Lawyer for the Dog (15 page)

“Oh, I forgot you were coming,” says Mindy Greene. She's cracked the door open just wide enough to let me see half her face and a glimpse of her black bra and panties. “I'm kinda, not … Can you hold on a minute?” I wait on the front porch, look across the driveway to the Harts' house. Mrs. Hart's Mercedes is in the carport.

When Mindy comes back to let me in she's wearing a light blue College of Charleston sweatshirt and black tights that hug her ample bottom and stocky legs. “Sorry, like I said, I forgot. You want a beer or something?”

“No thanks.”

“Might have one myself.” She's off to the kitchen. “Go ahead and sit down if you want to,” she yells. I hear the can pop. The house is one of the old Sullivan's Island houses, like the Harts', but it hasn't been redecorated in quite a while: it's like a museum to the nineteen fifties.

“You live here by yourself?” I ask.

“Yep. My grandmother left it to me in her will. I think she did it mostly to piss off my parents. She and my dad don't get along.”

“So, how long have you lived here?”

“Four … five years.”

“And you're a student at the College of Charleston?”

She laughs, takes a swig of her Coors. “Yeah, barely.”

“What year?” I'm taking notes.

“Whadya mean?”

“Freshman, sophomore?”

“Oh. Well, it's kinda, you know, hard to tell … The thing is, I didn't really want to go to college in the first place, but my grandmother put this thing in her will that I hafta graduate or else the house goes to some charity.”

“Are you going full-time, or do you work?”

“I take a couple of courses a semester, but I've flunked a few, so … No, I don't work. She left me some dough. Sure I can't get you something to drink? You look like you could use one!”

What does she see? A middle-aged lawyer in her little brown suit and sensible pumps, dark circles under the eyes. “I don't drink while I'm working. You understand why I'm here?”

“Yeah. It's ridiculous.”

“Mrs. Hart—”

“She's completely nuts.”

“Mrs. Hart has alleged that you, uh, had sexual relations with her husband, but the other lawyers will be dealing with that. I'm really more interested in—”

“You know what? The old dude can't even get it up anymore.”

“How do you know that?”

“'Cause he told me. We're kinda like, you know, confidentials.”

“Confidants?”

“Yeah, that's it.”

“So you feel you know Mr. Hart pretty well?”

“Better than his own wife does, I guess you could say.”

“And how would you describe him?”

“Sad. He's just a sad old man.”

I remember the detective's affidavit:
Elderly male subject and young woman later identified as Mindy Greene observed embracing and kissing on sofa in Hart beach residence. Some minutes later they share what appears to be a marijuana cigarette.

“Has he ever kissed you?”

“Sure. I know what you're talking about. And that night wasn't the first time, either. But it wasn't like … I mean, it wasn't a passion thing.”

“What was it, then?”

“Just an old-man kiss. I didn't mind. He's kinda like a grandfather or something. He doesn't mean anything by it.”

“So there was no other … no sex.”

She laughs so hard she sends beer spray toward me. “I told you, he can't get it up. And even if he could, he wouldn't. He's a gentleman.”

“What about the marijuana?”

“Yeah, I guess I gotta admit to that. He just wanted to try it.”

“So, you brought it over?”

“Right. He was feeling depressed, and I said, hey, you know man, when I need a little lift, I have a toke. So he tried it. But he didn't like it. You need to write all this down?”

“I'm just trying to understand—”

“Good luck with that. Here's what it looks like to me: two old married people get bored with each other. Nothing unusual, right? Then they have some kind of dumb argument and she tells him she doesn't want to live with him anymore, sends him out here to the beach house. But then the old man doesn't say, ‘Let's get back together,' because, you know what, he's not miserable without her, in fact he realizes he was miserable
with
her, but he'd been kinda sup—oh, I forgot the word, you know, for when you feel something but you can't admit it to yourself…”

“Suppressing?”

“Yeah. He's been suppressing how bad he's felt for so many years and now it's just a relief to be living apart. So he doesn't say, ‘Hey, let's get back together.' He just lets things ride. He's okay living out here in the beach house. Matter of fact, he'd rather be out here than in that fancy place downtown. And this drives her crazy, 'cause she's a control freak, and things aren't going according to plan. So she gets herself a fancy downtown lawyer and they hire a dick to watch him out here, and what do you know, even though the dick can hardly hold his damn video camera he gets lucky one night and shoots these pictures of me and Mr. Hart doing stuff, I mean not really
anything
, like I told you, but I guess to a judge it looks—have you seen it? The video, I mean?”

“No, but I've read the detective's report. Where was the dog during all this?”

“He was sleeping. Like I say, it wasn't all that exciting.”

“What I really want to focus on is Sherman, how the Harts relate to him. Have you had the opportunity to observe that?”

“Yeah, more with him than her. When they were together she was always kinda standoffish. And now since she thinks—I mean, since she thinks there's all this adultery stuff, she won't even speak to me.”

“But let's go back to before they separated. How much time did they spend out here at the beach?”

“They'd come out a lot in the winter. Not so much in the summer. And sometimes he'd come by himself for a few days and bring the dog. That's how we got to know each other. He knew my grandmother, and I guess she must have asked him to look out for me.”

“How did he look out for you?”

“If he was ordering in a pizza or something he'd knock on my door, 'cause he knew I was all by myself, and ask me if I'd like some. Or if there was a storm and the power went off he'd check to see if I was okay. Things like that. And then we got to be friends, and he'd come out here by himself more, and he'd invite me over to watch a movie or talk.”

“What did you talk about?”

“I don't know. Things. He was just lonely.”

“But you said he seemed happier without her.”

“I wouldn't say happier. He was just relieved not to have to deal with her. But he's not a happy camper. He's got this real gloomy view of things, like the whole world is going to hell. Says nobody plays by the rules anymore, nobody's honest, the whole country's crazy, the government's corrupt. Yada, yada, yada. But anyway, he's interesting to talk to. Really smart. Full of opinions. And he always asks me stuff about my life, like he's really interested. But not like, you know, in a creepy sort of way. And then he started helping me with my school stuff. I had this Econ 101 that was a real bitch of a course.”

“So he was tutoring you?”

“Yeah, I guess you could say that. He used to be a banker, so he understands all that stuff. He was real patient with me. I'm not, you know, that great when it comes to math and graphs and stuff.”

“What's your major?”

“Business. One of these days I want to open my own nail parlor. We need another one out here on the beach.”

“So, how much time would you say you spent with Mr. Hart before his wife filed the divorce case?”

“Not that much, but I guess it was enough to piss her off. Once, before she hired the detective, she left a note in my mailbox, like, you know,
My husband is not emotionally well
, or something like that, and said it wouldn't be a good idea to spend too much time with him, 'cause he might take it the wrong way. It was really weird.”

“Do you have the note?”

“Nah. I threw it away. She's the nut in the family, if you ask me.”

“Did you tell Mr. Hart about it?”

“Sure. He told me to forget it. I was in the middle of studying for the final in the econ course, and he wasn't going to let me down.”

“And so, going back to the dog—when Mr. Hart spent time out here, would he bring Sherman?”

“Most of the time. Sherman likes the beach.”

“And what were your observations about how Mr. Hart relates to the dog?”

“He relates great. I think he'd rather be with Sherman than anybody in the world.” Mindy tips the beer can up, sticks her tongue out to collect the last drops. “This going to take a lot longer?”

“Do you have someplace to go?”

“No, but I don't want to miss my show.”

“What show?”

“
Bride Diaries.
Comes on at six, but I guess I could Tevo it. You watch?”

“No.”

“So cool. I love reality shows. This one's the best. They follow these girls who just got engaged, all the prewedding stuff. Shopping for the dress, planning the ceremony. Lots of stress, so naturally there's a lot of drama with the fianc
é
, sometimes with the crazy mothers. And sometimes they split up before the wedding. It's reality, so nobody knows what's going to happen until it happens. You should try it.”

“I get enough reality at work.”

“You can learn a lot about relationships. Why they get screwed up and all.”

“When you figure that out, let me know.”

Mindy laughs. “That's another thing about Mr. Hart. He can talk real honest about things like that. Feelings and all. When I'd get upset about my love life—or I should say
non
love life—he'd calm me down. Always made me feel better about myself. Like I'm not this fat dumb chick who'll never find a guy.”

“And what about Mrs. Hart? How does she relate to Sherman?”

“Well, I haven't seen her that much alone with him.”

“What about since she's been living out here?”

“Like I said, she won't even speak to me. Sometimes I see her when she takes Sherman out for a pee, but she pretends not to notice me.”

“She has a maid?”

“Yeah. I think she comes once or twice a week.”

“Have you ever seen the maid taking Sherman for a walk?”

“Yeah, once or twice, maybe. I try not to butt into the old lady's business, except that I can't help notice, like last night, I saw her coming in at about three in the morning. And that wasn't the first time. Every couple of weeks or so she goes out late at night. Who knows, maybe
she's
the one who's screwing around.”

“Did she take Sherman?” I know where Sherman was last night. I'm just testing her.

“You'd have to ask
her
that. I just happened to be up, saw the car coming into the garage. I wasn't spying.”

“Just one more question,” I say, flipping to a new page on my legal pad. “Have you ever observed either Mr. or Mrs. Hart doing anything which might harm Sherman, or put him in danger?”

“Oh, I know what you're getting at. The old lady used to be on his case all the time about not letting Sherman off the leash. I think he just does it—I mean, let the dog off the leash—to irritate her.”

“But didn't he break his foot or something?”

“Yeah, and the old man felt really bad about that, even though it wasn't his fault. They were just crossing the street, and this jerk comes around the corner going about sixty miles an hour, way over the speed limit, and hits Sherman. It would have happened even if the dog had been on the leash. At least that's what Mr. Hart told me.”

“What about Mrs. Hart. Have you ever seen her intoxicated?”

“She gets pretty happy on her wine, but I've never seen her falling-down drunk, if that's what you mean.”

“And what about Mr. Hart?”

“He has some bourbon every now and then, but nothing over-the-top.”

“I think I already know your answer to this, but if you had to choose between the two of them, which one would do a better job of taking care of Sherman?”

She surprises me. “To be fair, I just don't know. I know she takes good care of him, like she's his mama.”

“How do you know that, if you don't see her with the dog that often.”

“'Cause Mr. Hart told me. Before all this divorce stuff started up, he told me he thought his wife loved Sherman more than she loved him. He seemed kinda jealous. You know what?”

“What?”

“I think the dog is sorta like their child. It's pathetic. And they really know how to screw up a kid!”

“Oh, I think Sherman's doing okay.”

“I'm not talking about the dog.”

“What kid are you talking about, then?”

She looks genuinely dismayed. “Mr. Hart doesn't like me bringing it up. And it doesn't matter anyway, not to the case.”

“Why don't you let me decide if it matters or not?”

“Look, I'm not going to say anything else about that.” She sighs a dramatic sigh.

“I'll ask you about it at your deposition, so you might as well—”

“If you're going to be much longer, I can Tevo my show.” She reaches for the remote.

“No, I'm finished. Thanks for your time.”

“Hey, this deposition thing, what's that all about, anyway?” Mindy's deposition is scheduled sometime in the next couple of weeks. “A friend of mine said maybe I should get a lawyer.”

“You could talk to one.” I give her a few names.

“Thanks,” she says. “Sure you wouldn't like a beer for the road?” I shake my head.