“meetings” with Olivia since he was initially charged;
through Karen, Olivia agrees with this number), our case stinks. As soon as Andy opens his mouth, he will be on the defensive. Once the jury hears about the money Olivia was to receive upon Pam’s death, that is all it will be thinking about. Yettie will testify that she heard Olivia say Pam would be better off dead than alive, etc.”
“About the same,” I say, smiling at my daughter, who is wearing ragged cutoffs and a T-shirt the size of a circus tent, “as the chances of the universe randomly coming into being.”
Woogie, his long nails tap-dancing on the linoleum, has ambled in from the couch perhaps to hear this discussion, but more likely in hopes that Sarah is opening the door to get him a snack. Sarah, who has attended Mass every Sunday since returning from Camp Anytown, cracks, “Well, they must be pretty good since it happened.”
I watch Sarah, who now has a white mustache, unwrap from its plastic a slice of cheese, break it in two, and throw the smaller part to Woogie, who catches and swallows it in a single motion.
“Do you do this often?” I ask, exhausted, and wanting but unable even for an instant to forget the trial.
Ah, the science of reinforcement. Somehow, it’s difficult to imagine Albert Einstein with a cattle prod in his hand.
“If all you were allowed to eat was dog food,” Sarah says reasonably, “you’d hope somebody would throw you a little cheese, too.”
“He doesn’t even taste it,” I protest, putting down my pen and watching it roll off the table.
“It’s like throwing him a quarter every time you do it.”
“More like a dime,” Sarah says, throwing him the rest of the slice to spite me.
This commentary on my cheapness rolls straight off my back. I bend down to pick up my pen.
“If you want to chip in for your food, it’s fine with me.”
Sarah gives me a stricken look.
“Are things that bad?”
“They’re great,” I lie. To hell with Andy, I think. I ought to be worrying about myself. If he goes down the tubes, my venture into private practice may not be far behind him. Getting your client the death penalty doesn’t make for such a great referral.
“I’ve got more clients at this stage than I ever dreamed.” Too bad they don’t pay. I refuse to worry Sarah.
My mother worried about money so much after my father died I thought at any moment I would be sent into the streets to beg for bread. It was never that bad, and if she had been a little less dramatic, I might not be such a tightwad now. I want Sarah to enjoy her senior year and not spend her time wondering whether I can pay the mortgage. The phone rings.
As my daughter flies to the phone, I say, “See, there’s a client now.”
In one fluid motion Sarah shuts the refrigerator door and snatches the phone from the wall as if she is expecting the President to call and give us his opinion on our finances instead of one of a half-dozen nightly calls she receives from her friends.
“Hi!”
Sarah’s features knit into an uncharacteristic frown.
“Just a moment, please,” she says, bringing the phone, its cord a long corkscrew tail, to the table for me.
“I’ve heard this voice, but I can’t place it.”
Mona Moneyhart, I think dejectedly as I take the phone and identify myself.
“Gideon,” Mona says, her voice, its normal breathy tone, now that she has me on the phone, “your little daughter doesn’t let you get far away from her, does she?”
“Mona,” I say angrily, “I’m getting ready for a murder trial that starts tomorrow, and I haven’t got time to listen to you. What do you want?”
“Why, Gideon,” Mona says, “you’ve never been ugly to me before. Is your little daughter having a fit about something?”
I get Sarah to smile as I roll my eyes back in my head.
“It’s nine-thirty, Mona. What’s the problem?”
“I just wanted to tell you,” she says sounding like Shirley Temple as a child, “that Steve and I have reconciled. We’re together now. Would you like to talk to him?”
“No, no, that’s all right,” I say hastily, imagining Steve desperately setting rattraps out all over the kitchen, tightening screws on the stove, doing whatever he can to guard against the inevitable morning he will be again served rat muffins for breakfast.
“Congratulations! I’ll call his lawyer as soon as I can.”
“You can keep all the money I’ve paid you,” Mona says.
“It’s not worth suing you over.”
“Thanks,” I say, winking at Sarah. I figure with all her calls I’ve made about twenty dollars an hour off her case at this point.
“I honestly feel I’ve earned it.”
“And you know I haven’t got that kind of time,” she declares.
“You know my motto.”
“I sure do know your motto,” I say, repeating the words simultaneously with Sarah, who has guessed our caller. “Let Being Be!”
After Sarah hangs up the phone for me, she leans back against the kitchen wall and asks seriously, “Do you think she could be committed to the state hospital?”
“Not even close,” I say, thinking of all the clients I used to represent out there.
“She’s probably as sane as the rest of us. Just a little more obsessed.”
Sarah laughs. It doesn’t take much to be weird in her eyes.
Still, Mona Moneyhart seems the genuine article.
Fifteen minutes later, Sarah is bringing me the phone again.
“Rainey,” she says approvingly.
“She’s probably calling to wish you luck.”
I smile, thinking of the differences between women. Mona Moneyhart is the original client from hell; Rainey makes me glad just thinking about her.
“Gideon,” Rainey says, her voice solemn and small, “I promised myself I wouldn’t bother you with this tonight, but I’m so scared. I had a mammogram this afternoon, and my doctor has arranged for me to see a surgeon next week.”
I can’t take this. I’m just not going to be able to go through it again. I wait for Sarah to disappear around the corner of the kitchen. In the moment this takes, all the fear and panic come back. It is as if Sarah has taken all the oxygen from the air with her.
“Who’s your doctor?” I ask, knowing I should be saying something else.
“Connie Havens,” Rainey says, mentioning the name of a busy gynecologist who is the only female in a group of five men.
I have never heard her voice sound so dead. Usually, it is like a musical instrument. Even when she is exhausted from a week’s work, she still usually manages to sound like a piano being played with one hand.
“How long have you known you had a lump in your breast?” I ask, trying not to accuse her. Rosa, who, as a nurse, had absolutely no excuse, was lax about examining her breasts monthly, even though she knew the statistics. Women, I read the month before Rosa died, wait an average of five to six months before going to the doctor after they discover they may have a problem. During this time the tumor can grow from the size of a pea to the diameter of a golf ball or much larger.
“I didn’t know,” Rainey says.
“It was just a part of a regular checkup.”
My mouth is so dry I can barely swallow. Breast cancer is the leading cause of death for women Rainey’s age.
