The Ditto List (45 page)

The boy nodded bravely, his only other movement the tremble of a lip. D.T. put a hand on his shoulder. David looked up at him through liquid lenses. “Will Mom be all right?”

“Sure.”

“I didn't mean to hurt her.”

“I know. She knows, too. Don't worry about it, David. Everything's going to be all right. Do you need a ride home?”

The boy looked out at the courtroom, at one chair that was empty and another that was filled. “What home am I supposed to go to?” His voice broke as audibly as his mother's heart.

An hour later, D.T. was back in his apartment. David had left the courtroom with his father. D.T. had asked Dick Gardner if he wanted to discuss a settlement, and Gardner had looked at him and laughed.

After fleeing the courtroom, Mareth Stone had gone home. D.T. had called her, she had answered, then hung up when she heard his voice. He would have to go see her, he supposed, to tell her to be in court the next morning, to tell her all was not lost even though it most definitely was.

His second drink was as tasteless as the first; his TV dinner as tasteless as his drink. When the phone rang he assumed it was Mareth Stone, assumed he would once again be hearing the mournful music of a life awry. Instead, it was Barbara.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“How'd it go?”

“A disaster. Mrs. Stone broke down when they put her son on the stand and he said she was a little weird.”

“How do you mean broke down?”

“I mean she ran screaming from the courtroom, never to return.”

“How awful.”

“That doesn't begin to describe it. Judge Hoskins' eyes were the size of cue balls, his every prejudice confirmed.”

“Does that mean she'll lose the children?”

“Probably.”

“How typical.”

“Typical of what, for God's sake?”

“The way women get screwed by the system.”

He found himself enraged. “Well, it's not exactly irrelevant to a custody decision that the woman gets so drunk her children have to put her to
bed
, Barbara. I mean, in this case I wish it was, but it isn't.”

“I'll bet the kid was lying.”

“Christ, Barbara. Every woman in the world isn't Joan of Arc. It was lousy enough without you trying to make it sound like I let my client be chewed up by some kind of domestic relations
conspiracy
.”

Barbara paused. D.T. stayed silent himself, amazed by his outburst and more amazed by his lack of an apologetic urge. “Okay, D.T.,” Barbara said finally. “You had a bad day. I'm sorry. You want me to come over? For a little TLC?”

“I don't think so.”

“Oh.”

“I've got to go see Mrs. Stone and try to salvage something usable in court tomorrow. Then I'm going to bed. I'm shot.”

“How about this weekend? Will you go river rafting with me?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It would be too tempting to drown myself.”

“You have to learn to leave your work at the office, D.T. Otherwise you're diffusing your energy, not focusing it. Work hard, play hard. You can't sit around and mope twenty-four hours a day.”

“Want to bet?”

“Please come on Saturday.”

“No.”

“I have to have a partner. For the kayak.”

“How about Bernie?”

“If you insist.” Her voice was wine gone bad.

“I'm sorry I'm such a continuing disappointment to you, Barbara. Give Bernie my best. I hope you win the race.”

“It's not a race, D.T.”

“Your whole life is a race, Barbara. And you'll do anything to win.”

He hung up, conscious that the rift might well be permanent, conscious that for Barbara as for everyone, certain truths were unacknowledgeable. He said an egocentric prayer and dialed Mareth Stone, once again wondering what he was prepared to do to win for her.

This time she stayed on the line and let him talk. “Are you all right?” he asked her.

“Of course I'm not.” The words were slurred, laced with liquor.

“Are the kids there?”

“No. Chas has them both. Under the circumstances I guess I can't blame him.”

“We reconvene in the morning at nine.”

“I'm not certain I'll be there. I mean, it's over, isn't it? I blew it, didn't I?”

“Maybe so; maybe not. Don't throw in the towel.”

“Just throw up, is that it? Do you understand how humiliating that was? How painful? David, on top of all the rest? With lover-boy Brick just waiting in the wings? Good God. I've tried to think of what I've done to deserve all that and you know what? I can't come up with anything.
I really can't
.”

“I tried to tell you the way it would be, Mrs. Stone. I tried to get you to rehearse exactly what would happen when you testified. I think it would have helped if you had let me do it.”

She swore bitterly. “Oh, yes, Mr. Jones. You did your job. I was warned. Do you have a statement you want me to sign? Something saying you're the world's greatest lawyer? Or maybe you can run an ad in the paper. ‘Bitch too dumb to keep children. Goes against lawyer's advice. Loses kids. Loses life.
Loses
.'”

Her voice disappeared. She had accomplished what she had sought to accomplish: she had made him share her pain.

“Are you going to be all right?” he asked again.

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Please don't drink any more tonight, Mrs. Stone. Don't take any pills. Maybe I should find someone to come stay with you.”

“Oh, don't worry, Mr. Jones. I'm even too dumb to kill myself. I'll probably even see you in the morning; I'd hate to deprive Chas of an opportunity to gloat. But if I'm not there you have my permission to start without me.”

The phone went dead. D.T. wondered what he should do, and decided to do nothing. He took a shower and put on his pajamas and drank some chocolate milk and climbed into bed.

The detective novel on the bedstand seemed suddenly too real to be a tool of comfort or escape. The TV offered dross on the commercial channels, the usual apologia for the British class system on the public channel, PKA full-contact karate on the sports channel, and
First Blood
on HBO. He turned off the light and looked at the shadows on the wall, imagined they were demons, imagined they had come to claim him, imagined he was on his way to hell, where a demon other than himself would be responsible for his sins. He picked up the phone and dialed one of the four numbers he knew from memory.

“Hi. It's D.T.”

“Well, hi. How are you?”

“Not too good. Can you talk for a minute?”

“Of course. What's the problem?”

“I'm losing a case in court.”

“Oh. Well, you've lost cases before, D.T.”

“But this time it's my fault. I screwed up, Michele. I let it slide and now it's too late to salvage it.”

“You're only human, D.T. You work so hard, once in a while you're bound to run out of time to do it perfectly. That's the price people pay to get a good lawyer.”

“It's a price they shouldn't have to pay, Michele. If they hire me they should get my best. And no one's gotten that for quite a while.”

“I doubt that very much.”

“It's true.”

“Let me tell you something, D.T. I used to think you were working beneath yourself by doing all that divorce work. And I didn't make a secret of it, did I? Remember how I always had a new idea of what you should do with your life?”

“Vividly.”

“Well, I want you to know I've changed my mind. After going through our divorce, and hearing all about Joyce Tuttle's and a dozen other friends' who've been through it in the past year or two, I've decided women are damned
lucky
a man like you stays in the divorce business, instead of moving on to something else. And I've decided you're, well, quite special to have stayed with it despite all the chances you've had to do something more, shall we say, glamorous. So what
I
think is, fifty percent of D. T. Jones is better than a hundred percent of any other divorce lawyer in this rotten, stinking town.” She paused. “Does that help?”

He laughed. “Actually, it does, Michele. Even though I know you're lying like a rug. Good night, Michele.”

“Good night, D.T.”

“How come you're home, by the way?”

“I … I just thought Heather needed me, I guess. No special reason.”

“Is anything wrong with her?”

“No. She's fine.”

“You sure?”

“There's no problem, D.T. I just thought I should be spending more time with her, that's all.”

“Kiss her for me, okay?”

“Okay.”

“And thanks for the kind words.”

“Any time.”

“See you.”

“See you.”

Michele's balm was only temporary. He tossed and turned beneath the covers, struggling for comfort and finding none. The night dragged interminably, pressed on him like a weight. When the phone rang he was grateful. He pressed the receiver to his ear.

“Mr. Jones. Are you there, Mr. Jones?”

“Who is this? Lucinda? Is that you?”

“Could you please come, Mr. Jones? I'm sorry, but could you come? Now? Please?”

“What's happened? Where are you?”

“Houston Street. Please? I don't know what to do.”

“Do you need a doctor? Shall I call an ambulance?”

“No. No doctor. Just come.”

“Hang on. I'll be right there.”

He struggled into his clothes, his mind spattered with calamity. What had Del done this time? To the baby? To them both? That Lucinda was still alive seemed suddenly miraculous. That he was again on his way to help her seemed suddenly foolhardy. He hurried to his car, his mouth dry and fouled by sleep, his stomach a rotting sack, wishing he was someone who didn't do business making others believe he could help them.

The trip to Houston Street was near eternal. When he pulled to the curb across from the charmless apartment building he inspected it for hints of its contents. It was dark, seemingly abandoned by everything but blight, a haunted house. No windows held light, including the one to Apartment Two. He left his car, alert for other sounds, especially alert for Del, wishing he had a gun.

He crossed the street. The building seemed to step to meet him. Somewhere far away a siren sounded. On the next block a hot-rod raced away from a stoplight. He entered the building, hoping what he feared to find had somehow not occurred.

He pressed Lucinda's bell. The door opened immediately, as though she had been leaning against it as a surrogate, awaiting him. He stood in the hallway, peering into the dark apartment, searching for clues to what had been visited upon it. He saw nothing fearsome, heard nothing menacing. Then Lucinda came from behind the door and pressed against him, her head against his chest, her body bucking, her mouth murmuring thanks.

He wrapped her with his arms. “What happened, Lucinda?” he whispered. “What did he do to you?”

Her answer was muffled by his clothing. She seemed to wish to slip inside his skin, to use him as a cave. He squeezed her harder, patted her shoulder, whispered soothing sounds. “Is he still there?” he asked. “Where is he?”

She pushed herself away. Light from the parking lot skimmed off her eyes. He looked for blood but saw none. Her sweatshirt was ripped at the sleeves and neck, though by fashion not by violence. “Mr. Jones. I … it's horrible, Mr. Jones. It's..”

“What is, Lucinda? Come on, tell me. I'm here to help.”

“No one can help me now.” The words were clear, distinct, as though the thought were new.

“Is it the baby? Where is she? Has something happened to Krystle?”

As Lucinda backed into the apartment he followed her inside. Down the hall behind them he heard a door open, and imagined the eye that nestled in the crack. He closed the door against observers. Lucinda stood in darkness, head bowed, arms crossed. Her voice was raw, as though she had screamed for days.

“He was teasing me. He was mad because I got home late from the Pancake House. One of the girls had a birthday and we went out drinking after work. I called to tell him but he wasn't home. Then when I come in he was already drunk. Worse than he'd ever been. He started teasing me, saying what he'd do the next time I stayed out whoring around and stuff like that.”

“How else did he tease you?”

She raised the back of her hand to her nose and wiped and sniffed. “He went and got Krystle. And started tossing her around, up to the ceiling and back. He did it a hundred times, it seems like. Krystle was crying something fierce, and Del was yelling for her to shut up, but he just kept tossing her. Then he took her to the bathroom and dipped her head in the
toilet
. Clear under water. Her eyes were
open
, Mr. Jones. She was looking up at me from under there, begging me to help her. She swallowed some water and started to cough. I thought she was going to die, I really did. I tried to get her back but he just beat me off. Then he took her into the kitchen and turned on a burner and held her over the flame. I could smell her. It made me throw up, Mr. Jones. Krystle's hair got so hot it crinkled up. I thought she was going to catch fire.”

“Where's the baby now?”

“Sleeping. In the bedroom. She's all cried out.”

“Is she all right?”

“I think so.”

“We should have a doctor check her, to make sure.”

“Okay.” The word was an island, unconnected to anything real.

“Did Del hurt
you
, Lucinda? Did he do anything to you?”

“No. He just shoved me back, so I couldn't help my baby.”

“Where is he now?” The question emptied him of all but fear.

He expected anything but what she did. She pointed. “In there.”