The Legal Limit

by Martin Clark

  “Um-hmm,” she said.

  “I’ve been thinking…been considering the possibility of having lunch with a lady.” He’d taken the sentence through several permutations, shaping it, careful to omit the words “date,” “dinner” and “another woman.” “I’ll never do better than your mother, and I’ll never stop loving her, but I wanted to ask how you’d feel if I went to eat with someone. A meal. Nothing serious.”

  She whipped around toward him, and her face reacted as if a bee had found her bare foot in clover: first came a half breath of startled, steel-trap surprise that erased everything and reset her features to zero, then the spasm from the sting hit—damn, ouch—and ran roughshod over her. The cursor was abandoned on the screen, blinking in mid-word: tho. “A date? You mean you have a date?”

  “No, no, no. I don’t have anything, and if I did, it wouldn’t be a date. I’d thought about getting out of the den for a change and spending time with people my own age.”

  “Custis is your age.”

  “True.”

  “So it has to be a date,” she said. She was practically bug-eyed.

  “Not really.”

  “It’s just weird. Icky. Gross.” She folded her legs into the chair, knees against her chest, flip-flops on the seat. “Sorta awful, you and somebody different.”

  “Listen, I realize none of this is simple. That’s why I’m talking to you. I’m not even sure I want to do it, but it’s been over two years, and…well…here I sit, probably depending on you too much, teaching you how to do a box score and pitch a softball and inviting you to kung fu movies, repeating the identical day again and again like I’m knitting Laertes’s shroud or channeling Ben Cartwright, and I assume I need to try to balance myself, inhale some fresh air, not become a hermit and pull you along with me. Plus, the truth is I’m lonely. Not every day or anything,” he added immediately, “and I love you and it has nothing to do with you.” He looked at the hardwood floor, the throw rug, the yellow walls, the truncated word on the computer screen. “You’re a blessing as a daughter. Yes, you are. I wish things were different and we didn’t even have to discuss this, but…”

  “So who is it?” she asked. “And how come you’re trying to mention stuff you think I won’t understand?”

  “Shoni McClean.”

  “Ohmygod. Are you serious? I’ll be humiliated.”

  “Why? I see her at the gym and she seems pleasant enough.”

  Grace buried her head into her knees and grabbed hold of her hair with both hands. “She’s a slut. Everybody knows it. All the guys in my class call her ‘Sexy Shoni.’” She was speaking into her pants legs, but she was loud enough that Mason had no difficulty hearing her. “Why don’t you just date Pamela Anderson and get it over with?”

  “From what I’ve heard, she has an excellent reputation. The fact she’s attractive doesn’t make her a slut.”

  “You don’t know; I do.”

  “I see.”

  “Why are you even askin’ me if you’ve already decided?” She popped up and stared at him.

  “I haven’t decided. I wouldn’t do anything unless I checked with you.”

  “If you think you have to check, it must be somethin’ huge, so that means it’s a date, like you and her are…are…a couple.” Her chin crumbled and the first mad, wounded tears wet her cheeks. The tears dropped fast, straight. “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me. I’m not even fifteen. Don’t you think I’ve been punished enough without you making it worse?”

  “I’m not trying to hurt you or make it worse. I’m only trying to recover and have a tolerable life. Normal. Happy. The both of us.” He slid off the bed. Still crouching, he attempted to take her hands, but she wasn’t about to let him, jerked away, slapping and pawing at the air before hunkering down behind her shins. “I love you,” he told her, supplicant there as she bawled and thrashed and retreated into her chair, and he understood how she felt, what it was like to be screwed out of a parent, rooked and shortchanged. “Don’t worry,” he assured her. “We’ll be fine.”

  Don Wiggington wore his soul on display—hooded eyes, fleshy oblong cheeks, a dash of gargoyle running through his wide nose and rubbery lips. His were the sluggishly corrupt features you’d expect to mark a Renaissance cardinal on the take, one robe pocket full of dispensations, the other stuffed with bribes and Medici kickbacks. Unfortunately, what you saw with Wiggington was exactly what you got, and Stuart people kept their distance where he was concerned. He was a big talker, a glad-hander, a regular at the café counters and lunch tables, but everybody knew he couldn’t be trusted, knew the story of how, in the eighties, he’d pled guilty to misdemeanor disorderly conduct, a charitable legal arrangement that blurred the true nature of his crime, a sexual overture to a first-grade girl fresh off the bus from Red Bank Elementary School.

  Wednesday at lunch, Mason passed Wiggington on the chipped concrete steps of the Coffee Break. Mason was heading in for the cheeseburger and orangeade special, and Wiggington was leaving, three white to-go bags clamped together in his chubby hand, grease outlines already penetrating the paper, turning it slick and translucent.

  “Mr. Commonwealth,” Wiggington said cheerfully. “Everything goin’ to suit you?”

  “No complaints,” Mason said, slowing between the top step and the landing but not intending to visit.

  “I tell you who has no complaints: your assistant, Custis. I seen him in the tall timber this weekend, down at Richmond. How’s he gettin’ along?”

  Mason stopped, straddling the riser from the last step. He ducked his head, not certain he’d understood. “Custis Norman?”

  “Yeah.” The sun was bright, and Wiggington shaded his eyes with his free hand. “Me and my wife was in Richmond to see our granddaughter at a dance recital, and Saturday a bunch of us went to the Tobacco Company, the nice restaurant, and there was ol’ Custis with a steak in front of him as huge as a mountain.” Wiggington laughed.

  “Last weekend? Four days ago?”

  “Yeah.” Wiggington situated himself so the sun wasn’t as fierce, dropped his hand.

  “Huh,” Mason murmured. “You positive it was Custis and it was last Saturday?”

  “I’m downright positive. Robbie Unger, a big wheel with Farm Bureau Insurance, took several of us out for dinner. Robbie’s close with my boy Louis. Custis was talking to a police officer and a sorta average-lookin’ bald guy. Not that I should say anything about another fellow’s hair.” Wiggington chuckled—false modesty—and raked a clump of comb-over strands off his forehead.

  “A cop? How would you know?”

  “He was a state man, Mason. Had on a blue uniform and a badge—pretty easy to identify. They was at a corner table, the three of them.” Wiggington shielded his eyes again. “How come you’re so surprised?”

  “Oh, well, Custis, you know how he is. Tight as a tick. I’m stunned to hear he was in a fancy restaurant. Burger King, yeah. Wendy’s. Subway. But not an expensive place, not Custis Norman. It’s a cinch the other guys were paying.” Mason counterfeited a grin. “You should’ve walked over and handed him your check or something.” He was trolling, sussing out as much as he could. “Given him a hard time, cheap as he is.”

  “Nah, we didn’t have a chance to speak. They was totally on the other side of the dining room.” Wiggington glanced at the sidewalk, then back at Mason. “And Custis, he’s never really warmed up to me. He’s polite, speaks and whatnot, but we’ve never completely gee-hawed.” He gestured with the sacks, lifting and dropping them. “I’m not saying anything against him, you understand. Me and him just aren’t as friendly as you and me are. I like Custis a lot. Appreciate all he does.”

  “I’m sure he thinks highly of you, too, Don. I wouldn’t take it personally.”

  “I don’t,” Wiggington replied. “See you later.” He arranged his hair again and waddled off.

  “Later,” Mason muttered. He made it no farther than the edge of the landing before veering away, strag
gling down the steps and crossing Main Street, retreating to his office, his appetite squashed, his skin so hopped up with distress and adrenaline it ached. “Sonofabitch,” he said aloud, cloistered by himself and pacing the floor, doing his best to decipher why Custis would lie to him, why his attitude had grown so foul, why he was meeting in Richmond with a state cop and a man who sure might be Ed Hoffman.

  Maybe Wiggington was mistaken on the date.

  Maybe it was simply a man who looked like Custis, and the cop being there reinforced Wiggington’s perception—it would make sense for Custis to be breaking bread with a policeman.

  Maybe Custis was in such a vile humor he gave a pat answer about the weekend to escape having a longer conversation, an innocent fib.

  Maybe it wasn’t Hoffman.

  Mason couldn’t quit pacing, thinking, stewing.

  Maybe Wiggington was lying. Who knew with a guy who’d offer up his pecker to a little girl?

  Maybe it was a cop and Hoffman and the meeting had nothing to do with the Wayne Thompson murder.

  Maybe Custis was trying to help, had a plan cooking.

  Maybe—

  Sheila opened the door so violently it bounced off the stiff-spring stop and nearly ricocheted back into her. The thwack from the door surprised Mason, and Sheila was right on top of him, busting in just as he was circling past the threshold, staring at the plaster walls but not actually noticing them, his arms pinned behind him like bony wings and his hands clasped. She was all to pieces, sobbing and snubbing and mad, her nostrils yo-yoing snot when she breathed through her nose, spit threads running from lip to lip when she fish-gulped air with her mouth. Her neck was red. Her blouse wasn’t right. She was an angry house afire.

  “Damn,” he exclaimed. “What? What’s wrong?” He instinctively stepped away from her.

  “Custis,” she fumed. “He—”

  “Is he okay?”

  “Yes,” she shrieked, “he’s okay, but I don’t have to put up with his treating me like dirt.”

  “Here,” Mason said, offering her a cotton handkerchief. “Take it easy.”

  “He called me a moron.” She wiped at her nose with her blouse sleeve. “And stupid. He said I was stupid.”

  “Okay, okay, okay. Okay. Sit down.” Mason positioned a chair for her. “I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding.”

  “I don’t want to sit down.” She stomped her foot and became even more emotional. “I work as hard as I can, Mason. I stay late, I miss opportunities with my kids, I—”

  “No one doubts that, Sheila. You’re the best in the business, and this place would collapse without you. What exactly has happened? Tell me what’s wrong. Try to relax.”

  “He had no right,” she said.

  “No right to what? You need to tell me.”

  “Custis came in last week after circuit court and gave me a discovery motion in that Jack Morris case, the guy with the nineteen larceny charges.” She dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief, and the crying and sniffling lessened. “He said, and I quote, ‘Send them all the statements in the file.’ I said, ‘Every statement?’ and he told me a second time to send everything. So today he claims I’ve ruined the case because I sent a witness statement we didn’t have to reveal and he was intending to use as an ambush.” She picked up steam again, growing louder: “I’m not a lawyer, Mason. Send ’em all, he told me, and I did what he wanted.”

  “Wow. Huh. You sure he’s not picking on you, just kidding around? You know how he is, especially with you. The rubber mouse, the stuffed skunk in your drawer, the exploding pen, the props and gags. The guy’s practically Gallagher. He’s always teasing you or thumping your head. Nailing you with paper wads. Acting silly.”

  She sucked a breath through the flow of mucus in her nose. “He was mean as a rattlesnake and he meant it. He said I was stupid. He said I was a moron.”

  “Well, I’ll talk to him. I’m sure you guys just have your wires crossed. He thinks the world of you. So do I.”

  “I’m entitled to an apology,” she said. “Especially since the whole thing is his fault for not being more definite. He’s blamin’ me for his mistake.”

  “I’ll check with Custis. You go in the restroom and calm down. Take a few hours off, go home, eat a long lunch, whatever. I’ll get this resolved. I promise.”

  “I’m not goin’ anywhere,” she said determinedly. “I’m not gonna let him run me out of this office or think he can bully me. No, thank you, nosirree. I have as much right to be here as he does. I’ll fix my makeup and be at my desk expectin’ him to be a man and say he’s sorry.”

  “Fair enough,” Mason said. He slid around her and eased the door completely open and solicitously waited, lightly, briefly, gently touching her shoulder as she went past, making her way to the ladies’ room.

  As soon as she disappeared, Mason paid Custis a visit. He was speaking to someone on the telephone, and he spied Mason in the doorway, smiled, and motioned for him to come in. A Tupperware tub loaded with carrots, broccoli and cauliflower was on his desk along with a napkin and dressing packet. “Not good,” he was saying into the receiver. “It’s never promisin’ when you order a kitchen table and it comes in a flat box. Mail order’s a bitch like that. I’m predictin’ obscure directions, pre-drilled holes we can’t quite line up and a need for Allen wrenches and pliers. I’ll take a stab at it, though. See what I can do. I’ll be by tonight ’round seven. Hey, Mason’s here—I gotta roll.” He said good-bye, hung up the phone. “Inez,” he explained. “She ordered this damn table from Williams-Sonoma and—greetings from the factory—it’s not assembled, despite the fact it cost a king’s ransom. Sweet, huh?” He seemed serene, normal, very much his affable self.

  “Never buy grills, bikes, dollhouses or furniture unless they’re already put together,” Mason said. He shut the door and took a seat across from Custis. “What kind of skirmish did you and Sheila have?”

  “Nothing, really. She screwed up a case and I called her on it.” He shrugged. “We had a discovery motion, and instead of sendin’ the other side only the defendant’s statements, she, for reasons known only to her, decided to provide them witness statements as well, a gift you and I both realize they aren’t entitled to, and an error that took away my chance to do serious impeachment damage at trial. Why’s it an issue?”

  “She’s crying and bent out of the frame,” Mason said softly. “She claims you insulted her, called her a moron and stupid.”

  “I told her it was a stupid mistake. I didn’t say she was stupid. There’s a considerable difference. She’s the one who then got all up on me and wanted to argue about how I’d authorized it, which is nonsense. I don’t need that kind of static, not from her, not from my secretary, not from anyone, so, yeah, I cut her down to size a little bit and called her a moron. She deserved to hear it.”

  Mason grimaced. “Damn, Custis. Man…um, um, um, um. She says you told her to send every statement in the file, not just the defendant’s stuff.”

  “I did no such thing,” Custis said, his tone formal. “And supposin’ I did, how long’s she been doin’ this gig, Mace, huh? We’re too damn lax around here. This was basic and she was careless and now she’s runnin’ to you and actin’ like a child. I don’t have time for this. It’s petty.”

  “Petty or not, do you think you might help me make her happy again?”

  “Meaning what?” Custis growled. He glared at Mason, tugging and twisting a dreadlock. Gray had begun to stain his hair and sideburns.

  “How about we write it off as a misunderstanding, a bad moment, pressure, whatever, and you jolly her up and assure her you didn’t intend to insult her?”

  “So she’s at fault, and you want me to apologize to her? She’s insubordinate, and your reaction is for Custis to dive into his Stepin Fetchit routine, hat in hand, and shuck and jive and grovel? She crosses the line with me first, and I’m the villain?”

  “Christ, Custis, give me a break. What’s with you the last few days? I
only suggested we try to mend fences with the best secretary in the state—who also happens to be our friend—and yeah, for what it’s worth, you were wrong to say she was a moron. You should address that with her.”

  “Right,” Custis snarled, his voice larded with disdain. “Here we go. Custis gonna crawl up to the manor house and ask the missus for forgiveness. Well, maybe I’m tired of bein’ the house nigger. Maybe I’m tired of bein’ Sammy Davis, Jr., and keepin’ everybody happy, the song-and-dance man. How ’bout we have her come in here and apologize to me?”

  Mason wouldn’t allow Custis any purchase. “This isn’t about race,” Mason said, not flinching, making it a point to stand from his chair. “And you know it. It’s chickenshit to hide there. This is about you treating another person the way you’d expect to be treated. End of story.”

  “Everything’s about race,” Custis said. “You try bein’ a black man in Patrick County. You try always bein’ the oddity. See how chickenshit you think it is.” He rose, too.

  “Sort of like the drawing of me in court last month—the ‘Super-cracker’ caricature you sketched because I didn’t recognize some ridiculous hip-hop term. The flying redneck with the Saltine shield and banjo death ray.” Mason hoped mentioning the scene, funny as it was, would diffuse their quarrel and nudge Custis toward civility.

  “If the shoe fits, brother.”

  “You’re making a mistake, Custis.”

  “You’re entitled to your opinion.”

  “So you’re going to hide behind your skin color and play the victim and refuse to even speak to your employee? The lady sitting out there at her desk, your friend of over twenty years? Let’s assume you’re right and she’s wrong. You think the correct thing to do is blow her off and declare a race foul? She’s doing this because you’re black—that’s your position?”

  “Tell you what. Since you’re the philosopher king and have a corner on the morality market and know everything there is to know, I’m gonna glide on through the front door and let you and Sheila take this ship over and sail it however you wanna. I’m gone. You can kiss her ass for me if you’d like. Tell her how sorry I am. I don’t care.” Custis snatched his suit coat from the rack and hurried past Mason, brushing against him as he went by because Mason wouldn’t grant him a wider path, wasn’t about to yield or show him the courtesy of a step to the side.