Spath is willing to discuss other things-his background (a master’s in the administrative side of social work), Olivia (a desperate parent consumed by unjustified guilt), deinstitutionalization (a misguided movement that will lead to unimaginable horror stories of homeless, abused, and ill retarded people), his institution (woefully underfunded, which is the reason for the lack of meaningful training programs for people like Pam). It is as if I were talking to Andy.
The only difference is the accent. As I get up to leave, I ask, “Do you miss England?”
Spath gives me a weary smile.
“Never been there.” Before I can ask what must be a tiresome question, he says, “My father was from London. He gave me my accent and for some reason I’ve never lost it.”
I leave, realizing for the hundredth time since I started practicing law that my assumptions are my worst enemy. I resist the temptation to go by and see Andy. I am coming back out here in a couple of days, but I want to see if Olivia is willing to talk to me first. Of the people
in this suspected alliance, she has nothing to lose by the truth, since she has already lost everything she possibly can. I drive home, thinking I’d be a decent lawyer if I could read my clients’ minds.
Right now, I’d settle for some facts.
14
As Olivia Le Master inspects my office, I note an unexpected air of contrition on her part. She seems to be looking for something nice to say about my office, which will require a major feat of diplomacy. Two weeks ago Rainey brought by a philodendron to hang from my ceiling; however, I have already begun to violate my blood oath to water it. Instead of having a healthy, sleek, green appearance, its leaves are brittle, yellowish, and paper-thin. Typically, I don’t notice it until Julia comes in and stares in horror and makes snotty remarks about how some people shouldn’t be permitted to own living things.
Olivia refuses my offer of a cup of coffee and swallows hard before saying in a small voice, “I’m sorry about the way I testified at the hearing. When I got on the witness stand, I realized I felt some anger toward Andy I hadn’t been aware of.”
Guilt. God, I wish I owned the patent on it. I lean back in my chair and snack on a piece of ice, my newest weight-loss device. I’ve gained five pounds just watching Clan eat.
“I confess I was extremely disappointed in your testimony,” I respond, relieved I don’t have to try to figure out how to initiate this topic. Scolding witnesses is a tricky business.
“I really thought you’d be more supportive of him than you were.” I stare back into her troubled eyes.
Obviously unaccustomed to apologizing, she shifts uncomfortably and fixes her gaze on a spot on my wall directly above my head.
“I felt I had betrayed him after you finished asking me questions,” she says, her voice rising.
“It was only when the prosecutor started in on me that I wanted to defend him. But even right at this moment, I think he probably should have told me to forget the idea of shock treatments Her voice is anguished. This is a battleground she must revisit often.
Jump on ‘em while they’re down, I think, and hit her with my gossip.
“While we’re clearing the air,” I say, watching her carefully, “I think you better be aware there’s some evidence you’ve had an affair with Andy.” Evidence is too strong a word, but I don’t have to prove it. Unexpectedly, her face turns a bright red and her eyes begin to fill with tears. Score one for Yettie Lindsey’s female intuition.
“You didn’t expect to hide it, did you?” I ask, needing a confirmation. I don’t always know why women cry. I hand her the box of tissues from my desk. My office may not be pretty, but now at least it has the necessities.
She nods, a look of genuine misery on her face, and wipes her eyes with fingers as white as chalk. It seems as if all the blood in her body has rushed to her neck and head. “I didn’t think anyone knew.”
As if in celebration of getting the truth, I tap another chunk of ice from the cup into my mouth. My lips are already so numb I doubt if I sound normal. I must be taking some perverse pleasure from this exercise in ruining the few decent teeth I have left in my head. Embarrassed to spit the ice back into the cup, I swallow it whole and begin to cough.
“It’s hard to do things in secret,” I sympathize between wheezes, almost in tears myself from having forced the ice down my throat. My concern for her, however, is genuine. My own life is Exhibit A. I can go to the seediest bar in town in the dead of night, and the next day I might as well have taken an ad out in the paper, so many people will have seen me.
“How do you think Andy will handle the news becoming public?” I ask, leaning in against my desk. I am overselling the danger of exposure (as far as I know, no one has so much as seen them holding hands), but I need to get her perspective on what it means.
Olivia brings her hands up to her mouth and begins to nibble on what was, until now, a perfect nail.
“He’ll worry about what it will do to me.”
Nervously, I begin to tap the cup against the edge of the desk. Saint Andy the Unselfish. This won’t do.
“You realize this is all the more reason he shouldn’t have been working with Pam.”
A sad smile comes to Olivia’s face as she forces her hands to her knees.
“What you mean is that the typical juror, whether it’s conscious racism or not, will punish Andy for having an affair with a white woman.”
That, too, I realize, but she is one step ahead of me. I take the cup, which still has ice in it, and drop it into the plastic wastepaper basket beside my desk, realizing that though this woman may be upset, she can still think. My lawyer’s mind was worrying about the hammer this information, if disclosed, would give to Jill Marymount. In her place, I would argue that Andy’s professional judgment as a psychologist was hopelessly compromised by his relationship with the child’s mother. Yet, as Olivia has suggested, perhaps infinitely more powerful will be the unvoiced argument that society must punish Andy for the transgression of one of the few remaining American sexual taboos. Whatever the cost, a hint of this must not get to the jury, or the real trial might not ever begin. I resist the urge to lecture her. It is my client whom I need to take to the woodshed. I tell her, “If we can prevent this from even being hinted at in court, Andy has a chance. If not, as you surmised, he’s beaten before we get started. I would guess that even blacks on the jury, and there will be a couple for sure, would resent it.”
Her head cocked at a slight angle to the right, Olivia shifts slightly in her seat.
“Are you asking me to lie to the jury?”
“No,” I say automatically, noting her tone didn’t convey much surprise, “but I don’t want you to lie to me either.”
At this stage I have to assume she is what she seems a distraught but honest woman caught in a mess. Do I want her to lie? Yes, but I am forbidden to permit her to do so. It isn’t fair that racial bigotry could decide this case regardless of the lip service that race has nothing to do with it. Black defendants have been subject to prejudice for years because of their color, but not until I entered private practice have I gotten this bent out of shape over their treatment. Since the outcome of this case will have an effect on my practice, I can feel my indignation rising at the injustice of racial discrimination.
At the Public Defender’s Office, we used to play Ain’t It Awful? with this issue, but the paychecks kept coming whether we lost or not. I doubt if paying clients will be that tolerant.
“When did this start?” I ask, wondering how many other people suspect what Yettie Lindsey intuitively knew. I fold my hands across my chest to keep them still.
Olivia studies the ceiling for an answer, further exposing her long, graceful neck.
“Since about two months before Pam died,” she says, again composed.
I study this woman, whose normally cool demeanor has returned. Women, like men, are not averse to using sex to get what they want. Unlike men, they can, if the occasion demands, be subtle about it. I ask, hoping my sudden skepticism isn’t apparent, “Whose idea was it?”
As if she knows what I’m thinking, she gives me a wan smile, barely exposing straight, milk-white teeth.
“Mine. I felt enormously grateful to him. How could I not fall in love with the one man who was trying to help
