A Southern Girl (62 page)

Back in Saigon, I shower with the frenzied intensity of a man exposed to excessive radiation. The suffocating tunnels of Cu Chi, the grit of the roadside near Duc Lap, the compost, fly-filled air of the farms yields to soap and water, then spirals down the drain with a gurgle. I towel off and fall naked on the bed, asleep instantly.

The following day is our last full one in Vietnam. We spend it sightseeing and shopping. Mr. Quan’s narration tends toward what this building or that park used to be, so that after two hours we have seen Saigon as though on a recorded tour utilizing stale cassettes. And he is weary, falling asleep whenever he is not speaking or moving. For the past two nights he has renewed his old habit of prowling, perhaps today reminded that the tomcat he once was needs to spend more time curled up on the hearth.

My sleep that night is erratic and I rise early, packing and pacing. I am looking forward to our rendezvous with Allie in Athens, the only city that
would bring us together for a flight home. In Mr. Quan’s room there is no answer. I go to his door, rapping firmly. No response.

I’m at breakfast when he arrives, looking fit and chipper, smiling as he enters and greeting the hostess cordially. At the table, he declines a menu from an approaching waitress.

“Would you mind,” he asks, “if I do not accompany you on your return?”

“You’re staying here?” I ask.

“For a time. I have to explore some business prospects.”

I smile. “You were with a business prospect last evening?”

He returns my smirk with a flicker of his eyebrows. “Saigon has changed but there is great opportunity here.”

“What about your enterprise?”

“Pham can take care of things for a time. Then, a decision.”

“I think I can handle getting back. You’re sure about this?”

“No. But by the standards here I have become a veddy wealthy man. Perhaps it is time to address … other matters.”

“I understand. I can manage.”

“I will speak to Pham by phone. Then, if you carry to him some written instructions, I will be grateful.”

At the airport I thank him for all he has done. He in turn thanks me, by which I think I grasp the change in him over these past few days. I am in line to board when he waves his last farewell, already striding confidently toward the exit. Soon, he is indistinguishable among the throng waiting for taxis.

38

In Athens, Allie and I board a plane for New York. We talk for hours. Her time in Korea has changed her in some way I will need to come to terms with, but not today. While she “fell in love” with Hana’s children, the nurse told her all she knew about Allie’s first months of life. Hana repeated the account of her birth mother’s visits, trying to summon a physical description of a woman she met only briefly. In a lighter moment, Allie mentioned upper blepharoplasty surgery. “Very popular,” Hana
conceded, “but still surgery. Did you know those scars you have almost kept you from being adopted? While you are here we will visit Faith Stockdale. She is retired now, but I want her to meet you. It is my way of telling her ‘I told you so.’” They talked of a reunion in Charleston.

Upon our return, I stop at the Red Dragon as Mr. Quan had requested. Pham’s English is limited. He nods and smiles often, but we do not communicate easily. I give him his employer’s written instructions and stay long enough to impress upon him my availability to help should legal problems arise.

Carter & Deas is unchanged. Within twelve hours of being back on U.S. soil I have a cluttered desk and calendar. Harris is glad to see me, asks the usual questions, and advises me of an appointment with Middleton tomorrow.

“We both need to be there,” he insists. Cathcart has cut his fees again and a final negotiation session, with partners from the two firms sequestered at opposite ends of City Hall, has been arranged. “The city is enjoying this game,” Harris reports. “They’re using Cathcart as a bludgeon to get us cheap. If we’re not careful this contract won’t be worth winning.”

The lawsuit Natalie has prepared will reopen Pandora’s box where the Arts Center is concerned. I have not told Harris, although I must before walking into tomorrow’s showdown at City Hall. Then, there is my unqualified disclaimer to the press, the legal equivalent of its political counterpart, “If nominated I will not run, if elected I will not serve.” My plate will be piled high with crow to be eaten over disavowal of legal action “now or ever.”

Natalie has prepared well in my absence. On the afternoon of my return I stop by her office to read the seventeen page complaint. I close her door long enough for a welcoming kiss before we turn to business. The suit is skillfully drafted, naming both the St. Simeon and the city as defendants. Pursuant to my instructions in a phone call from Vietnam, she has not named the Board members in their individual capacities.

“This is not a lay-down,” I say as I finish reading.

Natalie looks up from the work on her desk. “Are you kidding? At best it’s twenty-five, seventy five. It’s the old state action problem.”

As a lawyer, I understand. Cases dealing with equal protection, the constitutional guaranty at issue in a case such as this one, usually require a showing of state action, loosely translated as participation by the
government in the denial of the right. Without such a showing, individuals or groups are relatively free to discriminate in their personal affairs. Because of the city’s chartering of the Society, we have hopes of showing government sanctioning of the objectionable conduct. While the city gives the Society no funds and no tax breaks, the very act of authorizing its formation in 1766 may be sufficient to be deemed state action by the courts, many of which tend to go to substantial lengths to find it. If not, we will probably lose, according to Natalie, and I don’t disagree.

“So, what do you think, counselor?” she asks.

“Damn good job. Very professional.”

“Thanks. Now what?”

“I called Margarite before coming here. Everyone on the Board will be there tomorrow night. She said she had to listen to an exhaustive explanation from Charlotte about Roberts Rules of Order, of which she knows little, and some link she sees between reconsidering my request and storage of nuclear waste from the Savannah River power plant. She said Doc Francis seemed pleased, Jeanette changed her mind a dozen times, Sandy Charles had a meeting she couldn’t get out of, then did.”

“What about Adelle?” Natalie asks.

“Margarite didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.”

“They know I’m coming?”

“Yes,” I say, remembering the pause on Margarite’s end. “Margarite assured me that she certainly has no objection, but she wanted to know what explanation she could give. I said to tell them you’re an anthropologist doing research for National Geographic. She laughed at that, then said, ‘But Coleman, they’ll know her purpose.’ ‘Precisely,’ I told her.”

Natalie smiles vaguely at this account. “Should be an interesting meeting.”

I look back to the complaint in my lap. “Want me to sign it now?”

“Please. Also, you need to sign the retainer agreement Susan prepared. It’s on her desk.”

“Is this the one that says we have to be ethically correct in our personal relationship?”

“Don’t you think that would be advisable? At least until this is over?”

“I suppose you’re right. I don’t have to like it, do I?”

“Nor I. I prepared the outline of an appeal if the District judge turns us down, but my experience with the Fourth Circuit is limited. That might be a good time to bring in another firm. Then you and I can begin acting like the depraved people we wish to be.”

“I can’t wait,” I say. “How about one more kiss before I sign the damn retainer.”

On the following afternoon, Harris and I block off an hour together to prepare for the gunfight at City Hall. He is relaxed, confident, sliding into the chair in the main conference room with his natural ease. Clearly, he does not suspect that prior to squaring off against the city he will be waylaid by his own partner. I hate this.

Our staff has prepared duplicate briefing notebooks in blue vinyl binders. Harris opens his to the index, scans it, then flips to an exhibit. “Why don’t we start with Camilla’s spreadsheet, tab C,” he says. I make no move to open my book. He looks up. “Coleman?”

“Yeah?”

“Tab C, you with me?”

“No.”

“Would you rather begin somewhere else?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. What exhibit?”

“This one. It’s not in the books.” I reach into my briefcase and extract a copy of Natalie’s complaint. I slide it across the table. He picks it up, rapidly reads the style and first paragraphs, and replaces it on the table. Then he takes his glasses off, rubs his eyes wearily, replaces the glasses, and sighs.

“Oh, boy. Here we go again, eh?”

“The vote by the Board was six to one against issuing Allie an invitation,” I say. “Margarite Huger supported me. The only one.”

“Margarite’s a neat lady,” he says. “Has this been filed?”

“No. I’m meeting with them tonight. If I don’t get what I want, I’ll plunk it down first thing tomorrow morning.”

Harris rubs his chin. “What are your odds?”

“Tonight or if the suit is filed?”

“Both.”

“Better with the Board than in the courts.”

Harris puffs his cheeks, his mind racing as I have seen it do so often when, in the middle of a trial, a quick tactical decision must be made. He is considering the safest way to defuse this bomb, and I am the bomb. “Who else is on the Board?”

I list the members, omitting only Adelle. He nods at each name.

“I can help with Sandy Charles,” he says. “Clarkson surprises me.”

“It shocked me.”

He rubs his chin. “Charlotte will be hopeless,” he says. “What about old Dr. Francis?”

I relate the St. Philip’s rapprochement, including Doc Francis’s expressed regret at his vote on Allie.

“I could call him,” Harris says, “but it sounds as though he’s come around. Better leave it alone.”

“That’s my thought too.”

“Jeanette? … your guess is as good as mine.”

“Adelle Roberts is a no,” I say casually.

His eyes cut at me hard. “Adelle is on the Board? I had forgotten. Did you mention her a moment ago?”

“No.”

“You’re telling me Adelle voted against you?”

“I’m telling you the vote was six to one and she was among the six.”

“But aren’t you—?”

“We were. I’m seeing Natalie Berman, the woman who prepared this suit.”

Harris lets out a subdued whistle. “It’s a good thing this situation isn’t complicated.”

“It’s bordering on fiction, I agree.”

“So Adelle’s pride got wounded and she took revenge?”

“No. Natalie came later.” I relate Allie’s relationship with Christopher and the meltdown with Adelle.

“So you’re dating your lawyer now?” Harris shakes his head. “Careful you don’t get your ass in a sling, partner.”

“We’ve covered that,” I assure him.

Harris rises, suddenly restless. He paces back and forth in front of the two framed prints on the far wall, both scenes of hunters riding to the hounds. He glances at his watch. “In thirty minutes we’re due at City Hall,” he says. “What do you suggest?”

“We have to level with them, don’t we?”

“Coleman, if we go into this meeting raising the possibility—no, probability—that by noon tomorrow we’ll be suing them, we’re dead.”

“We can’t conceal it.”

“I know. I’m thinking delay. Maybe Carlton can postpone this meeting.” Harris goes to the small table in the corner, dials the conference room phone, and waits. Moments later he has Carlton Middleton on the line.

“Carlton, Harris. We’ve run into some glitches over here. Any chance of rescheduling this? I know it’s short notice.”

Harris listens, his face tensing as Middleton’s voice, normally docile, rises. Harris moves the receiver from directly over his ear. I catch words and phrases of Middleton’s diatribe.

“I understand, Carlton,” Harris says. “Your office has been patient. Do what you have to do.” He hangs up, holding the receiver for several seconds before turning back to me. “They’re afraid they’ll catch hell in the press if there is more delay. They’re going ahead with the meeting.”