Gail Bowen - The Brutal Heart

“High school next year.”

“It all goes so quickly.” Ed’s smile was rueful. “Gather your Marthas while ye may.”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” I said. I buried my nose in the foliage and inhaled the pungent scent of new growth and potting soil. “I love the smell of spring.”

Ed’s moon face split with a smile. “My grandmother called this the unlocking season: the ice cracks; the water begins to run; the sap flows; the ground warms; people throw open their windows and set out the porch furniture, and we’re part of our neighbours’ lives again.”

“Whether they want us to be or not,” I said.

Ed laughed. “True enough. ”

Ed and I didn’t dally over the Marthas. Courtroom C was small, so we knew that if we wanted a seat we’d have to be there early. As we entered the courthouse foyer, I glanced up at the Florentine glass mosaic that greeted everyone who came into the building.

Ed followed my gaze. “The God of Laws with his handmaidens, Truth and Justice,” he said.

“Let’s hope they’re on the job today,” Zack said.

His voice caught me by surprise. “Where did you come from?” I said.

“This new chair of mine is called the stealth model,” Zack said. He was wearing his barrister’s robes and he was with his client.

It wasn’t in Norine MacDonald’s job description, but when it came to transforming bikers, slackers, punks, and hookers for their court appearance, Zack’s executive assistant was a whiz. Zack said admiringly that Norine could make Darth Vader look like a guy who deserved a second chance, but Francesca Pope had clearly proven to be a challenge.

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.”