Her husband, Lee, hired Paul Sheffield, who抯 made a reputation for himself by being exactly the kind of attorney my father hired梩he kind who抯 willing to destroy anyone and worry about the damage later. Today, though, he is evenly matched because I抦 that kind of attorney too.
Someone has to be, to make sure women like my mother aren抰 absolutely screwed by men who promise not to turn on them, and do it anyway.
I ask Lisa to describe what it was like, raising children with Lee. She talks about the kids?soccer games he never attended and the time he left them at a party when they were toddlers to go sleep with a woman he抎 met there. She talks about the cruel things he said to her, both privately and in public. When opposing counsel brings up her antidepressant use, the night she had too much wine with friends, I complain until I抦 hoarse.
It抯 what my mother抯 lawyer should have done. Instead, he sat there and let her get torn apart, and he never objected to any of it.
I glance over at Lee Miller抯 sagging shoulders as the case goes on, and feel a mean little spike of something in my blood. It抯 not quite happiness, but it抣l have to do.
When the trial concludes, I walk outside with Lisa and discover she抯 blinking back tears.
揥hat抯 wrong??I ask, placing a hand on her shoulder. She seemed happy a minute before. I got her everything she抎 asked for.
揑抦 pleased,?she says. 揑 am. It抯 just so協inal. You know he used to write me poems??
She trails off, staring blankly at the pavement in front of her, as if this past version of them is displayed there like a puzzle. It抯 inexplicable to her that the shapes could create another picture entirely.
I think of Kyle, then, walking down the hall at Stadler梑road-shouldered and square-jawed and so utterly confident梥miling that secret smile at me and me alone. For a long time, I could only see one way we抎 turn out.
揙ne day it will all make sense,?I tell her, though I抦 not sure that抯 true.
Kyle was over six years ago, and I still can抰 make the puzzle pieces fit.
I go straight from court to the Beverly Wilshire, where Ben and I are meeting Margaret Lawson for the first time. When I step through the large glass doors, Ben is the first thing I see, leaning against a column while he waits. He runs a finger inside his collar when he spots me, as if the mere idea of spending the next hour together makes him feel suffocated, and then his gaze drops to my heels.
I抳e noticed he looks at my heels a lot. You wear a size 13, Ben. They won抰 fit. I抳e thought it a hundred times, but I抳e never said it, as it would mean admitting I know his shoe size. I know far more about Ben than I should.
揧ou抮e early,?I tell him, not slowing my stride as I pass.
揙nly you would try to make that sound like a flaw,?he mutters. 揥hat a fun night out you must be.?
揧ou know what抯 fun about the women you date??I ask. 揟he way they all just seem to disappear after you抳e been out with them once. Someone should check into that.?
揧ou know what抯 fun about the men you date??he replies. 揟he way they don抰 exist in the first place.?
I catch his smirk in my peripheral vision and pretend I haven抰 seen it, wishing I could make him invisible instead. There抯 nothing like the sight of his shoulders straining against his jacket to take my brain in the wrong direction.
We arrive at the restaurant to find Margaret waiting. My first impression, from a distance, is promising: she抯 professionally dressed, and there抯 no whiff of crazy about her梟o frizzy hair, no weird pins, no cat-hair covered scarf or briefcase obscured by bumper stickers. It matters because the jury won抰 be asking themselves Was this fair? They抣l be asking Would I promote this woman?
揝he抯 perfect,?I say under my breath as we head toward the table.
揝low your roll, there, Castrator,?he replies. 揧ou haven抰 heard her speak.?
揇on抰 need to, Undertaker. Mark my words: we抮e taking this case.?
Margaret rises when we reach the table. Ben introduces us and holds out a chair for me as I take my seat, an irritating bit of fake chivalry on his part. If she weren抰 watching, he抎 pull the chair out from under me and laugh at my fractured tailbone.
Ben makes small talk with Margaret until the waiter is gone, and then, with a glance at me, he begins. 揥hat would be helpful,?he tells Margaret, 搃s if you could start by walking us through what happened during your time at Fiducia, because it sounds like it began pretty well before it went downhill.?
I like the way he asks the question. I don抰 hear any doubt or suspicion in his voice, and he hasn抰 asked her how she perceived their behavior, as if there抯 another side of the story that is, perhaps, more valid.
Margaret describes the years she spent watching male managers get promoted, the way her annual reviews turned sour after she asked why she wasn抰 promoted, and finally, the discovery that men just out of college were earning more than she was. Except she抯 simply reciting facts we already know, and I抦 eager to get to the things we don抰。 My foot is tapping with impatience beneath the table卽ntil Ben抯 hand lands on my knee. For a moment, all I register is the heat and size of his palm, which feels large enough to wrap clear round my thigh if he wanted. It抯 a little too easy to picture how his hand might slide farther, if we were two different people梩he kind who don抰 despise each other梑ut he should certainly know better than to place his hand on the knee of a woman known as The Castrator without her consent, even if he抯 merely doing it to tell me to chill.