Shane demands to speak to Chet again, and from the expression on Chet’s face, it is obvious that he is receiving a lecture about his choice of a sidekick for this case. As I listen to Chet’s attempt to pacify him, it hits me even harder that Shane considers himself Chet’s client. Chet makes no mention of Leigh’s story about the nude video, which comes as a relief. I don’t know how valuable this information is or even whether it is true, but since Chet doesn’t share it with Shane, at least his loyalties now seem to be clear, which is no small accomplishment
Chet hangs up the phone with a sour expression on his face. I can’t tell whether it is a result of the conversation or of pain. The call has distracted him. I know he is thinking he is betraying the man who saved his life.
He says, “I wish she had told you where she was going.”
I look down at my pad. I have written: Leigh?
“I have the note at home saying she would call. She didn’t say she was going home.” But I had assumed it. Where else would she go? Yet, a woman like Leigh must have had many friends before she and Art quit being so involved at Christian Life. Hell, they still went once a week even up to his death.
“She’ll call.”
But when I check with my office at nine and then ten only to find she hasn’t tried to contact either of us, Chet and I grind to a halt. We can only do so much preparation without Leigh. He tells me to make sure I call Jessie St. vrain today and get her on a plane. Shane isn’t going to be the only suspect in the case. We probably won’t be able to get her testimony in, but if we can, it will give the jury something else to think about. I have an uncontested divorce at eleven, so I leave promising to call him as soon as I hear from Leigh, and he does the same.
“I’ll get a subpoena for the secretary,” I say, standing up.
“What’s her name?”
Chet answers with a sigh, “I already did.”
I suppress a smile. I know he’s serious now.
“How do you want to handle this afternoon?” I ask, afraid he will tell me at the last minute he doesn’t want me present
He remains seated, staring into the fire.
“Let me do the talking. If he’s got something we don’t know about,” he says hoarsely, “I want him to have the opportunity to tell me.”
I touch his arm.
“I know this is tough for you.”
He doesn’t answer, and I go into the kitchen to thank Wynona for breakfast. Chet seems very tired already, leaving me to wonder how he will get through two days of trial. Adrenaline will take you just so far in trying a case. You need stamina to concentrate for two days of trial. The look on Wynona’s face tells me that I will need to be ready. I wonder what Wynona will think of her husband when she finds out he intends to accuse Shane of murder. I know what the women in my life think.
9
As I come through the door, Julia calls loudly, “You got a letter on the bow-wow case.” The six people in the waiting room all look up to see which lawyer on the floor refers to his clients in such a charming manner.
“Be right with you,” I say to my uncontested divorce client, a girl in her late teens who nudges the female next to her. The woman, her mother and witness, who will corroborate residency and grounds, rolls her eyes as if to say her daughter’s taste in men hasn’t improved.
“Any calls?” I ask, riffling through my message box as I examine the return address: Jason’s. Beneath it is a picture of Lassie.
Julia scowls as if I had asked her to disrobe.
“I just talked to you a half hour ago. Who do you think wants you so bad? At this rate you’re gonna want to get a car phone. Bracken probably has one, am I right?”
I motion to my client and her mother to come for ward, and I glance at Jason’s letter. Incredibly, there is a check for five hundred dollars made out to Wilma Chestnut. At the bottom is written: Return of Bernard Junior’s tuition. I can’t believe it. I feel like hugging the two women next to me. Jason has enclosed a short note:
“In a former life. Giddy Page, I have no doubt you were a Doberman. I have found these outwardly normal animals to be the only large-size canines in existence utterly devoid of the possibilities of metaphysical growth. Your regression, as reflected in your life’s work, is only natural. Very Sadly Yours, Jason Von Jason.”
“This is my mom, Mr. Page,” my client says, nodding at her mother, who is popping a pill into her mouth. My client’s husband began beating her on their wedding night and left her six months later for a prostitute just released from prison for manslaughter. Without her bruises, Arvetta Kennedy is pretty in a wormy, underfed sort of way, but her mother’s face shows the ravages of cigarette smoking and eighteen years of raising Arvetta.
“Kathy Harris, Mr. Page,” the older woman says.
“Arvetta is thinking of dismissing her complaint for divorce from that piece of shit. If you let her, I will make your life miserable. Do you hear me?”
Arvetta begins to sniffle.
“Aw, Mom, Bobby can really be neat a lot of me time.”
Everyone in the waiting room looks at me.
“Let’s talk about this in my office,” I say, glaring at Julia to keep her mouth shut at least until I am out of her presence.
I am back from the courthouse in half an hour. (Judge Rand was in one of his moods in which he violates the statutes and judicial canons and signs the divorce decree without a word of testimony: “You’re divorced; have a nice day.”) I call mrs. Chestnut with the good news.
“I’m sending you a check for five hundred dollars,” I say, feeling as if I had taken on Shell Oil and won.
There is a silence at the other end.
“I don’t think I should take the money,” she says sweetly.
“Bernard Junior can really try a person’s patience. Just lately, he’s forgetting to go to the bathroom outside, and he’s four years old!”
From behind my desk I look out the window and wonder if I could learn to be a truck driver.
“I’ve already put the check in the mail and closed your file,” I lie, holding up the check to see if it has been written in disappearing ink.
“You do whatever you want.”
mrs. Chestnut’s voice quivers with righteous indignation.
“Mr. Von Jason was a nice man! I think Bernard Junior misses him.”
Over lunch in the cafeteria downstairs I tell Dan about the last eighteen hours. Sucking on the meatless carcass of a chicken breast that is now so dry he can practically whistle a tune on it, he nods.
“So Chet is finally coming around? It’s about goddamn time.”
Trying not to watch Dan, I sip at my coffee. I have had so much caffeine today I could begin my own coffee plantation by pissing in my front yard.
“And after all this, he’ll probably drop dead in the middle of the trial.”
Dan finally wipes his mouth on his napkin.
“The ultimate sympathy plea,” he says with a grin.
“What a great way to go out.” He eyes the dessert section and begins to drum his fingers. He has promised Brenda to cut out sweets during the day. I know how Dan is going out. He pushes up from the table.
“Don’t wish for something too hard. You may get it. I’ll be right back.
Want some more coffee?”
“No, thanks,” I say, mulling over Dan’s remark. Do I really want this case so badly now that I’d wish death on somebody? Damn, am I that grotesque? Perhaps. Beginning with last night’s conversation with Sarah, the last twenty-four hours have seemed like one long ache.
Jennifer with a “J” is telling her friends, “I met this sad-sack lawyer last night who practically started bawling on the dance floor. I would have gone home with him but I was afraid I’d drown if he got on top of me.” How can I blame Velvetta, or whatever her name was, for wanting to go back to her husband? I’m just as pathetic.