“Please, I need help … badly.”
“Try these attorneys. They are all topnotch: Joe Anthony, Carole-Ann Polan, Leslie DeSouza, R.J. Corman.”
Four calls later, Serena Tully dropped the receiver into the cradle and stared dully at her best friend. “He called them all. They all say the same thing. Sorry, we can’t represent you. Try these names. Then they give me the same names. I’ve called them all. Tom’s been there first. He cut out all the competition.” She laid her head across her forearms.
“There can’t be only six divorce lawyers in Fairfax County. That doesn’t make any sense.”
“I know, Denise, but they keep saying the same things. Your husband has retained very effective counsel. You need somebody experienced to deal with Albert. What does that mean?”
“I don’t know, Serena. Let’s get out the yellow pages and see who’s listed.”
They found “Lawyers.” All sixty-nine pages of them. First came the full page, multi-color ads with the disaster logos: handcuffs, smashed cars, covered gurneys. Then the smorgasbord ads, you name it we do it: criminal law, immigration, personal injury, family law. Half-page; quarter-page; dwindling down to the simple listings.
“This is insane, Denise. There are a million of them. What am I going to do? Close my eyes and pick whoever my finger lands on?”
“Let’s see what kind of ad the big names have,” Denise said and took the book.
The names Serena had been given all had simple two-line entries. Name and address. No boldface, no proclamations. Finally, there was a listing by area of legal practice. Only one of the five names she had been given was listed there.
“These people do divorces. Let’s find one nearby and see if we can get you an appointment.”
“Fine. Fine.”
Denise scanned the columns. “There are three nearby. Two women and a man. Do you care about that?”
“Yes. What’s the man’s name?”
“Gerald Stuart.”
“Let’s hope he’s as ‘effective’ as Tom’s is.”
Her call to Stuart’s office got her a five o’clock appointment.
“Denise, thank you. I didn’t know where to go. I know I’ve made a mess of your afternoon. I’m sorry.”
“Serena, please. What’s happening to you is terrible. This is what friends are for.” She walked over and put her arm around her friend, whose cheek pressed against her hip in the same place her oldest son’s did. “This is the first thing you have to do. One step at a time.”
“Thanks.” She looked at her watch. “I have a little time before the appointment. I need to find a place to stay tonight.”
“Don’t be silly. You can stay here tonight or even over the weekend if you have to. I’ll deal with Bill.”
Serena took a deep breath. The first one that hadn’t been in the steel corset that slipped over her as she read the Order of the Circuit Court of the County of Fairfax, the Commonwealth of Virginia.
“I’m going to freshen up. I must look awful.”
Serena Louise Tully, once Serena Louise Dilworth, put her hands on the sink and leaned forward until the mirror betrayed every blemish. The tiny creases around her eyes, laugh lines that made you cry. How long would her good genes hold time at bay? Being beautiful had sustained her for a long time. But the ride was fast, wild and short and it was slowing down more each day. Why hadn’t she learned to rely on other things, things that didn’t fade so fast? She knew the answer. It was easy and it was instant power. Therapy had taught her that much. How would she make her way without being beautiful? The thought terrified her and she felt her stomach clench.
This was as far as she ever got. The wish and the fear bedded down and produced twin offspring: good intentions and bad ends.
Serena sat her purse on the edge of the sink and set about to repair the damage her tears had wrought. Fresh mascara and eyeliner, a little concealer under the eyes and on her nose. God forbid Gerald Stuart should see her any other way.
CHAPTER SIX
Gerald Stuart greeted Serena at the door to the office he sublet from another lawyer. Only three weeks earlier had he been allowed to put his nameplate on the front of the building. He showed her into a seat, remembered that the coffee pot was unplugged and didn’t offer her any, went behind his desk and asked how he could help her.
“I saw that you do divorce work. Is that a specialty of yours, Mr. Stuart?”
“It’s not a specialty Mrs. Tully, but I have handled quite a number of domestic matters in my fifteen years as a trial attorney.”
A sliver of truth lurked in the murk of that response. When he wasn’t pleading out drunk drivers, he did some name changes, drew up wills, some uncontested divorces, or adoptions and a few custody disputes.
“My husband went into court today and got this order against me.” She handed it to Stuart. He read it, put it down on the desk and patted it as if he expected it to burp.
“Now, this order says you’re a danger to your children and husband. And it orders you to be evaluated by some doctor.” He checked the still silent order. “A Doctor Reece. What could this be referring to?”
“I have no idea. This is insane. My husband is Tom Tully. He was a pro football player. He once hit a man so hard that the poor guy died. Look at me. I’m all of a hundred and ten pounds. How could I be a danger to him? And my kids? I’ve never done anything to hurt them. Ever. I don’t know what lies he told the judge.”
“Well whatever it was, it worked. The judge believed him. I’ll call this attorney, this Mr. Garfield, and see what he has to say about the evidence he presented. Obviously you want back into the house and custody of your children restored. Is there anything else you’d like me to press for at this time?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want to go back into the house with Tom. He’s the one who’s dangerous. Can we make him leave?”
“Has he ever been abusive to you? Ever beaten you up?”
“Are you kidding? If he hit me once I’d be dead. I never let things go that far. Once Tom’d lose his temper, I’d just give up, agree, whatever. So no, he never beat me up. He didn’t have to.”
“Okay, Mrs. Tully, I’ll see what I can do. Why don’t you fill out this information sheet? I’ll need a retainer check for two thousand dollars from you at this time. That’s ten hours at my rate of two hundred dollars an hour.” His new rate. Computed by taking the distance to the end of her rope and multiplying that by her Baume & Mercier watch. “While you do that, I’ll call Mr. Garfield and see if we can discuss this.”
Serena Tully filled out the forms and her check while Stuart held the line. Eventually he found that Mr. Garfield was out of the office and not expected back. Stuart left his number and said that he represented Serena Tully.
“That’s all I can do right now, Mrs. Tully. First thing Monday morning I’ll get with Mr. Garfield and we’ll come to an understanding about this matter.”
“Can’t you do anything until then? I want to see my children.”
“I wouldn’t do that, Mrs. Tully. Your husband has a legal order barring you from the home. If you go by the house and he calls the police it won’t look good for you. He might claim that you’re stalking him. That won’t help. Please be patient, Mrs. Tully. First thing Monday morning we’ll see about getting you access to your children.”
Serena Tully found herself out in the parking lot, staring over the top of her car. She realized that she was drifting more and more frequently into reveries where she carefully analyzed everything that had happened for the clues that it wasn’t real, it wasn’t her life. Somehow she had gotten lost and wandered away from her life into this one. If she could only retrace her steps, find that wrong turn she’d made, she’d go back to her life with the familiar miseries she desperately longed for.
These thoughts led her back to her house. She sat in the driveway. The house was dark. She was back in her life, but everyone else was gone. Getting out of the car, she walked slowly towards the hous
e, staring up as if it was a castle, and she a peasant girl without an offering. She fumbled in her purse for her keys and found that they did not work. Not on the front door, the garage, the back door or the patio. She stumbled over her belongings in bags alongside the garage wall. She dragged them back to her car and drove away.
On her way back to Denise’s, she made a phone call that left her vomiting in despair.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Morgan Reece woke up, sat on the edge of the bed, rubbed his eyes and went to the bathroom to wash his face. He brushed his teeth, replaced the brush and considered eating.
In the kitchen he surveyed the contents of the refrigerator. While he did this, he groomed his mustache with his left hand. Another self-soothing habit he’d developed, like waking up with his penis in his hand. He had noted that his depression had lifted. A change he could not account for, nor was he entirely happy about it. Depression had its comforts. He had always been an anxious, obsessive man. Caring too much about everything. Depression relaxed him. He hadn’t a care in the world. There was nothing bad left to fear. For almost five years the fertile void of that truth had produced nothing. For the first time, he thought it might.
Morgan Reece was forty-five years old. His sandy blond hair and beard and recent weight loss knocked a few years off that, but only at a distance.
Reece put the remains of a pizza in the microwave and made a pot of coffee. He read the newspaper while he ate. An average night in D.C. left three dead and two wounded. Today, with the temperature in the nineties, a severe bullet storm warning was in effect from eight p.m. on. Reece scanned the bad news from the rest of the country, then the world, and wondered why he bothered.
Reece showered, dressed and checked his voice mail. The first message was from Albert Garfield. “Dr. Reece, Judge Kenniston has appointed you to conduct a custody evaluation. I represent the father in this matter. Please call my office to confirm your availability to do the evaluation.” He wrote down the number, erased the message and played the second one.…
“Dr. Reece, my name is Lindsay Brinkman. I was riding on Metro a few weeks ago and some papers of mine fell on the floor. I’m missing a couple of pages and I have one of yours. I guess they got mixed up on the floor. I’d like to arrange to get my papers back. Would you please call me at (703) 555-1964? Thank you.”
The bird. Morgan Reece went to his briefcase, unsnapped the locks and took out his chapter. He arranged the pages by number. As he did that, he found two five-by-seven cards stuck to the pages. He pulled them loose and felt their backs. They were slightly tacky. He held one up to look at. It looked like a copy of a black and white photograph. The mass in the center was vaguely rectangular, and shaded, suggesting depth, but with indefinite edges. Each picture had a series of circled numbers connected by dotted lines on them. Reece held them up side by side and could not detect a pattern in the numbers or the lines. In fact he had never seen anything like them before.
Reece dialed the number she had given.
“Rocky Mountain High. Lindsay Brinkman speaking.”
“This is Dr. Morgan Reece. I got your message and I have two pages of yours. Is that all you’re missing?”
“Yes. I have one page of yours.”
Reece flipped through the chapter. “Is it page thirty-eight?”
“Yes.”
The last one, he thought. That’s why I didn’t catch it right away. “How did you figure out that I had your papers?” he asked.
“Your page ends with a note that says, ‘File: Reece Ch6 CSA.’ I read the page. It’s all about child sexual abuse. I figured that was CSA. I hoped your name was Reece. You were on the Metro in Virginia. So I looked up psychologists, psychiatrists and social workers in Virginia. You’re the only Reece.”
“How can I get the pages back to you? Do you want me to mail them to you?”
“No. I don’t want to trust them to the mail. Can I come by to get them at your office?”
“I’m with patients straight through today until nine p.m.”
“How about tomorrow? Are you done earlier?”
“Yes. I’m done at six. Then I have to go to the Borders in Tysons Corner.”
“That’s very close to where I work.”
“I have to pick up some books they’ve ordered for me. I’ll be there at around seven. Look for me in the coffee bar.”
“Fine. Thanks very much. See you there.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Gerald Stuart got through to Albert Garfield around eleven o’clock.
“Mr. Garfield, my name is Gerald Stuart. I represent Mrs. Serena Tully. I’d like to talk with you about this unfortunate matter. This poor woman is just grief-stricken over this turn of events.”
Garfield hated listening to posture-speak, the unnecessary sprinkling of self-serving adjectives over a recitation of the facts. He did it himself to impress the gullible client that he believed in the rightness of their every word and deed. He also did it with new judges who might confuse his pious bleatings with a truly just cause. But, one attorney to another, this was a colossal bore.
While Stuart talked, he flipped through his directory of the family law section of the Virginia Bar. No Gerald Stuart. Wonderful. Worst case, this guy was a general practice civil litigator, competent in court, but ignorant of the subtleties of case law and a novice about the particular tactics in this area of the law. Best case, he was a yellow pages pick, pin the tail on the lawyer.
“Look Mr. Stuart. The court has excluded the woman from the home. Do you know what kind of evidence it takes to get that, on an ex parte basis? Your client is a seriously disturbed woman. I’m not going to agree to visitation of any sort. Not until Dr. Reece’s evaluation is complete.”
“What about supervised visitation? Let her see the children. What harm can it do, with a supervisor there?”
“Isn’t that a little out of your field? I think that’s the purpose of the evaluation. To answer questions like that. If you move for supervised visitation, I’ll oppose it. If you win, I’ll ask for your client to pay for the supervisor, and the supervisor has to be acceptable to my client. No family or friends. A trained professional. Do you think your client has the resources to pay for that and to litigate every issue? I’m sure that you’ll be sending me interrogatories and a request for documents. Why don’t you wait until you get our responses? I think you’ll see that this is a family without a lot of resources. Why piss them away on you and me? You want to do what’s right for these kids; let’s not stand in the way of the evaluation. I know Dr. Reece. He’s going to want half of his fee from each of the parents. I didn’t go in and ask for child support from your client. Instead of us spending more of these people’s money arguing over spousal support, I’ll talk to my client about guaranteeing the expert’s fees in an effort to get this settled as quickly as possible. You know that once custody is determined, the money issues fall out pretty easily. Let’s put the money where it’ll do some good.”
“All right. I’ll wait for your answer to my interrogatories and request for documents. I’ll discuss your offer of expert fees in lieu of spousal support with my client.”
“Fine. We’ll await your requests.”
Garfield ran his hands around the waist of his pants. A habit he hoped would alert him to any extra pounds. Stuart was a putz. He didn’t want to fight for his client. He wanted the easy way out. As long as it came with a rationale. He’d spin this guy around like one of those Jewish toys—a dreidel, was that it?
Each additional day without her kids or any money to live on would sap her will. Her husband said she was a quitter. Never fought for anything. When this was over she’d have all the nothing she could stand.
Getting Tully to cold-call his competition was an excellent investment. For a couple of thousand dollars he’d cleared out the people who made him work every inning, every batter.
“Dr. Reece on line one, Mr. Garfield,” came over his intercom. He leaned forward and depressed the speakerphone
button.
“Good morning, Doctor, you received my message?”
“Yes. Do you have a court date for this evaluation?”
“No. Judge Kenniston will hear this on special docketing. He wants to maintain responsibility for this one.”
“That’s unusual. Why did he do that?”
“He issued an ex parte exclusionary order. He takes that seriously. It was entirely appropriate in this case. The mother’s mental condition …”
“Is not something that we’re going to discuss on the phone. At least not without her attorney on the line. Who represents the mother?”
“Guy named Gerald Stuart. You ever work with him?”
“No. I haven’t.”
“Well, he’s a fine lawyer. You won’t have any problems with him.”
“Since I don’t know him, and you and I are not a mutual admiration society, how did I get appointed to do this evaluation?”
“Over my strongest objections, Doctor, that’s how.”
“Do you want to call Stuart’s office? See if we can do a conference call. Lay out the parameters of the evaluation and get this going.”
Garfield paused. Getting this going before Stuart had any facts to work with was fine by him. Besides, if they forced her to surrender before the evaluation was complete, whatever Reece found out would be moot.
“Hold on. I’ll have my secretary try to get him.”
“Gerald Stuart here,” popped onto the line a moment later.
“Mr. Stuart, my name is Morgan Reece. I’ve been appointed to conduct an evaluation of the family that you and Mr. Garfield represent. Since I’ve never worked with you, I thought I’d go over my format for these evaluations, answer any questions you have and get started.”
“Fine, go right ahead.” Stuart said.
“I understand that there is no court date set on this.”
Garfield jumped in, “That’s correct.”
“How long do you expect this to take?” Stuart asked.
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