Suspicion of Betrayal

by Barbara Parker

  "You tell me. They were out there with Payton Cunningham, who was smoking. I'd like to know how many cigarette butts I find down there tomorrow, and God help them if I find anything else. Payton is fourteen, a budding juvenile delinquent who dug tire tracks in the yard last week." With a little moan Gail brushed her hair off her forehead. "Welcome to family life."

  "I know. I have kids."

  "Yes, but yours are comfortably away in New Jersey." Gail noticed the drawings on the table. "I need to see about Karen. Could we talk about the house later? Not tonight. I really have to get to work. You can stay if you want."

  "No." As if trying to decide what to say, Anthony glanced toward the terrace, then back at Gail. "You let her get away with too much."

  "Let her? I didn't let her go outside—"

  "But she did, and why did she assume she could get away with it? When I'm living here, that behavior is going to change."

  "Really. Well, good luck."

  He was gone in less than five minutes. She watched his car pull out of the driveway. Red taillights flared, then grew smaller up the street. His kiss had been more polite than affectionate. Gail locked the door, then leaned on it. The lamp on her glass-topped table did little to illuminate the living room. Her furniture looked ridiculous, all modern white sofas and chairs and light wood.

  In her head the words she had bit her tongue not to say were whirling around: Yes, let's sell the damn thing. I'm sorry we bought it.

  Twenty-five-watt bulbs in pitted, brass-colored sconces lit her way up the stairs. She glared at them, vowing to rip them off with a crowbar at the earliest opportunity. No sound came from Karen's room. Gail tried the door. "Karen? Let me in." When there was no response, Gail smacked her palm on the varnished wood panel. "Karen! Open this door."

  The lock clicked. Karen was in her pajamas and the light was off. She yawned widely. "I was asleep."

  "You were not." Gail flipped the switch, and the desk lamp went on. "Don't ever lock your door like that."

  "You lock yours." Retreating to her bed, Karen drew up her legs and hugged them with thin arms. "When Anthony is here, you lock your door, so why can't I lock mine?"

  Gail took a breath, then another. "What were you doing outside?"

  "Nothing." The kitten mewed to get on the bed, and Karen picked it up, a handful of black-and-white fur.

  "I have eyes, Karen. I saw Payton's cigarette."

  "Mom!" She dropped her forehead onto her knees. "I wasn't smoking. Cigarettes stink." The cat batted a strand of her hair.

  "I told you not to go outside, and you did it anyway. You're grounded for a week." "Mom!"

  "You go to day camp, you come home, and you stay inside. I intend to inform your father of this too."

  "That is so unfair! I called Lindsay and said I couldn't go out, and she said she had to get her Beanie Baby back. I went to give it to her, that's all."

  "You were in the gazebo with your friends and Payton Cunningham."

  "He's the one that should be grounded. He's a spoiled brat idiot. I hate him! I hate everybody in this neighborhood. I hate this house. I hate you and I hate Anthony!"

  "That's enough!"

  Karen stared up at her with red-rimmed eyes, and her mouth trembled. There was more than rebellion in that reaction, Gail thought. Quietly she said, "Karen, what happened out there? Why did you scream?"

  Karen wavered.

  "Don't be afraid. Did Payton do something to you?" Gail sat beside her on the edge of the bed.

  "He kissed me. I didn't want him to, Mom." Her eyes filled. "I didn't. Jennifer let him, but I didn't want to. He grabbed me. He was laughing."

  Gail folded her in an embrace. "Oh, sweetie. It's okay. Good for you, saying no. Don't do anything with a boy—ever—that you don't want to." Gail kissed the top of her head. "You're a good, good girl. I'm proud of you."

  "Mom, I'm sorry." Karen lifted her tear-blotched face. "I didn't mean to say all that. I don't hate you or Anthony, I swear."

  "Well. You're still grounded." "I know."

  The summer sun had browned Karen's skin and streaked her hair. Her adventure in the backyard had tangled it. Gail combed it with her fingers. "Is it so bad here? You're making friends. You know, Anthony and I were talking about the house tonight. He wants to put a pool in the backyard. What do you think? You could have your friends over. Invite the girls from the old neighborhood."

  "That would be fun."

  "You loved this house when we first saw it. Remember? You and Anthony. I think I said yes because you both loved it so much." Gail sat quietly for a few moments, rocking Karen. "Are you hungry? You missed dinner."

  "Very hungry."

  "Okay. I'll bring you something."

  Karen clung. "Can I sleep with you tonight? I'm scared. Please, Mommy?"

  "Sweetie . . ." Gail extricated herself. "Nobody's going to get you."

  "Yes! Me scared!"

  "Oh, Karen!" Gail had noticed how she could take these turns, veering from mature to childish. Nothing used to frighten her, but now anything could. Gail was at a loss, not knowing what to do. If Anthony was here, he would not want a visitor in their bed. To start a precedent meant breaking it later. But now Karen needed her.

  Finally she said, "Okay. Just for tonight."

  Karen flung herself at Gail and wrapped her long legs around her waist. Her body was taut as a wire. "Carry me. Carry me, Mommy." Leaning back against the weight, Gail went across the hall, opened the door to her room, and dropped Karen on her side of the king-size bed, where she bounced, then burrowed under the sheet and light summer blanket. "Missy! I want Missy."

  Gail went to Karen's room, found the kitten under a chair, and brought her back across the hall. "Don't you let her pee in my bed." She tucked Missy under the covers. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

  "Where are you going?"

  "To get something for you to eat. I won't be long."

  "Tell me a story."

  "Karen, I really can't tonight. I have some work to finish."

  "Daddy always tells me a story."

  "I doubt that." Gail turned on the ceiling fan. "I'll bring you a book, okay?"

  She chose one quickly from Karen's collection and assured her again she'd be right back. Once around the corner, Gail almost broke into a run. There would be a hearing early in the morning, and earlier still she had to meet her client and go over the testimony. Gail berated herself for not having prepared her case earlier in the week, but so much had intervened to pick away at what little time she had. A divorce case, Wendell and Jamie Sweet.

  The Sweets. A funny name for two people who detested each other so thoroughly. The judge would set an amount for temporary support and an award for attorney's fees. Gail was hopeful she could collect at least twenty thousand dollars. She had put in the hours to justify it. If the judge signed the order, she could take care of some past due bills at her office and pay overhead for the next month.

  She made Karen a sandwich and some chocolate milk, then turned on the gas stove to boil water for coffee. While it was heating, she put away the leftovers and rinsed the dishes. Lightning flickered to the east, an ocean storm too far away for thunder. The palm trees were spiky silhouettes. Her own reflection looked back at her, a tall woman with tousled blond hair.

  The phone rang just as she had started back up the stairs with a tray. Her watch said 9:52. At this hour it would be one of three people: her mother, a frantic client, or Anthony. She wanted it to be Anthony. They would talk for a little while, and everything would be all right again.

  There was an extension on a table just around the corner in the living room. A streetlight shone weakly through the blinds, making jagged stripes across the floor.

  She set the tray down. "Hello?"

  The only reply was a faint buzz that said the line was open. She heard some background noises and thought it might be traffic. "Hello? Anthony?"

  For a second she thought that something was wrong with the connection. There were
low-pitched clicks and echoes. Then her mind registered a pattern resembling human speech.

  It was speech. A robot. A computer. Something speaking in a metallic monotone. Then she recognized her name.

  GailConnor.

  Then she fixed on another word. Die.

  Her breath stopped.

  —goingtodie, bitch. You'regoingtodie.

  As if the handset were a snake, she thrust it back into its cradle. Then she laughed. Laughed at her own fear. "You little shit." She marched across the living room to pull down a slat in the blinds. Lights from the Cunningham house shone in small patches through the high hedge that ran down the side of their property. She thought of calling his parents but without proof, what could she say?

  She took the tray upstairs. Karen was already asleep, her book open on her stomach. "Thank God." Gail tiptoed to the phone by her bed to check the caller-ID box. A red light blinked, indicating a new call. She pressed a button. The display said pay phone. She whispered, "Well, aren't you clever?" Gail hit the button to delete the entry, striking it out of her mind. She turned off the ringer. Bending low, she kissed Karen's cheek. "A story tomorrow. I promise."

  Gail quietly unpacked the banker's box that held the files from her office. Sweet, Jamie. Dissolution of Marriage. She spread out the pleadings and exhibits on Anthony's side of the bed, careful not to disturb the little mound softly snoring on hers.

  It was almost two o'clock in the morning when she turned off the light.

  TWO

  Ms. Connor—" The lawyer glanced down at his legal pad, which lay between his extended arms on the lectern. "Ms. Connor, do you consider that assisting Ms. Sweet to find household help is a legitimate use of your time as a lawyer? I see on page sixteen an entry for one hour. Did you expend two hundred and fifty dollars' worth of your time helping Ms. Sweet find someone to help her clean the house, when Ms. Sweet herself is not currently employed?"

  The bill for services rendered—all thirty-some pages of it—lay on the railing of the witness box. Gail slowly turned to the page in question, although she could have spoken from memory. "Mr. Acker, if you will examine the entry more closely. I spent an hour reviewing my client's financial situation to determine whether she would be able to continue to afford help—and she cannot. As you know, the Sweets had employed a housekeeper during the marriage to assist with the children. Ms. Sweet had a job, but she lost it. She's looking for another. As the mortgage is seriously in arrears, she has no choice."

  So one accusation that the wife was lazy had been countered by another that the husband was vindictive and cheap. This sparring between Gail and her opposite, Marvin Acker, had been going on for fifteen minutes. Claiming fees for her services, Gail had taken the stand to testify.

  There was a squeaking of springs from Judge Ramirez's chair. His Honor was getting restless. Gail did not think this would go on much longer. She listened to the muffled sound of a car horn on Flagler Street twelve stories below while Acker adjusted his glasses, licked his thumb, and flipped through pages till he found what he wanted.

  "You have reported . . . one-point-three hours for telephone calls to Jamie Sweet's brother in Pasca-goula, Mississippi, re trip to Miami. Were you acting as a travel agent, Ms. Connor?"

  "No, Mr. Acker." Gail spoke directly into the microphone. "We discussed whether he should attend the hearing on a restraining order. On other occasions he had seen Wendell strike her—"

  "Objection," Acker said tiredly. "Not relevant. I move that the response be stricken from the record."

  The judge tapped a bongo rhythm on his desk. "You ask, you're stuck with the answer. Proceed, counselor."

  Unruffled, Acker proceeded. Gail could tell his heart wasn't in it, which usually meant one of two things. Either he wasn't getting paid, or his client was a pain in the ass. Gail bet on the latter. Marv Acker had a reputation for charging high hourly rates and getting most of it up front. That meant Wendell Sweet was lying when he said he had no money.

  Gail looked past him at Wendell, who was staring out the window, pretending not to give a damn. What she knew of him she had learned from Jamie. Thirty-eight, born in Brownsville, Texas, mother half Mexican. His father had been an oil rigger, and Wendell got into the business that way. With a degree from Texas A&M, he started doing geologic surveys. He had a string of good luck off the north coast of Venezuela, and people said he could find oil by the way the ocean rose and fell. He went into consulting, putting Americans into deals with the big Venezuelan oil companies. Five years ago the Sweets moved to Miami, the center of commerce between the United States and Latin America.

  His wife, Gail's client, sat stiffly on the edge of her chair, as she had earlier on the stand. Jamie Sweet was thirty-two, a freckle-faced natural redhead with wide hips and a heavy bosom. Sequins outlined the collar of a pink silk suit too fancy for court. She dressed like a woman who had come from nothing and sure as hell didn't want to go back.

  Jamie Sue Johnson, the oldest of seven children, had dropped out of school at sixteen and hitched a ride to Atlanta with a long-haul trucker. She got pregnant and a month later found an envelope on the dresser with $500 cash and the address of a women's clinic. She moved to Nashville, to Memphis, to Dallas, living with a series of losers, then ended up dancing in New Orleans. She pronounced it N'Awlins. Got stoned and had a pink rose tattooed on her thigh. Wendell admired it. Wendell. He was one black-haired, good-lookin', honey-mouthed boy. "Baby, I’mona treat you like a queen."

  Wendell Sweet was still good-looking, if one didn't mind eyes too close together and a chin like a shovel. He had the thick wrists and big shoulders of a man who had wrestled with drill bits and steel. His smile was slow, and his drawl was charming. He could wear a suit well, and his cuff links gleamed, but Gail thought that if she was around him long enough, she would start to see the crude oil under his fingernails.

  After they married, Jamie had waited tables and sold Mary Kay cosmetics to pay Wendell's tuition. When he drank, he got mean, and Jamie learned to keep out of his way. Ten hard years went by before the money started coming in, and when it did, they spent it. In Miami they bought a two-story house with a pool. There was a Land Rover to take the children to school in and a Cadillac for when Jamie and Wendell went out. But Wendell was gone more often than not. For something to do, Jamie redecorated the house—three times. Took cooking lessons and put on weight. Lost thirty pounds on diet pills, was hospitalized for an overdose, then put it all back on. She caught Wendell cheating and forgave him. She forgave him the times he hit her because she had three kids, no education, and a firm belief that somehow he would stop if only she could do better. To keep herself from going completely crazy, Jamie went to work for a resort company.

  One day Wendell said he was tired of being married to a redneck whose bad grammar and fat ass embarrassed him with his clients. Something clicked in Jamie's head, and she said she'd had all she could take. Jamie's boss spoke to Anthony Quintana, and Anthony sent Jamie to Gail.

  It took a court order to get Wendell out of the house. He had sat outside in his car and called her on his cell phone, alternating between teary-eyed pleas for her to come back to him and vicious threats that he would kill her if she didn't. He followed her. She saw him behind her at the grocery store or the shopping mall. A restraining order was issued. Wendell hired a lawyer. Settlement negotiations failed. Finally, five months after Gail had taken the case, here they all were on a motion for temporary support and attorney's fees. Wendell was claiming poverty. His consulting business was way off, due to downturns in the industry and political instability in Venezuela. Gail's friend Charlene Marks, who specialized in family law, told her that apparently Wendell had come down with RAIDS—Recently Acquired Income Deficiency Syndrome. The moment a divorce is filed, the husband's income drops.

  Judge Ramirez interrupted Wendell's lawyer in mid-question. "Mr. Acker, I think I've heard enough to make a ruling." Acker seemed almost relieved. A big man, he sighed, took off his glasses,
and folded them into his breast pocket.

  Wendell swung around from the window, waiting to hear what the judge had to say.

  Gail closed her file and went back to her chair. As she sat down, she smiled at Jamie and gave her a subtle wink.

  Ramirez gave a cursory glance through the pleadings. "Okey-doke. Are you ready, Ms. Court Reporter?" The fiftyish woman in front of his desk nodded and said she was ready for anything. There were a few laughs, then Ramirez said, "The court is not satisfied that respondent, Wendell Sweet, has fully disclosed his assets. Testimony from the petitioner's accountant suggests that respondent has engaged in . . . well, let's say that he appears not to have accurately reported his income to the IRS. Therefore, imputing income to Mr. Sweet consistent with the demonstrated spending patterns of the parties, I am going to award temporary support as follows. The court finds that the petitioner, Jamie Sue Sweet, has a need for three thousand dollars per month as temporary alimony and five hundred dollars per month in temporary child support for each of the three children. The husband is to bring current and continue to pay the mortgage, the wife's car loan, and all medical and dental expenses. All said amounts are to be paid forthwith."

  Under the table, Gail squeezed Jamie Sweet's icy hand. This was exactly what they had asked for.

  The judge went on, "The wife has also alleged a need for temporary attorney's fees in the amount of twenty-two thousand, five hundred dollars. This case is set for report in thirty days, at which time I will make a ruling on fees and reconsider the amount of support awarded to Mrs. Sweet, based on the husband's ability to pay."

  Gail kept her expression neutral, hiding her bewilderment.

  Ramirez consulted his notes. "Additionally, the court grants the wife's motion for contempt. Although previously ordered to do so, Mr. Sweet has not produced copies of documents relating to any and all offshore corporate or personal transactions in which he has had, now has, or expects in the future to have an interest. You shall produce said documents within one week, or this court will consider jail time. Mr. Sweet, are you paying attention? You give Ms. Connor those documents by five o'clock next Friday, or you're going to jail. Are we clear on that?"