The Good Lawyer: A Novel (26 page)

“For the most part, yes.”

“You think it could be an asset ever?”

“Rarely. I got some positive press once, but it’s not usually the politically correct thing to side with a poor criminal’s defense attorney, even when it’s deserved.”

“What made you pick criminal defense work?” He spoke with a tone of genuine interest, concern even, and my worst fear—that I would be ignored—passed.

I told him it was my stepfather’s idea at first, and that he had raised me since I was five.

He nodded though I wasn’t sure if it was in acknowledgment of what he already knew, or in acceptance of my explanation.

“Anyway, he planted the seed. Criminal defense work seemed exciting to me as a kid and that certainly has proved to be true. Whether I’ll do this for the rest of my life I can’t say. I’ve been working hard lately, and I’m a bit tired. After I clear my calendar of some big cases I’m going to take a few weeks off and see how I feel. Legal Aid asks for a three-year commitment. That’s up in September.”

George Vernou never took his eyes off me as I spoke, not even to look at Eleanor. He seemed to be studying me intently yet with such surprising deference, that I actually felt myself relaxing—in as much as that was possible under the curcumstances. When Charlotte Vernou walked in holding four bowls on a silver tray and announced “lobster bisque,” George smiled then said with such pleasant contentment it made me jump inside for joy: “I just love lobster bisque.”

The bisque was not too creamy, and the little chunks of lobster melted in my mouth. A Veal Marsala followed and then a delicious chocolate mousse. I caught Charlotte winking at Eleanor and realized the two had managed a culinary conspiracy of sorts, with me their intended target.

George, as it turned out, was a die-hard Braves fan with box seats just two rows behind Ted Turner’s. Charlotte’s guilty pleasure was inside a locked room on the second floor where a collector’s ransom of
Gone With the Wind
memorabilia was on display. George joked that not even he was allowed inside. She called it The Tara Room.

As Charlotte fanned her piping hot coffee with her napkin she began talking about, of all things, Wayne Williams and the Atlanta serial murders. George Vernou’s mouth turned down at the change in subject. Picking up the cue, Charlotte veered off course a bit and asked how I felt about capital punishment.

“I don’t recall a time when I believed in capital punishment,” I said easily, and without hesitation.

“George and I feel the same way, but not Eleanor. Right Eleanor, darlin’.”

“Really?” I turned to look at the beautiful young woman seated next to me, whom I forgot, as I often had in social settings, was an assistant District Attorney.

“Ted Bundy should not remain among the living. Nor should have Jack the Ripper, or Hitler, or those mobster hit men who kill between meals as casually as you hit the remote button on your television.”

A burn hit my stomach as Eleanor summarily executed my uncle Rocco between sips of milk-cooled coffee.

George Vernou was staring again, and this time his eyes had an asphyxiating hold on me.

After dinner the Vernous went upstairs to bed, protesting they would need all the sleep they could get before their home was invaded the following day. Eleanor led me into the library, and on a sofa in front of a fireplace she taught me how to play backgammon, then beat me a dozen straight times.

Afterward, we kissed in front of a crackling fire. When the fire’s glow had faded we went upstairs and parted amid hugs and kisses to our separate bedrooms.

Chapter 52

T
he next morning’s preparations swept through the house and grounds with the organized excitement of a movie set. Trucks had arrived at 7 A.M. bringing tables, chairs, floral arrangements of all sizes and shapes, wooden platforms for a twenty piece orchestra, table linen, food for a whole neighborhood, barbecue pits, electric stoves, additional refrigerators, and enough wedding decorations to charm royalty.

I awoke that morning alone in my canopy bed. On my night table I found a note from Eleanor next to my Rolex. It informed me that I would be on my own until after the ceremony, which was scheduled to take place on the marble terrace overlooking the back lawn at 2 P.M. If I needed anything I should see Charles. She asked me to look out for her friend, Carolyn, who was usually uncomfortable at these gaudy southern affairs.

The note closed with:
I’ll miss you ‘til later. Love Always, Eleanor.

I found a pad and pen in the night table drawer. Before I got out of bed I scribbled down a few notes on Guevara’s appearance before the grand jury.

Never Arrested-Drug Addict Mom-Teacher’s Aide-Liar-Video-Games -Community College-Anal Laceration.

My mind was a jumble and for a moment I didn’t know where Peter Guevara began and Jose Chavez ended. I ripped my notes into little pieces and flushed them down the toilet.

I could hear guests starting to arrive as I shaved, showered and blow dried my hair with the care and attention of Travolta in
Saturday Night Fever
. My tux fit perfectly, as did my shoes. I checked myself in the mirror one last time, took a couple of calming breaths, and proceeded down the stairs and through the center hall. Walking past ceiling-high French doors, I stepped onto the parquet floors of a room so enormous it seemed ethereal.

Three crystal chandeliers hung from a hand painted fresco ceiling that rose two stories. An orchestra played a string-led version of Patsy Cline’s
Crazy
, while an array of tables adorned with flowers, ice sculptures and hot and cold appetizers had just been rolled into place. A crowd had begun to form by an inlaid mahogany bar with smoked mirrored shelves stocked with liquor. I then stepped through more French doors and into a six-acre lawn and garden paradise.

Standing on a marble terrace the length of the house and enclosed by a matching balustrade, I looked out over an Olympic size swimming pool and a patio the size of a tennis court, where a five-piece band played jazz and bartenders served drinks from sterling silver trays. Beyond the patio and the pool, luminous flower gardens encircled sparkling fountains and two white tents housed over fifty tables draped in pink lace linen.

The ceremony would take place inside a gazebo facing the house at the center of the marble terrace where folding chairs were set up in a triangular formation.

I had just made my way back inside when Charles pointed out a light haired young woman in a pink dress standing on the far side of the pool. Her profile was Eleanor’s. But it wasn’t Eleanor, it was Carolyn, and she had never looked prettier. For one hard-core lesbian, Carolyn was looking exceedingly feminine.

I went back down the marble stairs and approached her by the cabana. She slyly turned toward me.

“Carolyn?”

“Yes, Nickie boy, it’s me.”

I put my hand on my heart. “Would it be piggish or chauvinistic of me if I told you how pretty you look?”

Her eyes narrowed and she smiled a crooked smile. With the gait of a tomboy she walked toward me, and linked her arm in mine. We strolled toward one of the fountains.

“Listen, Italian boy from Long Island or Brooklyn or wherever. Eleanor made me promise to be nice to you. And since she talks you up so much every time I speak to her, I will keep my promise.” Her head turned up at me. “So tell me, now that you’ve had your fun, what are your intentions with my best friend. And don’t lie to me or this purse might just crack into that tool box of yours and you can bet your life you’ll have to sit out the rest of this lavish David O. Selznick Production, and alone.”

I felt the urge to laugh, but didn’t dare. “Whatever happened to ice breaking small talk?”

“Just answer the question, lawyer. And be forewarned, I have a rock hard camera in this purse.”

One minute with Carolyn and she’d put a gun to my head. I hadn’t even broken in my new shoes. We were now circling the fountain, Carolyn’s arm still in mine. I noticed two middle aged men admiring her as we passed.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m a bit shell shocked from all this, you know.”

“So what are you saying, she’s too rich to marry?”

“No, but I have to admit I would feel funny asking. I mean—what can I offer her? A three-room apartment?”

“Fine. So you don’t love her. Remind me to tell her to dump you, and fast.”

I stopped and clutched Carolyn’s arm.

“Of course I love her. I just wish she wasn’t so goddamn rich.”

Carolyn pulled me closer, entwining my arm in hers. We began walking toward the house. Half the chairs on the terrace were filled and the orchestra had set up outside.

“So you’re a sexist pig,” Carolyn said matter-of-factly.

“And how is that?”

“If you were rich, and she were poor, that would be all right with you. But since she’s the rich one, it makes you feel inadequate. Like you can’t provide for her.”

I thought about it for a few seconds. “I suppose you’re right.”

“You’d call it pride. Perhaps it is to some extent.” Carolyn pulled me to a stop. The orchestra had started playing
The Blue Danube
waltz.

“You know, Eleanor doesn’t go for all this.” Carolyn waved her hand in the direction of the house and marble terrace. “All she wants is a white picket fence and some babies and a dog to run around a real backyard, and you. And once in a while to come visit Tara and let the kiddies go crazy back here.”

I then noticed what Carolyn and Eleanor had most in common—a quiet beauty in their eyes. I led Carolyn up the marble steps. The ceremony was about to begin.

After a long kiss that seemed rehearsed, the ceremony ended. An hour later Eleanor was freed from picture-taking prison and we joined for a dance. And it was to the same song we had first danced to when we met at Cardozo Law.

“Do you remember what I said to you when we last danced to this song?” I asked.

“You said that
Moon River
was a sad song.” She sounded tired. I kissed her on the lips, and then the chin.

“Nick, there’s something I want to ask you.” Her voice cracked. I pulled her closer.

“What did Carolyn tell you?” I asked softly.

“She didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know,” Eleanor answered abruptly. “She has nothing to do with my question. And believe it or not, I think she likes you.”

“And believe it or not, I think I like her too. She really cares about you.”

She tossed back her head and squinted her eyes at me.

“So will you marry me, Nick?”

My eyes widened, but without the smile I believe she was hoping for. “El, you’ve got to know I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with you.”

“There’s a but in this, isn’t there?”

“No. There isn’t. I just want us to be happy, and I know we won’t be, no matter how much we might think so, unless we have your parents’ blessing.”

“They’ll give it.”

“But they won’t mean it. Not when they just met me yesterday. And what about my mom? She’s all but used up my father’s lump-sum pension.”

“We can support her.”

“No. You can. I can’t. And I have to be able to. And support myself as well.”

“You won’t take money from me?”

“Not enough to support my mother too, I won’t. Now when I leave Legal Aid, with the right move, I could easily double my salary in a year or two.”

“A year or two? Nick—”

“We don’t have to wait a year or two. It will be enough when I know I’ve made the right move. If I’m lucky, it could be in a month, or two.”

Eleanor sensed that I wasn’t through. “Anything else on your mind?” Her fingers combed the back of my hair.

“Yes. I want a prenuptial agreement.”

All color left her face as her hands dropped to my shoulders. She stopped dancing. I was looking at an Eleanor I had never seen. Her expression was frighteningly morbid—as if I had died in her arms.

“Either you get the lawyer or I will, but the agreement must say: if we divorce, for whatever reason, I get nothing. I walk out of the marriage with only what I brought into it.”

“I will sign no such document,” she said.

“You won’t have to. I’ll do it all myself. It’s important to me that your parents and everyone else know I’m marrying you only because I love you.”

Her lips tightened. “I don’t give a good God damn what everyone else thinks.”

“Well, I do.”

Her eyes did a double take on mine. “I don’t know whether to hug you, or slap you. And what about our children?”

“You can buy them an island in the Bahamas for all I care.”

She rested her head on my chest. I could feel the pounding of her heart against mine.

She wasn’t through. “I can’t believe it. We just had our very first fight and it comes seconds after we decide to get married.” She looked up at me. “I still feel like hitting you.”

“Oh. One more thing,” I said casually.

“Christ Nick. Now what?”

“No hitting.”