Lawyer for the Dog (8 page)

“Joe, what's going on? You didn't need to hand-deliver this.”

“Just wanted a little fresh air. I hate that damn courthouse.”

“Well, I'm kind of busy.”

“It still makes you nervous to be around me, doesn't it?”

“A little, I guess.”

“Ever think why that is?”

“Joe—”

“Maybe it's because you still care a little bit about me.” His voice is very soft, so soft I can barely hear him. And then he starts to cry. Hundreds of my clients have sat on this sofa and cried. I've doled out the tissues, an entire forest of tissues. I'm an expert at counseling and calming, but when it comes to my ex-husband's tears I have no professional skills; I just do the only thing that seems right: I sit down next to him and take his hand. We sit there for perhaps two minutes, both silent. Then he stands up and heads toward the door.

“I'm so sorry,” he says.

“Have you and Susan been to counseling?” I ask.

“It wouldn't do any good.”

“It might. And maybe you should see someone individually.”

“I know what I need,” he says, squeezing my hand.

“I don't think this is a good idea,” I say, pulling it away. Before I can say anything else, he's gone, practically running down the hall toward the elevator.

Gina, of course, is more than curious. “Jeez, he seems kind of frantic. What happened back there?”

“Nothing. He just brought me another motion in the
Hart
case.”

“That's weird.”

“Yeah, it was a little weird.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“There's nothing to talk about.”

“Okay, if you say so. Don't forget Mr. Hart, at three. His house.”

 

Lusting in My Heart

The front door of the Harts' downtown house is supersized, mahogany or something, spit-shined so I can see myself in it, with an ornate brass doorknob the size of a grapefruit. I expect a maid in a starched uniform to open this kind of door, but no, it's Mr. Hart himself. “Welcome,” he says, without enthusiasm. He doesn't seem grand enough for his house. His flannel shirt is faded and wrinkled, and his toenails have poked holes through his canvas loafers.

I've been inside houses in this neighborhood before, for bar association parties and charity fundraisers, and I've spent many evenings at Joe's parents' home just down the street, but this house is more spectacular than the Baynards'. This is as fancy as Charleston gets, an address any aspiring blue blood would covet. The chandelier in the entrance hall looks like it should hang in a chateau.

Mr. Hart sees me staring up at it. “We pay some fellow four hundred dollars to clean it—three times a year,” he says.

“It's magnificent,” I respond, as if I need to defend it.

“Hate the damn thing,” he growls. He looks at his watch. “You're early. She hasn't brought Sherman yet.”

“That's okay, we can talk.”

“She's supposed to bring him at three. Want to sit in there?” He points to the room on our right, a very formal-looking parlor with furniture that seems to have been here a long, long time, the kind of furniture that looks like it's never been sat on. “Or there's the piazza on the third floor. That might be better. Nice day. Good view of Fort Sumter. Lemonade or something?”

“No thanks.”

I follow him up the wide staircase. He's probably thirty pounds overweight, and at the first landing he stops to catch his breath. “You okay?” I ask.

“Just fat and slow, as my wife would say.” We stop several more times before we reach the top. He holds onto the railing, sways a little. “Doctor says I need one of those stress tests, for the heart, but I tell him my old ticker's survived plenty of stress already, it'll probably keep on ticking without the intervention of the medical establishment.”

On the piazza we sit in white wicker rockers overlooking the harbor. The view is breathtaking. “Wow, I feel kind of like Scarlett O'Hara up here,” I say, though never once in my life have I felt like Scarlett O'Hara. Below us a horse-drawn carriage moves along the street, its driver shouting facts to tourists. Except for the cars, this neighborhood probably looks much as it did before the Civil War—or, as my mother still calls it, the War Between the States.

He hands me binoculars. “We're just down the street from where Mary Chestnut watched the bombardment of the fort. You ever read her diary?”

“No.”

“Ought to,” says Mr. Hart. “She really tells it like it is. Or was. First night of the war those crazy Confederates sat on their porches—right here—drinking mint juleps, partying while the fort got pounded. Convinced themselves the war would be over in a week, the Yanks would surrender. They should have listened to Petigru.”

“Petigru?”

“James Petigru. The lawyer. Stood up at the secession convention and said, ‘South Carolina is too small for a republic and too large for an insane asylum.' Brilliant fellow, but nobody listened to him. But I guess you aren't here for a history lesson, are you?”

I take out my legal pad. “You understand my role in the case, Mr. Hart?”

“Want me to be honest?”

“Sure.”

“Now mind you, young lady, I have nothing against you, but it seems crazy to me, adding another lawyer into the case. Two is too many.”

“I can understand how you feel, but I think Judge Baynard is trying to make sure Sherman's interests are fully protected.”

“Would he do the same thing for a goldfish?”

“I doubt many people fight over goldfish.”

“But isn't this, uh, this situation … unusual? I mean the guardian thing?”

“For a dog, yes. But Judge Baynard has already made up his mind about that, and unless your lawyer can convince an appellate court to reverse the decision before trial—”

“God, no. She's already told me that's not likely to happen. Besides, I'm sure once you've done your work you'll do the right thing, and then Sherman and I can get our lives back to normal.”

“Why don't you tell me about that … your life with him.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything you want to tell me.”

“Sherman's my best buddy.”

“I'm sure he'd be flattered.”

“I mean it. Rather spend time with Sherman than anybody I know.”

“What kinds of things do you do together?” I sound like a social worker.

“Used to spend a lot of time at the beach together until Maryann decided we were having too much fun out there. He likes to chase shorebirds. Never catches anything, of course, but a man's gotta have hope, know what I mean?”

“How long have you been retired, Mr. Hart?”

“Four, no … five years. Good time to get out of the banking business.”

“You were president of First National, right?”

“What does this have to do with the dog?” He flicks an insect off his trousers.”Sorry, don't mean to be rude. Yeah, I was president of Palmetto State Bank when we got taken over by First American out of Charlotte, which got taken over by First National. The usual corporate gobbling—eat or be eaten. When I started out in banking, I knew every customer by name, knew their mammas and their daddies. If a young couple came in for a mortgage, I'd take care of them, tell them how much house they could afford. If they couldn't afford the house they'd set their hearts on, I'd level with them. I didn't want them getting in over their heads.” He smacks his leg, but a fast fly evades him. “You see these mansions all around us? Lots of these people are up to their eyeballs in debt. They borrowed way more than the damn house is worth, and the bank didn't care because, guess what, it knew it was going to sell the note to some outfit, who'd then bundle it with a bunch of other notes, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Pretty soon nobody even remembers the idiots who've gotten in over their heads. But then the whole house of cards collapsed.”

I nod. “So, you're glad to be out of the business.”

“Damn right. Sorry for the rant, but I'm getting around to something: You got any idea what it costs to maintain one of these things? A house like this?”

“I can imagine.”

“That's what Maryann does. She
imagines.
Listen, I tell her, here's the deal. You want a divorce, fine, but even if you end up with half our assets, you can't keep this house. It's paid for, but you can't afford to maintain it. Costs close to thirty thousand just to paint it, never mind the taxes, insurance, gardener, pool man, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. She's asking for alimony, of course, but there's only one pot of money. We were talking about selling it anyway, before all this … this nonsense. The judge will understand that, right?”

“Mr. Hart—”

“I'm telling you, even if she gets
more
than half, it won't be enough for her. Jesus, half the queen's treasury wouldn't be enough to keep her in the style to which … She hasn't figured that out yet, because she's never had to worry about money, thinks I'm just a damn bank, but let me tell you, this particular old piggy bank—” he taps his chest—“is going to need a bailout soon, and I don't think the government is going to step in to help old Rusty Hart, do you?” He's sweating. “Sure you don't want some lemonade?”

“No, thanks.”

“Well, if you want to know the truth, I'd give her most of the money, I'd go live in a damn single-wide, if she'd let me keep Sherman … No way she's going to get Sherman.”

“That's for the judge to decide, Mr. Hart.”

“But you and I both know he's passed the buck, right? You're the one who's going to make a recommendation, and whatever you say, he'll do.”

“I'm not allowed to make a recommendation, exactly, just a report on my investigation.”

“Okay, a report, but he probably won't have to do too much reading between the lines. He knows how you think. Must have a lot of respect for you, even after you divorced him.”

So Mr. Hart knows the history. Of course he does.

I change the subject. “Do you think your wife loves Sherman as much as you do?”

“Maybe. But she doesn't understand him.”

“What do you mean?”

“She treats him like a child. All that ridiculous baby talk. It's an insult to Sherman.”

“And how do
you
treat him?”

“We're buddies. I respect him.”

“You respect him?”

“Sure. He's not just my little plaything … Speak of the devil, here they are. Guess we'd better go down.”

I follow him downstairs but stand on the front porch as he steps onto the sidewalk and opens the passenger door of Mrs. Hart's huge black Mercedes. I hear shouting.

Mrs. Hart: “Don't you dare let him off his leash…”

Mr. Hart: “… damn control freak…”

Mrs. Hart: “… always so irresponsible.”

And then Sherman hops onto the sidewalk, pulling against the leash. Mr. Hart slams the car door, hard. As soon as the car disappears he lets Sherman off the leash. “Sit!” he says firmly, and the dog obeys. “Good boy.”

Mr. Hart looks back at me. “Want to join us for a walk in White Point Gardens?”

“Sure. That would be nice.”

*   *   *

Later, after I've given my mother her dinner, bathed her, and settled her into bed, I make some notes:

Mr. H lets Sherman walk w/out leash.

S seems to enjoy playing with other dogs in the park but seems na
ï
ve about bigger dogs.

S is gentle with children.

Mr. H says he wouldn't want to go on living without S.

Mr. H denies affair.

He'd laughed when I asked him about that. “Oh, for God's sake, that girl's our next-door neighbor, known her since she was a kid. She's in college now, had some trouble with an economics course. I offered to help.”

“But isn't there a videotape?”

“Yeah, Maryann had to go hire herself a detective. He must have been pretty disappointed! The girl came over to the beach house one night while I was living there by myself. She needed help with an assignment. I did my best, though I was never much on the academic econ stuff. Right before she left she gave me a friendly peck on the cheek.”

“That's it?”

“She's like a granddaughter. I hope Maryann's detective enjoyed himself, sitting in the bushes, waiting for that little kiss. Bet he'll buy a new boat with what she'll pay him. Don't get me wrong, I'm no saint … but this doesn't have anything to do with the dog, does it?”

“I'm just trying to understand the whole situation, that's all.”

“Wish I
could
commit adultery, but the old equipment's not … Guess you could say I lust in my heart, like … who was it? Jimmy Carter? Do me a favor, next time you talk to my wife, ask her where she disappears to for hours at a time.”

“Do you think
she's
unfaithful?”

“Would surprise the hell out of me, given her, uh, attitude toward intimate relations, but I've called over there a couple of times, at night, and she doesn't answer. I'm just concerned about Sherman being alone all that time. She can be so damn selfish. Anna used to call her ‘Queen of the Universe.'”

“Who's Anna?”

“I've done enough talking today,” he said. The look on his face—pained, sad—made me back off despite my instincts. And besides, I was distracted by Sherman, especially when a toddler bounded up to him and pulled his ear. He didn't snap, didn't even bark, just backed away for a moment, then did a kind of dance around the little girl, as if to say, “Let's play some more.”

“He's a good boy, isn't he?” said Mr. Hart.