Francesca’s clothes had been chosen to make her look respectable and responsible: a navy pantsuit, a crisp white blouse, and black walking shoes with a hard shine, but although it was a warm day, Francesca wore winter gloves and her thick grey hair was erratically hacked, as if someone had attacked it with dull scissors. She was calm, but her lips were moving silently in an internal monologue that seemed to absorb her. Zack introduced us matter-of-factly. “Francesca, this is my wife, Joanne, and the gentleman with her is our friend, Ed Mariani.”
Francesca regarded us without interest. When Ed said hello, she nodded, but when I started to extend my hand, she shook her head violently. “I don’t shake hands,” she said. Her voice was surprisingly rich and assured, a singer’s voice.
I withdrew my hand. “Well, good luck this morning,” I said.
She nodded. “Thank you.”
Zack touched her arm and smiled encouragement. “Time for us to go in,” he said.
Francesca started to follow, then her face became animated. “Look over there,” she said, pointing towards the door. The three of us turned and saw Ginny Monaghan coming in with Sean Barton. A couple of media people were pursuing them with cameras. Francesca stared at the group. Then she said, very loudly, “I know who you are.”
“That’s Ginny Monaghan,” Zack said. “Her picture’s been in the paper a lot lately.” He touched Francesca’s elbow again and steered her towards the courtroom. Francesca moved in the appropriate direction, but her head was still turned towards Ginny, and her face was dark with anger.
Ed nudged me. “What do you suppose that’s all about?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But I don’t think Ginny’s going to get Francesca’s vote.”
Court wasn’t scheduled to start for fifteen minutes, but the room was already crowded. “Full house,” Ed said sardonically. “Never underestimate the public’s appetite for prurience.”
I raised a mocking eyebrow. “Of course, our interest isn’t prurient.”
“But we’re professionals. These other are…” He peered at the public benches. “Good grief. Who do you suppose all these people are?”
“Well, I recognize some of them,” I said. “They’re lawyers, and like my husband, they’re courtroom junkies. If Zack doesn’t have a case, he drifts in to watch somebody else’s.” I pointed to the front row. “There’s space up there. Shall we give it a shot?”
We made our way up and discovered that, in true Canadian fashion, the spectators had presumed the empty front row was reserved. We took our places, and within seconds, Ginny Monaghan joined us. Her closely tailored pantsuit was the colour of dark honey and her creamy leather handbag matched her silk blouse. She was the epitome of assured success. She was also incredibly alone.
She brightened when she saw us. “Right on time,” she said. “I’d planned to save you a place, Joanne, but it seems you beat me to it. And you brought Ed.”
“To support you in any way I can,” Ed said with a little bow. He lowered himself onto the bench and breathed with the pleasure of a big man who is finally off his feet. “As long as I can render my support from a seated position,” he added.
I gestured to the lawyers’ tables, where Sean was riffling through the papers he’d shaken from his briefcase. “I thought you’d be sitting up there with Sean,” I said.
Ginny shook her head. “In this court, we don’t sit with our lawyers. In fact, unless they’re testifying, the parents don’t even have to show up. Sean says a lot of lawyers are happier if their clients stay home. It seems parents have a tendency to micromanage their cases. I’ve promised to be a model client: legs crossed demurely at the ankle, hands folded in my lap, mouth zipped.”
Sean’s table was close, and when he heard Ginny’s voice, he turned, winked at her, and gave Ed and me the thumbs-up sign. Obviously, he wasn’t bearing a grudge about being passed over for partner, and I had my own reasons for being relieved.
Jason Brodnitz’s lawyer, Margot Wright, was sitting at the table across from Sean. Even in her barrister’s robes, Margot was a man-magnet. She was a true blonde, with shoulder-length, softly curling hair, creamy skin, and a dust of freckles across a nose that a romance novelist would describe as saucy. She had made flame-red lipstick and nails her trademark, and that morning, she was, as always, riveting, but it gave me no pleasure to acknowledge her charms.
One night at a banquet for a retiring judge, Margot and I had had an encounter in the ladies room. She had been drunk. After she’d told me more than I cared to know about Zack’s romantic adventures before we met, she assured me that like every woman before me, I would be dumped.
Later, when she defended an old friend of mine, I came to respect Margot as a lawyer, but in my personal pantheon, she was still a question mark. Contemplating her history with my husband was not pleasant, so I turned back to Ginny.
“So what happens?” I said. “I don’t know much about custody trials.”
“Jason and I testify. Then it’s on to the girls’ teachers, whom I’ve never met; the principal of their school, whom I’ve also never met; the girls’ basketball coach, with whom I showered after a fundraiser for their school gym. Then the experts Jason and I hired to produce favourable assessments of our parenting skills testify. Then the court-appointed social worker reports on her talk with the girls. After hearing all that, the judge makes her decision.”
“Your daughters don’t have to testify,” Ed said, and his relief was palpable.
“No,” Ginny said. “We at least spared them that.” Her shoulders slumped, and for a beat, her mask of invulnerability slipped. Then the court clerk entered.
“All rise. Court is now in session. Madam Justice Susan Gorges presiding.” Madam Justice Gorges, a petite woman wearing the black and red robe of a Queen’s Bench judge, strode into the court.
“Do you know her?” Ginny whispered.
“No,” I said. “But Zack says she runs a tight ship.”
“Good,” Ginny said. “Because nobody wants this to drag on.”
Ginny was the first to testify. Not surprisingly, for a woman whose moves had been scrutinized since she was a seventeen-year-old bounding across the basketball court, she was a good witness. Head high, spine straight, she delivered her testimony clearly and factually. Sean phrased his questions about her work schedule in a way that allowed her to talk about the projects involving women and children that had been among her initiatives as minister of Canadian heritage and the status of women. She confronted the fact that the girls lived with their father head-on, explaining that she had given the twins the option of moving to Ottawa, but that they’d decided to stay in Regina and start high school with their friends. They had chosen a private school with an excellent reputation for academics and sports. Ginny had attended the school herself, so she had agreed. She said she came back to Regina as many weekends as she could manage, but cabinet business often kept her in Ottawa. Then she pointed out that Jason had become a stay-at-home father through necessity rather than choice. Business reverses had forced him to close his office and work from home. “Like many couples,” Ginny said, “our child-care decision was dictated by finances. I didn’t choose to stay away from my girls any more than Jason chose to stay home with them. It just worked out that way.”
Sean finished by asking Ginny how she would characterize her relationship with her daughters. Surprisingly, Ginny seemed taken aback at the question. “I’m not a milk-and-cookies mother, if that’s what you mean. But Em and Chloe are strong, independent girls. They can get their own milk and cookies.”
When Margo approached the witness box, she and Ginny eyed each other warily, taking each other’s measure. Successful and assured, they were, in every essential way, alike, but that didn’t keep Margot from going for the jugular.