Thin Men, Paper Suits

by Tin Larrick

  “I’m not sure I do,” the social worker answered.

  “Oh? That’s a shame. I have the memo here that I sent you. It’s dated three months ago.”

  “I don’t recall receiving it.”

  “Yes, I thought you might say that. Your office was kind enough to give me the document. Not a copy, you understand, but the actual piece of paper that I sent you.” He held up the piece of paper. “Look, it even says ‘RECEIVED’ on it. It has a little date stamp.”

  “Oh dear, sorry. Did I not send you the notes?”

  “No, Ms Cathcart, you did not. And I am rather of the view that without notes of those assessments we are rather dependent on your recollection of events some six months after the fact.”

  “Well, I…”

  “Ms Cathcart, this is obviously a trying time for everyone here – no pun intended, ma’am – but I note you seem to have spent rather a lot of time with the Walls. Is that correct?”

  “No more than I have spent with the Riggs,” came the reply.

  “On the contrary, Ms Cathcart, I have personally witnessed you on no less than six occasions chatting with the Walls in the waiting room. You laugh and joke with them, like best friends. Do you see them socially?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Are you friends?”

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  “Ms Cathcart, I have here correspondence from two years ago that indicates you knew Graham Wall well before these proceedings commenced.”

  The social worker paled.

  “Only… only a professional relationship.”

  “Nonetheless, would it not have been better to allocate this particular case to somebody else?”

  “I don’t see…”

  “I put it to you that your entire assessment of this case has been biased and unfair, and that you have acted with demonstrable favouritism towards Graham Wall.”

  Thorp timed the next hit perfectly, just as Joan Cathcart drew breath to stutter another answer.

  “Ms Cathcart, is it not true that you were arrested for drink-driving four years ago?”

  Smart sprang to his feet and blustered an objection. Phoebe sat back in her seat with a little smile of triumph. Thorp sat down.

  “No further questions, ma’am.”

  Glen was next. Thorp led him through his statement, lingering on the more emotive parts and really labouring the bits about human rights, civil liberties and the fundamental freedom of a man being able to move freely in the world.

  When Thorp sat down, Smart rose to his feet. It made Glen think of a Swiss clock. He wasn’t sure, but he thought Smart was smirking.

  “When did you first hear the children tell you about my client’s wife’s misbehaviour?”

  Glen sat frozen for a moment. His experience of the court room was limited to television dramatisations and what he heard on the news. This was sufficient, however, for him to realise that Smart’s questions would all be concealing very convoluted objectives beneath their shiny, filmy, apparently innocuous surfaces.

  “I can’t remember,” Glen mumbled.

  “Oh come come, Mr Rigg, don’t let’s be disingenuous. I’ll ask you again: when did the children first allege ill treatment at the hands of Mrs Wall?”

  Perhaps unsurprisingly, the Riggs’ announcement to the Walls of their desire to move abroad coincided more or less exactly with Graham Wall’s sudden, rejuvenated interest in his children’s lives.

  Phoebe, puce with suspicion, had insisted on meticulously documenting every subsequent contact her or any of her family had with the Walls, however minor. Although the principal reason for this pursuit managed to elude just about all concerned, it did not stop the Walls adopting a similar approach.

  So, on Saturday mornings when Graham came to collect the children, both the Walls and the Riggs would circle each other like wary livestock, brandishing clipboards like body armour in brief but testing exchanges. The stand-offs were generally mute, neither side wanting to make any comment that might be construed as contentious, lest it find its way into a notebook. The children walked among the adults during these episodes with utter bewilderment, but eventually they got used to it.

  Although such inventories seemed like a good idea to the Riggs and, latterly, the Walls, they were not entirely sure why, and the immediate effect was little more than the provision of raw fodder from which the respective advocates could cleave their oniony questions.

  In this case Smart appeared to be positively slavering over the unrefined material with which to work, and the question he had first posed to Glen related to a complaint by one of the children that Linda Wall had lost her temper with them on one occasion, smacked one of them on the bottom and banished the other to the garden shed. This disclosure was minuted in detail by Phoebe – although her fury meant she could barely hold the pen.

  Following this, the unfortunate child began to wet the bed and took to sleepwalking. The Riggs took her to a psychologist, a ‘professional’ who talked a good fight, but hurriedly backtracked when asked to testify.

  There was a vague suggestion that Glen had got his dates wrong – of the disclosure, the professional appointment and his log entry – or at least that’s what Glen felt Smart was getting at.

  “I can’t remember.”

  Smart exhaled with ill-concealed exasperation, and so moved onto a less arguable point – Glen’s finances.

  Glen was not an extravagant spender, just not particularly fastidious with his money. Unfortunately, in real terms, this meant a cumulative growth of debts he was struggling to repay. Smart did not withhold his pleasure in comparing them against the lavish spoils and immaculate credit of Graham’s consultancy business.

  Neither did Smart exercise any restraint in labelling – just in case the court was in any doubt about it – the inescapable conclusion that this made Glen both less of a man and deficient in sufficient responsibility to provide for the children – Graham’s children, no less.

  Glen wanted to laugh. He wanted to leap onto the judge’s bench and yell his disdain for the trial, the law, the whole system. But he couldn’t. He was trapped in his seat, crushed by the power of the State and all the rules he’d unwittingly agreed to abide by the minute he was born.

  “It’s me they call Dad,” Glen mumbled to his shoes.

  Thereafter, petulance formed the theme for the remainder of Glen’s evidence. Although he was pieced together again fairly well by Thorp, the net result was that Glen ended up more or less at zero. This did not impress Phoebe, and after another round of anti-Rigg sermonising by Smart, she took the witness box, purple with rage.

  “Mrs Rigg, is it the case that you instigated divorce proceedings between yourself and Mr Wall?” Smart had taken off his spectacles by this point.

  “Yes it is. And did Mr Limp-Dick tell you why that was?”

  Thorp spluttered into his notes, and by the time Judge De’ath’s yellow brow had uncreased sufficiently for her to confirm that yes, Phoebe Rigg had said exactly what everyone thought she had, it was too late to tell her off about it.

  Phoebe did a remarkable job of holding her own against Smart, but the pestilent barrister was a seasoned professional who relished a challenge, and eventually he wore her down with relentless cross-examination. Phoebe was in tears when she took her seat behind Thorp, having been accused of being virtually everything from a bad mother to the anti-Christ.

  At the end of the day, Judge De’ath addressed all parties and stressed the importance of not discussing the case between them. They were all dismissed until nine-thirty the next morning.

  On the way home, the silence in the car between the Riggs was deafening. The strikingly good odds predicted by Thorp seemed to have slipped considerably, although when the lawyer had bade them farewell his optimism did not appear to have dulled.

  Glen inserted a Starland Vocal Band CD into the car stereo to relax the mood, and, with mixed results, attempted to harmonise at the choruses.

  “Why do you
do that?” Phoebe asked as her husband warbled.

  “Well, it’s not easy,” said Glen, misunderstanding completely. “You need to have a keen ear, and a healthy range is essential.”

  “I didn’t ask ‘how’ do you do it, but ‘why’ do you do it? There aren’t any harmonies in the song.”

  “So what? And actually, there are. Why are you being so aggressive?”

  “Hoping it might rub off on you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You were like a limp lettuce leaf in the witness box.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He took you to pieces. I thought you were going to show a bit more spunk than that.”

  “Don’t worry about it, darling. Thorp didn’t seem bothered. He still says all the Smart money is on us winning.” He paused and looked over, wondering if she was amused by his clever pun. She wasn’t.

  “What was all that about not discussing the case?” Glen continued. “We’re married. How could that possibly be enforced? Think they’ve bugged the house?”

  Phoebe snapped off the stereo, and silence enveloped the car once more. Glen concentrated fiercely on the road.

  “We have to win,” were the only other words she murmured during the remainder of the journey.

  They greeted the children with tighter-than-usual hugs when they arrived home, while Phoebe’s mother – the resident babysitter – clucked sympathetically before going home to turn down the heat on the casserole.

  After dinner, Glen checked his emails. There was a light and cheery message from his prospective Cayman supervisor hoping that preparations were going well. Glen shut down the computer without replying. It seemed that there was suddenly a large and impenetrable wall between his supervisor and any reciprocal joviality. And that was without the supplier’s grossly overstated broadband speeds.

  Later that night, Glen lay with his back to Phoebe and pretended to be asleep. He knew full well that she was also wide awake and staring at the ceiling, her body gripped with anxiety.

  How could this have happened? This was supposed to be their new life. The joys of planning their fantasy escape to a tropical island had been utterly castrated by the trial, and the sick feeling of being torn up for kindling in the witness box by Smart had permeated their every pore.

  Phoebe had been traumatised by the whole episode from day one anyway, and the day’s events had hardly served to lower her stress levels. She left the administrative side of the process to Glen – a process that essentially consisted of him ignoring letters from their solicitor; letters that, for the most part, politely advised the Riggs of the costs they had incurred so far.

  Glen got out of bed and padded downstairs, retrieving one such letter from the floor of the hallway where he had kicked it aside earlier. He fingered the envelope lightly, trying desperately to summon some semblance of strength, resolve or determination that might allow him to regain at least a shred of control in an increasingly uncontrollable situation.

  He opened the letter absently, not really taking in the contents. When he finally did, he staggered backwards and collapsed on the sofa. The numbers were almost nonsensical, but the finality of such information made him realise that, win or lose, everybody was screwed one way or the other. And ironically, the resolve that had hitherto eluded him began to twinkle faintly within himself, and he knew what he must do.

  *

  If Graham Wall was surprised to see Glen standing on his doorstep, he didn’t show it. The thought that Glen had finally snapped and intended to violently assault him occurred to him, but only briefly, and its fleeting nature was largely due to the resigned expression on Glen’s tired face.

  “Look, Graham,” Glen began. “This is ridiculous. We’re all adults, we can talk man to man. We don’t need lawyers or judges.” Glen looked past him into the house, waiting to be invited in.

  After a moment, Graham unfolded his arms and stepped aside to permit Glen entry.

  They sat down in the kitchen. Graham made tea. Linda was not at home.

  “I imagine you’re both quite tired after today,” Graham said, passing Glen a mug and an Amaretto biscuit.

  “The thing is, Graham, we could come to an arrangement,” Glen said, spurred on by the apparent reciprocity. “I’ll be earning more, we could bring the kids home to see you for an extended holiday once a year. It’s not like you’ll never see them again. And Christ, they want to come with us! They’ve said so, even to that horrible Cathcart woman.”

  Graham nodded and a half-smile crossed his lips.

  “I just think that if we can come to an agreement amicably, it’s better for everyone in the long run. We are more than prepared to bring them home and for you to visit whenever you like.”

  “Well, I appreciate your candour…” Graham began.

  “For Christ’s sake, Graham, this is costing me fifty grand in legal costs, which means you‘re paying the same. Fifty thousand! We’re having to sell the house as it is. Is it really worth it? The bloody barristers are the only real winners.”

  “Mmm… that is a good point.”

  “Graham, look. Even if we win we probably won’t be able to afford to go. Not after all this. Just sign the consent form, will you? Fifty grand for a signature? That’s money you could put towards travelling to see the kids. You’re telling me you wouldn’t like an annual holiday in the Cayman Islands? You can see them as much as you like.”

  Graham raised his eyebrows and cocked his head to the side, like he was considering it. Glen attempted to close.

  “It isn’t like you can’t afford it. Sign the consent, Graham. Just sign the bloody letter. Let us go. I’m pleading with you.”

  Graham stood up and, to Glen’s surprise, extended his hand.

  “Let me think about it,” he said. “You’re right, we should be grown-up about this. And it is costing a lot of money. I just need to consider what’s best for the children. For my children. You understand that, don’t you, Glen?”

  Glen walked to the door.

  “Oh, and Glen?” Graham called as Glen’s hand reached the latch. “You might want to tell your lawyer that you came here and discussed the case with me, in direct contravention of the judge’s orders. I’m certainly going to tell mine.”

  Glen turned around in the hallway as Graham produced a mobile phone and began dialling a number.

  The pompous, arrogant arse had taken his attempt to extend the olive branch and shoved it back in his face. No, worse, he had greeted his enemy with smiles, not even waiting before Glen was out of the house before picking up the phone to Smart. Glen should have seen the warning signs – Graham had never been so hospitable, but Glen had been so desperate to believe him that he had drunk it all in. But the blank piece of paper so desperately needing Graham’s signature was just a carrot being dangled in front of Glen, a barrel over which he had just been royally shafted.

  Glen let the door swing shut.

  “Let’s talk,” he said.

  On the drive home, Glen rested his arm on the sill and allowed the wind to ruffle his hair. It had gone almost unexpectedly well. And Graham was obviously considering it. Moreover, he had appreciated Glen’s noble attempt to pacify the situation, hadn’t he? Hadn’t he said as much? In fact, he’d looked almost as liberated as Glen felt about being able to have a civil, adult conversation without first having to sidestep a robed bandicoot.

  Glen leaned his head back a little. Not only had he taken control of this insidious situation, but his tenacity might have even swung it for their little dream.

  *

  “So, I gather you had a conversation with my client early this morning?” Smart said.

  They were standing in the small waiting room outside the court proper. Phoebe was waiting in a side room, and Smart had intercepted Glen as he had gone out to get a muddy coffee from the ancient vending machine in the corridor. The lawyer’s face was so close that Glen could smell the stale coffee on his breath.

  Glen was un
moved by the back-alley cross-examination; in fact, he continued his journey to the vending machine.

  “And the thrust of that conversation was, essentially, another request for my client to consent to you taking the children out of the UK?”

  Glen slipped a 50p piece into the machine. He had to squat slightly to read the choices. He went for a mocha.

  “Essentially.”

  “Despite all the previous negotiations?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, despite Her Honour’s explicit instruction yesterday not to discuss the case, you went to my client’s house and did just that?”

  Glen straightened up to his full height and raised the plastic cup to his lips. As he did so, he turned to Smart and fished out a folded document from inside his jacket. He snapped it out flat with a flourish, and handed it to the lawyer, who took it with a puzzled frown while Glen returned to his wife.

  *

  “Your Honour, I must ask you to dismiss the Riggs’ application,” Smart said. “They have acted with scant regard for the rules of evidence, and even, I submit, a demonstrable contempt of this court. You must dismiss this application without further ado to allow my client to begin rebuilding his relationship with his children.”

  De’ath looked at Thorp.

  “Mr Thorp?”

  Thorp rose.

  “Ma’am, while my friend may have a point, let us not resort to theatrics. These proceedings are now null and void. It seems consensus has been reached, and the court need not rule in favour of one side or the other. I have here a draft consent order, signed by Graham Wall, giving full permission, without prejudice, to Phoebe Rigg moving to the Cayman Islands with their two children. All Your Honour need do is ratify the Order and let all parties get on with their lives…”

  “That would be quite fine, Your Honour, were my client here to corroborate matters…” Smart said.

  “Then, I submit, it is Graham Wall that has demonstrated contempt for this court, ma’am, by not deigning to turn up.”

  Both sides made an impressive attempt at appearing impassioned and sincere; indeed, while De’ath addressed the court it seemed she was torn. The lawyers appeared impatient, especially Smart, who kept checking his watch and looking through notes which, Glen realised with amusement, were to do with another case entirely.