Lauderdale did not mention my case. Was it possible he’d forgotten that I was on his docket? Was he too polite? Did he think I was innocent? Did he not care? Did he think a nice guy like me was guilty as hell and it was all just too bad? It hardly mattered: Niles had handed me on to a smart young guy just out of Northwestern Law who “blew away the Montana Bar exam” and who Niles thought was his brand-new best friend. But the young lawyer, Donald Sanchez, looked at my situation and dryly remarked, “Throckmorton must have enjoyed your company,” adding, “Oh, well, this is where you should have been headed in the first place. I hope he didn’t charge you.”
I was about to send Counselor Sanchez on his way. “There wasn’t time for him to charge me. He died. And he was my friend. And he sent me to you with his highest recommendation.”
“I’m sorry, but if he was a friend he should have told you more about his relationship with the victim.”
I was stunned. “Was there one?” I asked.
“Two night owls in a small town? You need to get your head in the game.”
Sanchez prepared for the dismissal hearing with a fistful of affidavits, the gist of which was that my colleagues found me gifted but erratic, someone who, despite the quality of his work, created an atmosphere of possible malpractice. Sanchez said that Wilmot had gotten to every one of them except Alan Hirsch and Jinx Mayhall.
I spent a very long evening in my basement going through old papers and documents until I found what I was looking for, a large, yellowing envelope that I carried on my visit to Judge Lauderdale, who saw me in his office with a look of skeptical surprise. I sat down after handing him the envelope. Judge Lauderdale put on a pair of glasses and emptied the contents of the envelope onto his desk. “What is this?” he said after a short time. “A bunch of receipts for paint and supplies?”
“Yes.”
“For what?”
“For painting your cabin in Harlowton.”
Judge Lauderdale removed his glasses and placed them on the desk in front of him. “Was that you?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“My God.” He laughed. “You were just a green kid. Now look at you!”
“Time flies.”
“I have to admit, you didn’t do much of a job. Lots of overruns.”
“You never paid me.”
“Like I said, it wasn’t like Leonardo da Vinci.”
“Your secretary thought it was a big improvement.”
“Oh?”
Whatever change I may have induced in Judge Lauderdale was unclear to me until Sanchez called me in with his helplessly imperious manner. I didn’t know whether he had learned this at Northwestern or it was just his nature, but his no-nonsense style took some getting used to. His first words were, “Sit down.” His office had none of the upholstered quality of my late friend Niles Throckmorton’s ordered lair. In fact, it appeared that the vertical stacks of paper on the floor and against the wall were ongoing cases or some sort of filing system. I’d have bet that he scared the daylights out of blustering Judge Lauderdale.
He said, glancing at his watch with a look of suppressed fury, “Let me give you the boiled-down finding on the frivolity to which you have been subjected, which at this point, we hope, is little more than toxic residue. Judge Lauderdale is now apprised of the following: misleading representation by previous counsel resulting from said counsel’s undisclosed relationship with the deceased, Tessa Larionov. Complicity of clinic staff with the intentions of board chairman Wilmot, placing one and all in the line of culpability for a defamation of character suit. Putting the crosshairs on their wallets, I found the good doctors’ views softening abruptly. This won’t go away — and should you feel vindictive and wish to get rich, call me. Credit to you for softening up Lauderdale in your unauthorized private meeting. Not interested in the details. Long story short, all momentum from your adversaries has dissipated. I have nothing more for you. I’ve got to be in Helena in two hours. Should you wish to stay here and collect your thoughts, the coffee machine is in the john. Pull the door shut when you leave, it locks itself and I have a key. Congratulations, you’re innocent.”
I didn’t think so. Sanchez threw all his papers into a satchel and, running his fingers through his thick black Mexican hair, turned and went on his way.
I had to do something about my real crime. My so-called innocence had no more than isolated the problem. I arranged to meet Cody’s mother, Deanne. I am not exaggerating when I say that I suffered over this one. When I finally went to see her, I thought, Here goes nothing, just more whistling in the dark. I was well aware that I might not have the nerve to tell her how I had encouraged Cody on his way, but I had to do this or I would never be free. And was that it? Freedom? The cemetery was the safest place to meet, as she believed that we would start rumors if we were seen together. “People will think we’re getting it on.” This inappropriate tone made me understand with a sinking feeling how little she suspected what I really had in mind. Nor could she know how much I was my mother’s son in the quest for forgiveness and the desire to be shriven.
Where the walkways separated, a pleasant bower of green ash encircled three wrought-iron benches, virtual hemorrhoid machines in any season but summer. Here I awaited Deanne, pronounced “Dee Anne,” who arrived on time, rather dressed up and wearing the emphatic eyeliner I had always associated with availability. But the long, hard years shone through the makeup and gave me the sense that I was speaking to two people, one just behind the other.
“How old would Cody be?” I asked. I thought to go to my subject straightaway. She gave me an inquiring look.
“I don’t know.”
“I’m not quite sure why I asked.”
“I’m not either. Can we sit over there?”
“Oh sure, of course, I didn’t even see it.” A plank bench put us a little more face-to-face than I wished. We sat down. I looked at my shoelaces and Deanne looked at the treetops. I knew she would soon say something and she did.
“Before I married Jerry I was running around pretty hard. I had a bad reputation and, who can say, I probably deserved it. When it hit bottom I got to be pretty good friends with your old flame Tessa—”
“—well, she wasn’t exactly—”
“—a very special person, a very spiritual person.”
I listened closely. I felt panic: I didn’t come here to talk about Tessa. I hardly thought of Tessa as a spiritual individual, whatever in God’s name that was, though it was a concept much in currency, with little sign of going away. I knew from experience that “spirituality” was producing some ghastly scenes around the dinner tables of North America, and here it was, in the air again.
She went on. “Tessa told me she had done everything in her power to have your baby, but it was just not to be.”