Gail Bowen - The Brutal Heart

“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.

“Ms. Monaghan, you say you’re not a milk-and-cookies mother. No one would dispute the fact that the work you do is important or that it’s time-consuming. That said, women in our generation are fortunate. We have options. We can be prime minister; we can be milk-and-cookie mothers.” Margot glanced at Madam Justice Gorges. “We can even be Queen’s Bench judges.” After Susan Gorges favoured her with what might have passed for a smile, Margot continued. “Ms. Monaghan, no one questions your right to be politically active, but you’re here today seeking custody of your daughters, so the court has a right to know how involved you are in your daughters’ lives.”

“They’re fourteen years old,” Ginny said. “They have lives of their own.”

Margot permitted herself a small smile. “Still, fourteen-year-olds aren’t allowed to live on their own.” She paused. “Of course, they don’t live alone, do they? They live with their father. My client has made a home for Emma and Chloe.”

“A home that I subsidize.” Ginny shifted her gaze to Jason Brodnitz. “My ex-husband has suffered some serious business reverses. I also pay for the girls’ school.”

Ed leaned towards me. “Did you know that?”

“No,” I whispered. “And judging from the fire in Margot’s eye, she didn’t know it either.”

Margot might have been taken aback, but she recovered quickly. “You wouldn’t dispute the fact that my client is the parental presence in the home.”

“Because he has the time,” Ginny said coldly. “And, Ms. Wright, I am present in my daughters’ lives: I talk to them every night.”

“From four thousand kilometres away.”

“If the need arises, I can be in Regina in five hours.”

“Did you come home when Em broke her arm?”

“No. It was a clean break.”

“And you were in Puerto Vallarta with a male friend.”

“Yes.”

“Did you come home last year when Chloe had her appendix out?”

“Yes.”

“On a direct flight from Ottawa?”

“No. I stopped in Toronto overnight.”

“Were you alone?”

“No. I spent the night with a friend.”

“A male friend?”

“No. Female.”

Margot shook her head. “girls’ night out, huh? How about when you’re in Regina? Are your daughters with you then?”

“Yes. They stay in the apartment with me.”

“And you’re there with them all night.”

“As a rule, yes.”

“I understand there was an incident when Em awoke in the middle of the night vomiting and you weren’t there.”

“Chloe called me on my cell, and I was home in twenty minutes.”

“Were you with a lover?”

Years in politics had taught Ginny how to sidestep landmines. “As I said, I was home in twenty minutes.”

Jason Brodnitz fared better in the witness box than his ex-wife had. Slender, physically graceful, grey hair cut very short, he bore an uncanny resemblance to the actor Richard Gere. Jason might have suffered business reverses, but the lightweight, single-breasted suit he was wearing hadn’t come off the rack, and he moved to the witness box with the assurance of a man who expected to do well.

I wasn’t an expert, but it seemed to me Margot had done a better job of preparing her client than Sean had. She made no attempt to present Jason as anything other than what he was. She dealt with the question of his financial difficulties head-on, and he was matter of fact in explaining that while his client base had diminished after he’d made some bad investments, he was turning the situation around. Like his ex-wife, Jason had missed his share of large events in the lives of his daughters, but Margot offset that by encouraging him to talk about the events he had attended: the vacations he’d shared with the twins, and the daily routine of life in the Brodnitz house. The life he described wasn’t Father Knows Best , but it wasn’t neglect. The only tense moment came when Margot asked him about his own romantic life. Before answering, Jason shot his wife a glance that seemed pleading. Then he said that he and his ex-wife had been living separately for several years and that he had the normal instincts of a healthy man his age. Sean’s cross-examination was perfunctory, but Ginny didn’t seem troubled by the lack of rigour. When Jason returned to his seat, Ginny seemed to relax. “Well, it could have been worse,” she said.

When Madam Justice Susan Gorges declared a recess for lunch, Margot and her client exchanged smiles. He helped her off with her barrister’s robe; she flung it over the back of her chair, revealing a smart red suit that showed off her terrific legs; and she and Jason headed for the exit.

Ed touched Ginny’s arm. “Would you like to join us for lunch?” he asked.

“I’ll have to take a rain check,” Ginny said. “Sean wants to talk to me about what’s happening this afternoon.”

Ed smiled “Well, a Mariani rain check is redeemable any time.”

“I’ll remember that,” Ginny said, and she seemed surprisingly touched.

We ate at Java Deposit, a coffee place that had once been a bank on the main floor of an office tower near the courthouse. The building was full of lawyers, including my husband’s firm, and whenever court was recessed for lunch, Java Deposit was packed.

As Ed and I came through the door, a server with a sneer pushed his way towards us. There was, he said, a small table vacant inside the vault, but if we wanted it, we’d have to move quickly.

We moved. After we’d elbowed our way to our table, explored the menu, squirmed to make ourselves comfortable on our dainty wrought-iron ice-cream chairs, and settled in to wait for the reappearance of our server, we looked at each other.

“Why did we come here?” Ed asked.

“Because Falconer Shreve’s new offices are upstairs and they have some art you ought to see.”