by Sonia Taitz
“Did I ask you how you felt? I don’t recall.”
“No you didn’t,” she admitted, chastened.
“Thomas: Have you heard about that stupid associate?”
“Carl Granger? Dave Biddle-Kammerman told me something about him.”
“Biddle had Granger’s deposition. He tells me it was full of garbage.”
“Do you happen to have a copy of it?”
Fudim took a moment to give Abigail a nasty stare.
“‘Do I happen—’?” Had he used a falsetto to mimic her female voice? “NO,” he continued, thundering. “NO.”
“OK, you don’t have a copy,” she said flatly.
“The fewer copies floating around, the better. There’s some very damaging information in it, facts alleged that we had no prior idea about. Unfortunately, our client has not been entirely forthcoming. More to the point, we can’t use the information, and we’re just going to have to pretend we never heard about it. Catch my drift?”
“Not entirely,” Abigail confessed. “I’ve always been a real stickler for information. Facts have been my business for the last seven years, and now you want me to—”
“You know, Abigail,” said Fudim, cutting her off with a slight edge of fury, “this really reminds me of another case we had here, it was a number of years ago. One of the lawyers, a partner, in fact, just could not keep his big mouth shut. It was the same kind of thing, the client kept a little secret, and we found out about it. It came to our knowledge.”
Was he talking about Richard? Abigail’s mind reeled, and she felt herself flushing deeply, as though she’d done this act with him.
“He disclosed?”
“He betrayed.”
“I see,” she said quietly, trying to make sense of what her boss was saying. Richard had betrayed her, too, and she’d heard he was professionally rotten in some way—but what had he actually done? Something she now felt like doing? And would that be betrayal?
“Now, Abigail, what could we do, under these circumstances? We pretended not to know, and in legal fact, we didn’t really, totally ‘know’—and what is knowledge anyway, you get me? It comes, it goes, one remembers, one forgets to remember. And so, we won the case. Client was thrilled. We were thrilled.
“Until that big-mouthed attorney went over to opposing counsel, told them the info we’d omitted, and—well, it was devastating. We lost on appeal, and of course we lost our client.”
Abigail’s head was swimming, an almost pleasant sensation.
“Your own attorney came forward with facts favorable to opposing counsel?”
“Shocking, I know. To be fair, he didn’t think of it as ‘helping.’ It was more a ‘full disclosure’ thing, he said.”
“Is he still practicing?”
“Not by my definition, he isn’t. Whatever he’s doing, it’s propelled by insanity. Who is he, Don Quixote? Anyway, who cares? You’re not getting my gist!”
“What is the gist—the MacAdam case, right?”
“Yes, I’m worried sick about the widow MacAdam. See, even without that extra piece of ammo, I have this feeling MacAdam’s gonna twist us around. She already got to Granger, who’s fresh out of school and should have more spine. She’s had a go at your sympathies, too, no doubt. And eventually, of course she’s gonna twist the judge and the jury around. Why would anyone want to impoverish such a cute old gal?”
“I don’t know. But I guess Cranebill wants to.”
“Well, yes—of course he wants to, if it works to his advantage!” Fudim paused. “Are you admitting she’s cute? I was playing devil’s advocate,” said Fudim.
“So was I,” Abigail answered quickly.
“No, you weren’t. Biddle-Kammerman told me that he thinks you’re sympathetic. Cut that out. I’m serious. Are you nursing your kid or something?”
“Not really, not anymore.”
“Those hormones’ll kill you. Melt you into a puddle. I don’t like to get personal, but there’s a—a kind of motherly look in your face now.”
“There is?”
“Yeah, there kind of is. Not that it isn’t sweet. MacAdam probably has it, too, when she’s not plotting to flatten us. And worse, she’s gonna sit so sweetly in the courtroom, cute as a button, and show off her stump. Who’s gonna argue with her? Some trampy Hun model nearly buzzed her off the face of the earth, killed her gorgeous doggies and hurt the sweet little herb garden that she lived for—and she’s guilty and has to pay?”
“Well, I can see what you’re saying. But our side might have probative weight. She did show reckless disregard and—contributory—”
“Weight, shmeight. Real people are trained to like all the ladies, the puppies, the babies, the plants. You understand me?”
“I do. ‘People’ can be so sentimental.”
“Speaking of which. Go home. Come on, it’s your first baby! I’m gonna get blamed for hauling you in here so soon. Dave Biddle-Kammerman’s already accusing me of being a slave driver. Told me to go easy on your workload.”
Abigail took this in. That snake Dave was definitely trying to shut her out.
“But if you’re so worried, Mr. Fudim, I’d like to discuss strategies for keeping her off the stand—non compos mentis, for instance—”
“No, that might make it impossible to collect on countersuit. Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out. You’ve done your best, and for now it’s not your problem. We’ll factor it all in. You’ve got a baby that needs you.”
“Needs me? That fact is not yet in evidence,” she tried to joke. Not laughing, Fudim went over to the door and held it for her, so out she went, heading homeward.
When Abigail opened the door to her apartment, she walked in on a scene that once would have startled her. There was Arlie, patiently holding up a large piece of oak tag with two dots on it and saying, “Two, two, two.”
“You’re doing great, Arlie,” said Abigail. “My friend Rona once explained about these dots to me.” She remembered that she had not spoken to Rona for a while, and resolved to call her.
Chloe squealed with sudden joy at the sound of Abigail’s voice, which made her so happy she found herself beaming.
“Had a good day, then?” said Arlie.
“I was able to go to work and not worry about anything,” Abigail replied. “So thanks so much, Arlie. You make my life possible.”
“Well,” said Arlie. “I know you have to teach these babies, otherwise they don’t get so intelligent. And even though you don’t mention it to me, I do it. Because I want this child to be the greatest thing, you know. Maybe she’ll be a president, an actress, a model. Anything.”
“Terrific. Thanks again.” Abigail was by now eager to get into her bedroom, shed the heels, and wriggle out of her tight, scratchy suit, but Arlie was speaking more and more urgently.
“And one day, she can be a lawyer, even, like her mama, and make so much money she can do anything she want!”
“Oh, Arlie,” said Abigail, touched by the naïveté of the sentiment. She had once felt that law would let her do “anything.” Maybe it could, but right now, she didn’t see how. Still, it was nice to remember its potential.
“She lucky to have a mom like you, so professional, you know?”
“Thank you for that vote of confidence, Arlie. Not everyone thinks that mothers should work at a demanding career. I think you’re pretty wonderful yourself,” she added generously. “And what you do is very important, you know? It’s vital.”
Arlie didn’t answer. She had moved on to the concept of “three”:
“Three. See? One, two, three. Two on the top, one on the bottom. Only lonely dot on the bottom, see, baby? Oh, you looking to where your mother went? OK, she’ll be back in a minute.”
Abigail entered her bedroom to change out of her business clothes. When she came out, wearing yoga pants and an old T-shirt, Arlie was putting a light load of laundry into the washing machine. Chloe sat in her little chair, watching everything.
“She like the sound of the washing machine, look,” said Arlie.
“She does? I didn’t know that.”
“Sure. It relax her. She look so happy.”
“Shall I—may I sit with Chloe for a minute when you’re finished loading up the wash? I just want to be with her.”
“You don’t have to ask me, Ms. Thomas. She is your own baby, you know.”
“Thanks for saying that, Arlie.”
Arlie left the room to straighten up the bassinet. Abigail sat with her child. Chloe gazed at her mother, smiling, openmouthed. Abigail looked into her eyes, transfixed by her joy. It spread over her like sunshine; it illuminated her. She didn’t know that she herself was smiling, but she was.
Only after a few minutes did she notice that her baby was drooling. Abigail found a dishtowel and carefully began wiping the saliva off Chloe’s face. The baby sat impassively as Abigail dabbed her chin dry. Then, all of a sudden, she began shrieking, as though stung.
Arlie came running.
“What happened, baby?”
Chloe sat there, her lower lip curled into a pout. Fat tears crawled down her round pink cheeks.
“I—I was wiping her chin,” said Abigail. “She had some spit up, some drool.”
“But what you wipe with? You use that?” said Arlie, indicating the dishtowel.
“It was all I could find.”
“No, no, Ms. Thomas. It too rough for her skin. You need to use a cloth baby diaper, you know I keep a pile in the closet over there by the front door, and there is some by the bassinet. They are softer. She need that, especially with her face rashes that she get. Maybe you touch a pimple.”
“Maybe,” said Abigail humbly.
“Here, let me get one of those soft diapers to show you.”
“No, I know which ones you mean. I’m just happy she’s stopped crying now.”
“I’m going to put some cream on that little face, all right baby?” said Arlie, taking Chloe out of her baby seat and lifting her onto her shoulder. They headed to the changing table, where Arlie kept the ointments.
“No—don’t go yet,” Abigail pleaded. “I need to tell you that—that I won’t be going into work tomorrow.”
“You’ll be here?”
“Yes, I think I’ll stay home for a while,” said Abigail quietly. “I hope you won’t mind. I know that Gary—from the agency—said the sitters like to have things the way they like them, but—”
“I understand. All the mothers, they say it’s hard to leave the baby when they’re so small and cutie-cutie, eh? Don’t worry. I’ll be going to the park if the weather’s nice. You can come along with us. It’s all right. Mr. Gary don’t know Arlie. I’m not bothered.”
“Thanks. I think I will go to the park with you and the baby.”
Abigail was tempted to tell Arlie the truth: the firm, in a show of benevolence, preferred that she stay home for now. Privileged as she seemed to be, she too could not do everything she wanted.
29
There they sat, the three of them, on a park bench. Since Chloe was too small to do much, she lay in the carriage, at Arlie’s feet. Abigail felt restless. She paced around, checking out the bucket swings, the mini climbing frame, the sandbox. Though it was a crisp day, the sun was warm and the air calm. Bundled children toddled around, watched at a distance by their caregivers.
Returning to the bench, Abigail found Arlie surrounded by a flock of nannies, each with a baby in a stroller. It was as though they had waited for her, the mother, to leave so that they could descend. Now Arlie was chatting and smiling with the other nannies, more comfortable than Abigail had ever seen her. The women seemed to know one another, including Arlie in their easy camaraderie. All the while, with calm professional instinct, Arlie pushed Chloe’s stroller back and forth, soothing her. Chloe fell asleep under a canopy of branches above the benches.
Abigail remained standing, apart. She felt the way she’d felt when she’d walked into that remote bar in Grenada and didn’t find Jackson Moss—alone, apart, and on display. She felt the nannies size her up, noticing her blue sweatpants and her big orange parka, her clunky running shoes and disheveled hair pinned down by a large barrette. She felt they had her pegged as they talked to Arlie in lowered tones, their eyes looking at her, then away. A nervous mother, a sloppy girl (and probably not that rich). No use to her child, a nuisance to her busy employee.
All at once, Abigail leaned over to her daughter’s caregiver and said, “You know, Arlie? I just remembered. I have an important phone call to make. Work-related,” she added. This conceit helped salve the hurt Abigail felt at being left out of this group. It made her seem sure and strong and necessary somewhere else.
“I’ll just say goodbye to . . . to my baby,” she said, stepping over to look into the carriage. Arlie held her back gently.
“She’s sleeping now. See, Ms. Thomas? Best to let her rest.”
Abigail felt the other nannies staring at her, as though to see what she would say to this challenge.
“Oh, you’re right, she has gone to sleep,” she said, gazing at her child with a sense of utter longing. How had all this distance come between them? Nannies, feedings, park trips, work—and sleep. This soul had once lived inside her; they could not have been closer.
“I’ll just whisper, then.”
Arlie gave no resistance, nor did she exchange glances with the other nannies, some of whom were bold enough to shake their heads.
“Goodbye, my darling baby,” said Abigail, her voice cracking from the strain of not speaking more loudly. “I love you more than anything.”
She had never said it before, and now she had said it in front of the world. Her heart felt like cracking in two. If it had, she would have taken one half away, wherever she was aimlessly headed, and left the other behind, with her little dreaming child.
When Abigail returned home, she checked herself in the lobby mirror and found that her hair was matted with sweat. She had buttoned her parka the wrong way, and one of her sneakers had a loose and flopping lace. The doorman called out that he had a package for her. She took it upstairs, dropped it on her bed, and cried lustily.
She had been holding in this outburst since the baby had been born, and now, like the baby, it had to come out. Abigail sobbed out loud, walking through her home with a slow, nostalgic, ceremonial pace. She looked in the closet, at those soft baby-wiping cloths that Arlie had mentioned, and wept at the sight of them. She walked over to Chloe’s bassinet, picked up her little sateen pillow with the lace trim, and held it to her face, soaking it with her tears. Maybe Arlie would think Chloe had done some more drooling.
Finally, spent, Abigail went back to her room and tore the package open. She could see the Grenada stamps—had it come from Jackson? Inside was a professional camera with a large telephoto lens, the glass shattered. The camera was covered with dried soil, significantly battered, and loaded with film.
Yes, Jackson Moss had sent it to her, along with a note he’d handwritten. It bore a single, simple sentence:
You’ll know what to do with this.
I will? thought Abigail. For a long, dazed moment, she wondered if the camera contained shots of a basil-rosemary plantation in the West Indies. She could even hear Evelyn MacAdam’s voice, now proud about her plants, now enraged at the thought that she’d been spied on, strafed, sabotaged.
When she came back to herself, Abigail carefully slid the camera and note back into their padded envelope. The package sat there, wrapped up again but bulging, expectant with material.
“I don’t know what to do with you,” she muttered, as though apologizing to it.
And then, abruptly, surprising herself, Abigail realized that she had to call Richard Trubridge. At first, she couldn’t remember the name of his firm. Finally, “Murdock” came into her mind. A sinister sound, but a start. She could find the rest from that little piece of the puzzle.
When Abigail finally got through to the office, however, the secretary said,
“Mr. Trubridge is not working here at the moment.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mr. Trubridge is not working here at the moment.”
“Yes, I know what you said,” said Abigail, who couldn’t help sounding testy. “I asked what you meant. Is he working somewhere else?”
“No, miss. He’s currently on a leave of absence.”
“For how long?”
“I’m not aware of the details. All I know is that it’s a leave of absence.”
“What kind of leave?” Abigail asked. “Paternity leave?” she spat out, feeling reckless. She was finally getting sick of not knowing everything that mattered, at work and in her personal life. Sick of it.
“Oh, no, no,” said the secretary, letting out a faint chuckle. “But I do believe it is some family concern.”
“Oh,” said Abigail, further deflated by the words “family” and “concern.”
Hanging up, she found herself hugging the package Jay had sent her. She felt she had to hang on to something.
30
Richard Trubridge did have family concerns. Last spring, his older brother, Allen, had developed a heart condition, leaving him unable to work, and just as his family—Lauren and three children, Ellen, Hal, and little Martin—had adjusted to this, Allen had had a debilitating heart attack, and he needed lengthy rehabilitation.
Now Lauren Trubridge, Allen’s young and high-strung wife, had developed what the doctors called nervous exhaustion, and she had to be hospitalized as well. This left Richard no choice: he had taken a leave of absence until his sister-in-law recovered and his brother came out of Rusk Rehabilitation.
It was a world that Richard, even with years of family law behind him, had never encountered. Married only briefly, in his thirties, he had experienced the vicissitudes of family as a paid professional, by proxy. Now it was real.
The two eldest (the girl was twelve; the boy, ten), were in school, with after-school activities taking them straight through to supper time. For high school, their parents planned to send them to an elite boarding school, and they both had the ability and discipline to thrive there.