Lawyer for the Dog (16 page)

“Well, take it easy. Must be exciting, being a lawyer and all. But lots of stress, too, right? So, like Mr. Hart tells me, ‘Give yourself a break,' okay?”

On the drive back to the office I can't get Mindy's voice out of my head. Maybe she's not so dumb after all. I turn on the radio, catch Bonnie Raitt in the middle of “Let's Give ‘Em Something to Talk About,” and then, as if summoned by the song, Tony Borden calls.

“Sorry I didn't get back to you earlier, had a real busy day.” He sounds distant, distracted.

“I apologize for last night. I didn't mean to be so … discouraging.”

“Don't worry, I'll manage. Maybe it will even be interesting.”

“What?”

“The case,” he says. “Maybe it'll be interesting, my first dog-custody trial.”

“No, I meant I shouldn't have been so discouraging about the beagle.”

He answers in that same disinterested tone: “You've got a lot going on in your life. I understand.”

“Maybe things will be clearer after this case is over.”

“Take all the time you want. Meanwhile I'll be looking for somebody who's not quite so busy.”

When he hangs up, I feel like turning around, going back to Mindy Greene's house, maybe watching
Bride Diaries
with her, having a few beers, trying a little reality TV. Maybe, as she says, I could learn a little something about relationships.

 

The Devil in the Details

There's a force at work in the universe—or at least the mini-universe of my home and office—which seems to derive its pleasure from watching me cope with trouble. Some days its imagination is particularly active. For example, this morning before I even left the condo:

—My mother dropped her glasses down the disposal and then forgot about them, so that when I flipped the switch to grind a rotten tomato, there was a sound like a five-car pileup in my kitchen.

—In the middle of my shower, with my hair full of shampoo, I found myself without water, and only then remembered the notice stuck to the front door yesterday:
WATER WILL BE SHUT OFF FOR REPAIR WORK, 8-10 A.M. WEDNESDAY. THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE.

—After I'd rinsed my hair with ice-cold water from the fridge, I looked through the closet for something not too dowdy to wear to court, something which might improve my spirits, but found only the familiar black and brown and gray suits, all appropriate but depressing, so I chose a green wool dress I hadn't worn in years, but the back zipper stuck halfway open. My mother, of course, was no help in this clothing emergency.

—Delores was late (her car wouldn't start), and after she helped me with the zipper she chose this time to let me know that she would definitely be leaving in three weeks and to ask me if I'd thought about putting “Miz Margaret in a home.” I snapped at her, then apologized, but on the drive to work I cried, which made my mascara run, which made me feel ridiculous.

I cross-examined myself:
You wear mascara about once a decade. Why today? Does it have anything to do with the fact that Judge Baynard will be presiding in the dog case? So it's true, isn't it, Ms. Baynard, that you're enjoying his attention?

At the office the devil continued to entertain himself at my expense.

“Rick Silber says he's having trouble with the interrogatories,” says Gina.

“He just needs to draft some responses. We'll fine-tune them.”

“I told him that. But he says he just can't face it, it's too painful.”

“Oh, for God's sake, he's a psychologist!”

“He suggested it might be easier if I came to his house.”

“Easier on whom?”

“I don't mind. I can go after work.”

“It's just a ploy to get in your pants.”

“Oh, I don't think so. He's not the type.”

“He was ‘the type' with his grad student, remember?”

“He sounded really pathetic on the phone.”

“He's good at that.”

“Don't be so cynical. By the way, Natalie Carter sent a retainer check and the signed retainer agreement, but the check was only half of what you quoted. And right after I opened the envelope her husband called, wanted to talk to you about the case. I guess she must have told him she hired you.”

“I'm not going to talk to him directly. Call him back and ask him who's representing him.”

“What do you want me to do with her check?”

“Deposit it, I guess. I'll deal with the rest later.”

“Okay. And I almost forgot to tell you, Dr. Borden signed the revised affidavit.”

“When?”

“I took it to him yesterday afternoon.”

“You're being awfully accommodating, Gina.”

“I live out that way, remember? He's adorable, but that clinic of his could use a woman's touch … Maybe some nice tile instead of that ancient linoleum, and some new furniture.”

“You better decide how you're going to spend your energy, Gina—tending to the psychologist who can't bear to answer interrogatories or the vet who needs a decorator.”

“Geez, you don't have to get so pissy.”

“It's been a bad morning.” But I don't have time to go into detail because I'm late for court.

“One more thing before you go,” she says. “I was looking through those photo albums Mrs. Hart brought in. Look at this.” She points to a photo of Sherman curled up on a bed.

“He's cute. But we already knew that,” I say.

“I'm not talking about Sherman. Look at that plaque on the wall behind him.”

I have to squint to read the writing:

Anna B. Hart

Student Citizenship Award

“So?” I say, already halfway to the door.

“I can't read the whole date, but it looks like this Anna would be in her thirties. You told me they didn't have any children, and I checked the pleadings. Sure enough, look at Mrs. Hart's complaint. Here it is:
There are no children of the marriage.
And Mr. Hart doesn't say anything to the contrary in his answer.”

“Could be a niece or something.”

“People don't hang plaques like that for their nieces.”

“Maybe it's just a mistake in the complaint.”

“Then why wouldn't he correct it?”

“Because it doesn't really matter. They're fighting over Sherman, not a grown-up daughter.”

Gina persists: “You've always told me that when people go to this much trouble to hide something, there's a reason. Here, as long as you're going to the courthouse, you might as well take the vet's affidavit and the motion to bifurcate.”

 

He Deserves It

The family court waiting area is overflowing with men, mostly in their twenties and thirties, and though it's only ten in the morning, they look as if they've spent the night here. This is what the lawyers call “Deadbeat Dad Day,” the Department of Social Services' once-a-month roundup of fathers who've failed to pay child support. These guys—and a sprinkling of women—will appear before a judge to offer their excuses:

—
Why should I pay her anything? She don't spend the money on the kids; she spends it on herself.

—
I had to make my car payment. If I lose my car, I lose my job.

—
I got two other kids in California, and one in New York.

And so on. The excuses run from lame to pathetic, with an occasional one that might earn the defendant a reprieve:
Judge, I lost my job six months ago. Here's a list of the places I've looked for work.
I've been appointed on so many of these cases, they all blend together in my head. At least this morning I can walk past the crowd of miserable men without having to look anyone in the eye and see that panic when I say, “I'll do my best, but you're probably going to jail.” Some of these guys look familiar. I move quickly so no one can grab me.

But it isn't a desperate delinquent dad who reaches out to touch my arm. It's the vet. “Good morning,” he says, but not warmly. “Can we get this over with? I've got a clinic full of animals waiting. I don't appreciate having some thug knock on my door at eleven at night with a subpoena.” He hands it to me.

“I didn't have anything to do with this. It's from Mrs. Hart's lawyer.”

“Do I have to stay, then? Like I said, I've got a full load at the clinic.” He's holding a file marked
HART, SHERMAN
.

“Yes, but it shouldn't take too long—fifteen minutes, half an hour at the most. And as long as you're here, we'll make sure your overdue bill gets paid.”

He follows me into the courtroom where Henry Swinton is waiting with Mrs. Hart. She nods my way. Just at the stroke of ten Michelle Marvel rushes in, her five-inch heels digging into the carpet, her mass of red hair even more dramatic than usual—did the wind do this, or is it some new product?—with Mr. Hart galumphing behind her, breathless.

“All rise!” announces the court reporter. “
Hart v. Hart
, Defendant's motion to require plaintiff to pay veterinarian's fees.”

Joe Baynard is still zipping up his robe as he takes the bench. “Take your seats, please,” he says. But I don't. He notices. “Ms. Baynard, you have something to say before we proceed with Mr. Hart's motion?”

“Yes, your honor. This is Dr. Tony Borden, the veterinarian. He is here because Mr. Swinton had him served—at eleven last night—with a subpoena.” I hand the paper to my ex-husband, at which point Henry Swinton jumps to his feet. I hear him inhale in preparation for a speech, but I cut him off. “There is no excuse for this late notice. While I don't represent Dr. Borden, I would ask the court to order that Mr. Swinton—not his client—pay Dr. Borden's fees as an expert witness, plus an additional amount in the court's discretion, considering the late notice and the fact that Dr. Borden is missing an entire morning of appointments.” Tony Borden's sitting as far back in the courtroom as he can get.

Henry Swinton puffs up. “We apologize, your honor. My secretary is new, and this was her mistake.” His righteousness is almost convincing.

Michelle Marvel jumps up. “We're distressed that Dr. Borden has had his schedule interrupted without proper notice, your honor, but as long as he's here, we hope he can testify as to matters pertinent to the welfare of the dog.”

Henry Swinton slaps his pen on the table. “Judge, this hearing has nothing to do with the welfare of the dog. We are here on my client's motion for an order clarifying the temporary order by requiring Mr. Hart to pay the vet's fees, because, as your honor will soon be convinced, Mr. Hart's negligence has inflated those fees.”

Michelle Marvel: “Your honor, the temporary order requires Mr. Hart to pay his wife a very generous monthly alimony payment, which he has been paying in a timely fashion. Your honor set the alimony amount based on Mrs. Hart's sworn financial declaration, which listed monthly expenses—including her estimate of the veterinary costs—and it is therefore her responsibility to pay those expenses, at least until the trial.”

If this were any other case in family court, Joe would listen to the lawyers for a total of maybe five minutes, then announce his decision. But this is “the dog case,” as I've heard it referred to at the coffee shop, and the usual rules don't seem to apply. So I'm not really surprised when Joe says, “I'll hear the plaintiff's motion regarding the payment of Dr. Borden's veterinary fees, and then if there are matters pertaining to the welfare of the dog, I'll be happy to consider those as well. Ms. Baynard, as guardian for the animal, I'm sure you're interested in his welfare.” He doesn't wait for me to object, because he knows I can't. “Dr. Borden, I thank you for your patience. You may proceed with your motion, Mr. Swinton.”

My ex-husband leans back in his fake-leather chair, then forward, then back again, bobbing lazily, fiddling with the zipper on his black robe, leaning back again so far I think he might disappear altogether, then rising and looking back at me, smiling, as if he has all the time in the world. I should be angry with him, but I like the smile. I've missed it.

Henry Swinton calls Tony Borden to the stand. “Dr. Borden, you have provided veterinary services for the dog for the past five years, is that correct?”

“Four and a half, actually.”

“You brought your billing file with you, as well as your records of the services provided to the dog?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Would you tell the court what the balance due is, as of today?”

“$850.00.”

Swinton seems surprised by this, but he keeps going. “And it's true, isn't it, that most of that bill is the result of your treatment of Sherman for a broken foot?”

“More than half, yes sir.”

“And the broken foot was the result of Mr. Hart's negligence, isn't that correct?”

Michelle Marvel jumps up, objects. Joe bobs forward. “Sustained.”

Swinton rephrases: “Dr. Borden, what is your understanding of how the injury occurred?”

“A car swerved and hit Sherman.”

“Who was with the dog when the injury occurred?”

“Mr. Hart, I believe.”

“Was the dog on his leash at the time?”

“I don't think so, but according to what Mr. Hart told me, it wouldn't have made any difference.”

“So I take it you're accepting Mr. Hart's version of what occurred at the time of the accident?”

The microphone picks up Tony Borden's sigh. He looks up at Joe. “You know, Judge, I don't want to take sides. This whole thing,” and now he looks back at me, “makes me uncomfortable.” He's a nice guy. I want to protect him. And I can't help noticing once again—though I caution myself it is absolutely, totally irrelevant—how sexy he is. Is this some special hell, custom-made for the three of us: my crazy ex-husband, this vet, and me?