Gideon - 02 - Probable Cause (24 page)

“You didn’t expect to hide it, did you?” I ask, needing a confirmation. I don’t always know why women cry. I hand her the box of tissues from my desk. My office may not be pretty, but now at least it has the necessities.

She nods, a look of genuine misery on her face, and wipes her eyes with fingers as white as chalk. It seems as if all the blood in her body has rushed to her neck and head. “I didn’t think anyone knew.”

As if in celebration of getting the truth, I tap another chunk of ice from the cup into my mouth. My lips are already so numb I doubt if I sound normal. I must be taking some perverse pleasure from this exercise in ruining the few decent teeth I have left in my head. Embarrassed to spit the ice back into the cup, I swallow it whole and begin to cough.

“It’s hard to do things in secret,” I sympathize between wheezes, almost in tears myself from having forced the ice down my throat. My concern for her, however, is genuine. My own life is Exhibit A. I can go to the seediest bar in town in the dead of night, and the next day I might as well have taken an ad out in the paper, so many people will have seen me.

“How do you think Andy will handle the news becoming public?” I ask, leaning in against my desk. I am overselling the danger of exposure (as far as I know, no one has so much as seen them holding hands), but I need to get her perspective on what it means.

Olivia brings her hands up to her mouth and begins to nibble on what was, until now, a perfect nail.

“He’ll worry about what it will do to me.”

Nervously, I begin to tap the cup against the edge of the desk. Saint Andy the Unselfish. This won’t do.

“You realize this is all the more reason he shouldn’t have been working with Pam.”

A sad smile comes to Olivia’s face as she forces her hands to her knees.

“What you mean is that the typical juror, whether it’s conscious racism or not, will punish Andy for having an affair with a white woman.”

That, too, I realize, but she is one step ahead of me. I take the cup, which still has ice in it, and drop it into the plastic wastepaper basket beside my desk, realizing that though this woman may be upset, she can still think. My lawyer’s mind was worrying about the hammer this information, if disclosed, would give to Jill Marymount. In her place, I would argue that Andy’s professional judgment as a psychologist was hopelessly compromised by his relationship with the child’s mother. Yet, as Olivia has suggested, perhaps infinitely more powerful will be the unvoiced argument that society must punish Andy for the transgression of one of the few remaining American sexual taboos. Whatever the cost, a hint of this must not get to the jury, or the real trial might not ever begin. I resist the urge to lecture her. It is my client whom I need to take to the woodshed. I tell her, “If we can prevent this from even being hinted at in court, Andy has a chance. If not, as you surmised, he’s beaten before we get started. I would guess that even blacks on the jury, and there will be a couple for sure, would resent it.”

Her head cocked at a slight angle to the right, Olivia shifts slightly in her seat.

“Are you asking me to lie to the jury?”

“No,” I say automatically, noting her tone didn’t convey much surprise, “but I don’t want you to lie to me either.”

At this stage I have to assume she is what she seems a distraught but honest woman caught in a mess. Do I want her to lie? Yes, but I am forbidden to permit her to do so. It isn’t fair that racial bigotry could decide this case regardless of the lip service that race has nothing to do with it. Black defendants have been subject to prejudice for years because of their color, but not until I entered private practice have I gotten this bent out of shape over their treatment. Since the outcome of this case will have an effect on my practice, I can feel my indignation rising at the injustice of racial discrimination.

At the Public Defender’s Office, we used to play Ain’t It Awful? with this issue, but the paychecks kept coming whether we lost or not. I doubt if paying clients will be that tolerant.

“When did this start?” I ask, wondering how many other people suspect what Yettie Lindsey intuitively knew. I fold my hands across my chest to keep them still.

Olivia studies the ceiling for an answer, further exposing her long, graceful neck.

“Since about two months before Pam died,” she says, again composed.

I study this woman, whose normally cool demeanor has returned. Women, like men, are not averse to using sex to get what they want. Unlike men, they can, if the occasion demands, be subtle about it. I ask, hoping my sudden skepticism isn’t apparent, “Whose idea was it?”

As if she knows what I’m thinking, she gives me a wan smile, barely exposing straight, milk-white teeth.

“Mine. I felt enormously grateful to him. How could I not fall in love with the one man who was trying to help my child? Andy doesn’t think or act like other men. He doesn’t stop and figure out the cost. By the way, he didn’t try to seduce me; I seduced him.” She gives me a fierce look, as if she expects me to react, and continues, “But now that Pam is dead I’m really confused about how I feel about Andy. Maybe he did use my child to get to me. I don’t think so, but I don’t know.”

Andy using her? A nice twist, putting the idea in my male mind. I lean back in my chair, trying to decide if she was simply ready for me or whether she has been extremely candid.

Yet my own reading of Andy doesn’t change. As idealistic as he is, he could have been thinking he was embarking on the great love affair of the century. Maybe they’re both for real. Who knows? My chair begins to squeak, and I stop the rocking I have unconsciously begun. As Olivia herself has pointed out, few people serving on an Arkansas jury will sympathize with either of them.

“I don’t know about his personal motivation,” I admit, “but as a professional psychologist he’s going to be held to certain standards.”

She nods soberly, and I am forced to conclude that she is telling me the truth. So what if she came on to this guy to get him to try to help her child? People have gone to bed for a lot less noble motives. What we call “love” always has a price. I feel my own blood begin to quicken. What is it that this lanky, angular woman has to offer Andy that couldn’t be better satisfied by a younger, more voluptuous female of his own race? Is it the forbidden fruit that tempts us all? I have wondered more than once if that wasn’t the initial reason I was attracted to Sarah’s mother. Southern boys at one time had a long history of crossing to the other side of town. I ask, “Who have you told about this relationship?”

Now seemingly more relaxed, she slumps back against her chair.

“No one, of course. Who has seen us?”

Now that some of the tension in the room seems to have dissipated, I notice my stomach growling. It is almost time for lunch.

“Yettie Lindsey has seen all the signs, but I doubt if she can implicate you directly.”

Olivia’s eyes narrow and she once again becomes alert.

Competition is good for the circulation.

“She does everything but take off her clothes in front of Andy.”

I keep from nodding but just barely.

“She feels like you’re moving in on what ought to be her territory.”

“Did she say that?” she asks, now rigid in her chair.

I would not want to go one on one in a dark alley with her.

“Not in so many words,” I say mildly, “but I can understand that point of view. Good men, I hear, are few and far between.” The smile flickers but doesn’t quite come back.

From where she is sitting she can see Sarah’s picture on my desk. I follow her gaze and explain. “At least that’s been my daughter’s experience.”

Her expression softens as she listens to me brag about Sarah. It is somehow easy to forget she was a normal mother at one point in her life. In the last few moments she had become more like some kind of predator. Even as vulnerable as she sometimes seems, I cannot think of her cuddling a child. Perhaps, had I endured her life, I would be equally intense.

Olivia merely shrugs when I finally ask about Andy’s statement that she, too, felt certain that David Spath would go along with ordering remote-control equipment once it had been demonstrated that shock worked on Pam.

“Andy was more optimistic than I was, but he and David were good friends. I had to trust Andy. Usually, the administrators of these places will never go out on a limb, but Andy swore David would come around once he could see Pam was no longer hitting herself.”

I write down the words “not certain at all” as if they are the key to the case. Fat chance. Tomorrow I won’t even re member what they mean. Clearly, Olivia feels too conflicted to make a strong witness on Andy’s behalf.

“What’s your opinion of David Spath?” I ask, thinking of my fruitless interview with him. The only thing I got out of him was that he wasn’t from England.

A look of consternation comes over Olivia’s face as though she has met her match in Spath.

“David’s an expert at massaging parents. He knows how guilty a lot of us feel and tells us what we want to hear; in retrospect, I think Andy may have overestimated him. Honestly though, Andy was really putting him on the spot by not getting consent of a human rights committee first.”

I scratch my right ear with my pen. All of a sudden it is Andy alone who is responsible. She has forgotten she was part of this plan.

“You don’t think it’s possible Spath might have known in advance Andy was going to try shock?”

As if she is resisting me, Olivia stiffens her back against the chair. If she knows something I don’t, she isn’t telling.

“Not David Spath,” she says, her voice hostile.

“I can’t see him leaving himself open that way.”

To make certain she isn’t totally abandoning Andy, I ask, “How much of what happened occurred without Andy talking about it with you first?”

She looks at me warily but admits, “I knew about all of it.”

I nod, knowing she is slipping away from Andy as we get closer to trial. The possibility that her affair with him may become public isn’t helping.

“I admire the hell out of what he risked for you,” I say, trying to keep her on his side.

“As you say, nobody else would do anything but massage you.”

She starts to speak but doesn’t, and I ask the question that has been on my mind since Andy gave me his check.

“Have you given him any money for his defense?”

She begins shaking her head even before I have finished.

“He would never take money from me. He’ll probably never tell you, though, that he has a very successful brother in Atlanta who thinks he’s a saint for working with the retarded.”

“No,” I say weakly, feeling like an idiot. Despite what he had said, I was absolutely positive it was from Olivia. If his own lawyer is this blind to him, what can he expect from his jury? I dread this trial.

After a few more questions I walk Olivia to the elevators.

There is no need to caution her about the need to cool down the relationship between her and Andy until after the trial, since that is obviously on low pilot now anyway. She gets a commitment from me to let her call him first to tell him she has admitted their affair to me. I see no harm in this and was not looking forward to having to leap in headfirst when I see him tomorrow.

As I walk back through the reception area, Julia, who is dressed almost normally for once (her polka-dotted blouse looks as if it is on backward, but I am no fashion expert), says from behind her computer terminal, “You look way in over your head on this one, buddy boy.”

Buddy boy? I laugh out loud, realizing for the first time that Julia is a romantic stuck in a 1940s time warp, all the way down to the fashionable shoulder pads that look like bean bags underneath her blouse. All of this business must be from old movies on TV, because I have a sneaking suspicion, based on her spelling and punctuation, that she is no great shakes as a reader. All we need on our floor is a couple of investigators and she would be in absolute heaven.

“You guessed it, sister,” I say, doing a quick Humphrey Bogart, and roll my shoulders to indicate that I may be in trouble now but I’ll get out of it.

Julia narrows her eyes at me, surely wondering if I am mocking her.

“Guess who called for the hundredth time.” “Mona Moneyhart.”

“Give this man a cigar,” she says to no one in particular.

There is supposedly a key to understanding everyone’s frame of reference. Too bad I don’t have one for my main client. Back in my office I stare out of my sorry excuse for a window (I could see the river if I could hang by my feet) and wonder what really happened in this case. Unfortunately, bad lawyers are always the last to know.

On my kitchen table near the nearly empty box of Kentucky Fried Chicken and french fries confronts me like an indictment. Grease stains and bones are all that remain of my dinner. Since Sarah has been gone this summer, I find I am eating more junk and fat. If she leaves Blackwell County to go off to college next year, I will need to get a grip on my eating habits or I will end up like Clan, whose heart surely must be beginning to resemble a stopped-up garbage disposal.

Seated beside my chair, his spine and legs straight in a rare demonstration of good posture, Woogie reproaches me with his soft brown eyes: if you can eat that junk, at least give me the bones.

“No!” I say, rising from the table with the box in my hand. If I throw the bones in the trash can in the house, the smell will drive him crazy, and though the bones, stripped of meat, seem almost flimsy, the disposal has been making a funny noise recently, as if it has been asked on too many occasions, much like my stomach in the last few weeks, to digest difficult objects. I head for the back door, with Woogie at my heels hoping I’ll spill the box or relent at the last moment. I go through my backyard to the metal trash cans by the diamond-shaped fence that separates my property from my neighbors’. The heat (it still must be close to ninety) of this long July day has begun to lift, but I do not linger outside, dropping the Colonel’s image unceremoniously into a plastic bag filled with the remains of a week’s garbage, and return immediately to the house to read Sarah’s latest letter, which I have saved as my dessert. Again seated at the kitchen table with Woogie and a Miller Lite for company, I rip open the envelope, but not before marveling that the return address is written in a hand (except for the way she makes the number seven—Americans risk confusing ones and sevens, but Colombians, like most of the rest of the world, do not) almost identical to her mother’s. Her initial torrent of correspondence has diminished to a trickle (a sign, according to Rainey, she is no longer homesick). In fact, this is only the second letter since I took her back over two weeks ago. She will be home Saturday—barely twenty-four hours before she leaves for “Camp Anytown,” her religious and atheist do-gooder camp sponsored by the National Conference of Christians and Jews.