robert lend us their car. I know my way pretty well now. I head down Hawthorn and over the Hawthorn bridge. I can see the pink Steele, Cutler and Walsh office building as we go over the bridge. It seems ominous. I'm dreading the deposition. I swear it won't break me down.

When we come up, Mona and Clint Williams are waiting for us. The other lawyers are congregating, whispering softly to each other as if they're cardinals about to perform an exorcism, or maybe students going into a dreaded examination. I'm the subject. Mona and Clint pull me aside. Clint gives the instructions.

“Mr. Wharton, I have a feeling you're an impulsive person. This is not the time to be impulsive, just play it cool. Play it close to the vest. Most of all, don't start answering anything until you have paused to think it over.”

They don't seem to have much confidence in me. I probably have too much confidence in myself and that's what scares them. It's as if we're playing a game like chess or contract bridge, one that's based on not showing what you think or feel. These are the games I don't like and am not good at. I should know better than to resist; they're probably right.

We enter the room and Mona leads me near the head of the table beside a window. There's a man at the end with an antiquated machine I recognize from movies as the stenographic machine of a court reporter. Mona sits beside me. Clint Williams sits on the other side of her. These are the only seats left in the room. One of the lawyers at the other end of the table stands up and closes the door.

The court reporter is about to have me swear in. I put up my hand to stop him.

“Before we start this deposition, I want to remind all you gentlemen and ladies that this is not an inquisition. I watched both my wife and grandson come out of this room crying. There could have been no need for that.”

I pause.

“We are terribly upset by our loss. I hope all of you will keep this in mind. Sometimes, I shall probably not be able to speak. If this occurs, please have patience, just wait. I've found I cannot talk and cry at the same time. Do you understand?”

There are nods and smiles around the table. I lean forward to look at each of them in turn.

“If I feel that a question or implication is insulting or unfitting, I shall consult my attorneys here beside me and if they feel that something actionable has occurred, although I am not a suing man, I shall sue. Is that understood?”

I turn to look at Mona and Clint. I can tell they are not happy with this turn of events, but they dutifully nod.

“All right, now. Let's get on with it.”

The man across from me looks like “the man in the butterscotch ice-cream suit.” He's to be my inquisitor, it seems. He can't be the dreadful Mr. Fox. He's slightly overweight, but perfectly tailored, with his hair combed neatly and flat against his head. He seems about fifty years old. He has a permanently unctuous smile, an almost Buddha-like calm.

The court reporter asks all at the table to identify themselves and he takes down the names with his rickety machine. We're ready. The Buddha, named Mr. Crosley, leans forward and pauses for about fifteen seconds.

“We don't want to antagonize you or cause you pain, Mr. Wharton. This is only an attempt to gather information which will help us in understanding this case and settling it amicably.”

“I don't intend to settle, Mr. Crosley, let us get that straight first. I've told my lawyers this, so I guess they haven't passed on that information, but it is very important.”

This slows things down again. Mr. Crosley consults the thin, wiry, bearded man beside him. I'm quite sure this is the notorious Mr. Fox.

Mr. Fox smiles and then asks a series of curt, almost insulting questions about my life. He's interested in how much money I make writing.

What's that have to do with Kate's death?

Mr. Crosley takes over. His concern is how much money I didn't earn during the greater part of my life.

I haven't worked for anyone but myself since I was thirty-five years old. I've been a painter, self-employed. This seems beyond his comprehension. He tries to portray me as a bum. In a way, I am, from his point of view. We're getting nowhere.