“You can do better than that,” I reply. Rainey’s distaste for members of my profession is not a well-kept secret. A social worker at the state mental hospital, who, at the time we met, counseled patients I had unsuccessfully represented at civil commitment proceedings, she thinks lawyers are licensed leeches.
“Actually, I was fired today, went into private practice, and picked up a client whose case is so big he’s going to put me on TV, but probably not until tomorrow.”
Rainey zeros in on what sounds most like the most important news to her.
“What happened at Mays amp; Burton?”
she asks, immediately serious.
I tell her the story, trying to make light of it, but I am embarrassed. The humiliation of being let go has begun to sink in. I can tell myself and others that competence had nothing to do with it, but I’ll go to my grave believing that Martha and I were rookies who simply couldn’t make the final cut. After all, appellate courts reverse handsome jury verdicts a good percentage of the time. It comes with the territory in plaintiff’s litigation. A firm doesn’t take its broom out of the closet every time a case goes the wrong way.
“It’s probably the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” I bluster. I don’t want her pity. In her eyes I’ve already screwed up too much. Besides, she’s not the type to give sympathy to someone who begs for it.
She is quiet for a moment when I finally shut up. Her voice warm and genuine, she says, “If you need to borrow some money, don’t be too proud to ask me. I’ve got some put away for a rainy day.”
I shake my head, floored by her generosity. She is offering to lend me money she doesn’t have. At one point we were close enough to marriage to compare the condition of our bankbooks. Social-work salaries aren’t going to drive the state into bankruptcy.
“I’m okay right now,” I temporize, knowing I would sooner die than take money from her.
“This new client is going to be okay. I’m not kidding.” I tell her about the employment agreement I had signed with Mays amp; Burton. This confession is at the expense of my dignity, but Rainey has seen me at my worst and can handle it. If she were the sort of woman (or man) who could be counted on to throw my weakness back into my face, discretion would definitely be the better part of valor. But Rainey doesn’t hoard ammunition. She says what she thinks and moves on to the next round.
In response she merely says, “I doubt if this episode will make the chamber of commerce highlights film, but lawyers have done worse things than steal clients from each other.”
I wince. It wasn’t stealing at all. Yet mincing words is not part of Rainey’s behavior, and I’m not really in a position to put too fine a point on my own actions.
“I was furious,” I say, one ring an excuse since she won’t do it.
“You still haven’t told me the name of your big fish,” Rainey says, adroitly changing the subject. She knows she doesn’t need to make a speech on ethics. She has made her point.
I pause, knowing the Model Rules on ethics adopted by Arkansas technically require me not to disclose Andy’s name without his permission, but by tomorrow morning everyone will know I’m his lawyer (I’m surprised I haven’t gotten a call from the papers already), so a few hours don’t matter.
“A black psychologist by the name of Andrew Chapman, the guy who accidentally electrocuted the girl at the Blackwell County Human Development Center,” I explain.
“He was charged with manslaughter today. You ever hear of him?”
“I know Andy,” she says in a shocked tone.
“He’s a real neat guy.”
After this last contribution, I feel a pang of jealousy. Even in a prison jumpsuit Chapman looked impressive.
“It’s an awfully small world,” I say, trying not to sound irritated.
“He worked at the hospital briefly as a psychological examiner, before he went back to get his Ph.D.,” she explains.
“How could they possibly charge him? It was an accident.”
I nod, glad to get this response. Though she is a do-gooder when it comes to poor people, Rainey is no bleeding heart on the subject of crime. She is from the tough-guy school of criminal justice. A certain percentage of society is regrettably sociopathic. A water moccasin has a better chance of being rehabilitated than many adult criminals, according to Rainey.
“Politics, possibly, but I don’t know,” I say, not yet comfortable enough with Amy’s theory to regurgitate it. Amy may have an ax to grind that I don’t know about.
“Would you keep your ears open for me?” The state is small, and the network among state employees makes it even smaller for a good number of the population. Mental health and developmental disabilities are under the same organizational umbrella, and news from one spoke travels to the other at the speed of the latest computer.
“Sure,” Rainey says, shifting the conversational gears slightly.
“Have you told Sarah what’s happened?”
When we broke up, one of the major casualties I expected was Sarah. Rainey and Sarah became friends in a way I never thought would be possible. Rainey has come to know and love Sarah in a way I somehow can’t. Half the time I come home and see Rosa standing in the kitchen (and expect far too much in the way of maturity), but when Rainey comes over, she says she sees a dazzling young woman who reminds her of no one else. For her part, Sarah has blossomed under such attention like an exotic flower. She was crushed when I came home with the news that Rainey and I didn’t seem headed for the altar any longer, but they have remained good friends. I tell Rainey that I will be picking up Sarah on Saturday for a three-day break from her camp and get her to laughing over my reaction to my daughter’s letter.
With a daughter of her own who has done some rebelling (though now she is a docile education major in college), Rainey is convinced that I overreact to almost everything that involves Sarah.
“Gideon,” she says, “the only way you’ll be completely happy with her is if you could have her stuffed and mounted on the wall in your living room.”
I laugh, but there is some truth to that. I could quit worrying about what time she gets in, and it would be a lot cheaper than sending her to college.
“Who’s your taxidermist?”
Rainey giggles, sending a familiar, rich sound against my ear. We talk for a few more minutes, and then, sticky with a day’s sweat, I hang up to take a shower. Tomorrow will be an interesting day.
The lead story on Channel 4 is Chapman’s arrest. I sit in the living room in my underwear with Woogie on the couch beside me and listen as Don Roberts, who is reported to be on his way to a bigger market, reports Chapman’s arrest.
“Chapman, who has obtained former Blackwell County public defender Gideon Page to represent him, remains in jail tonight and will be arraigned tomorrow morning in municipal court. Efforts to contact Chapman’s attorney today have been unsuccessful,” Roberts says in the unctuous way of newscasters. Yawning, I walk over to the TV and snap it off. If the media can make you look bad, they will, I think irritably. Yet the only numbers they could have called are Mays amp; Burton and my home phone, and I didn’t walk in the door until after eight. I get in bed thinking I should be relieved Roberts didn’t report I was fired and will be sued by my former firm. As I turn off the light, Woogie, who has been on the floor, leaps onto the foot of the bed. Usually, he sleeps with Sarah. What is the old saying? I don’t care what they say as long as they spell my name right.
That’s bullshit. Mays amp; Burton will see that I don’t come out of this smelling like a rose. The publicity will cut both ways. But even if some of the new business that it generates crawls out from beneath a rock, I’m going to need all I can get.
5
Historically, in blackwell County municipal judges have not attracted much attention. Traffic court, misdemeanors, civil claims under a certain dollar amount, felony probable cause hearings, plea and arraignment, and bond hearings do not generate a lot in the way of legal firepower, yet this court is the venue where much of the public receives its direct exposure to the legal system, and ideally, it calls for a certain degree of decorum and
