Steve Martini - Undue Influence

‘Yes — it was at the home.’ Melanie looks at Hemple like maybe she’d like to meet this bitch in the alley outside after court.

The lawyer is all sweetness and smiles.

‘And would you please tell the court what you were doing when you first encountered Laurel Vega in her home?’

A look from Melanie, something between anger and a trainstruck deer. ‘We, ah … We were in the living room …’

‘ “We” meaning who?’

‘Jack and I,’ says Melanie. ‘And she came in.’ Melanie nods toward Laurel at the counsel table.

‘You mean Mrs. Vega, who was then Jack’s wife?’

‘Laurel — whatever you want to call her,’ says Melanie.

‘Then we’ll call her “Mr. Vega’s wife,” at least at that point in time.’

‘Fine.’

‘And what were you doing — you and Jack — when his wife came in?’

‘Umm.’ Melanie is stalling for time. A lot of anxiety focused in the eyes. She makes several false starts on an answer. Then suddenly a smile. Resolution has descended like a chariot from the heavens.

‘Necking,’ she says. ‘We were necking.’ She settles back in her chair, satisfied with this.

‘Necking.’ Hemple says this, nodding her head as if she understands. ‘Can you describe this necking to us, or is this just another of your expressions?’

‘We were kissing,’ says Melanie.

‘Kissing?’

‘And hugging,’ she adds.

‘Kissing and hugging.’ More nodding from the understanding lawyer. ‘And can you describe to the court your attire? How were you dressed when you were doing all this kissing and hugging?’

‘I don’t understand the question.’

‘Isn’t it a fact that the first time you met Laurel Vega you were completely naked on the carpet of her living room floor, engaged in full-blown sex with her husband?’

This brings a lot of forced indignation to Melanie’s expression, a prim posture in the box that speaks loads of denial.

‘No. That’s not true,’ says Melanie. ‘I can state categorically, for a fact, that is untrue,’ she says. ‘Because Jack didn’t like it by mouth.’

There’s a second of dead silence, then open laughter from the audience as it settles in. Vega’s head is in his hands. Melanie looks out wide-eyed. Clearly she’s misunderstood something.

‘Who told you that?’ she says. A lot of fluster and denial, what Shakespeare said about protest.

In a voice marked by uncertainty almost inaudible: ‘Jack didn’t like it,’ she says, as if maybe this will clear up any confusion. It brings another swell of laughter.

The judge raps his gavel and this subsides to little tiffs, a contagion of muffled barks and hacks.

‘We just didn’t do that.’ Melanie puts moral tone to her voice this time, leaving it unclear whether like Shakers they didn’t do the act at all, or if it’s just the oral stuff they shunned.

In her eyes I can tell Melanie’s still wondering what it is that she’s gotten wrong.

‘Well, thank you for that insight,’ says Hemple. She starts to move on. With points like this you don’t press.

For the most part, the two days of hearings over contested child custody have been like a legally sanctioned gang bang. While Hastings is not likely to give much credence to the likes of Melanie, a legion of experts hired by Jack have been beating up on Laurel with professional jargon, enough syndromes of dependence to cause real problems for her case, to leave Hastings with a serious doubt as who is best to now take the children.

‘How much more do you have for this witness?’ The judge cuts Hemple off.

She asks for a couple of seconds to confer with her client. Hemple’s at the counsel table talking with Laurel. Clearly they are concerned about this latest revelation on drugs. Hemple will now have to draw and quarter Jack on the stand to have any chance to get them back to level ground.

‘An hour,’ she says. ‘Maybe more.’

Melanie’s expression droops like a basset hound’s.

‘And how many more witnesses?’

‘Just one,’ says Hemple. She looks over at Vega like maybe he might wish to marinate parts of his anatomy overnight for the roasting he is sure to get in the morning.

‘Then we’re going to adjourn for the night. And we’ll finish tomorrow,’ says the judge. ‘Is that understood?’

Jack’s lawyer is on his feet, nodding, like the sooner the better. With Jack on the stand, the press will be here in spades.

‘Your honor, one more thing,’ he says. ‘We would like a conference in chambers with opposing counsel after adjournment.’

Hastings slaps the gavel and is down off the bench, trailed by the lawyers to his chambers.

Outside the courtroom I am leaning over the water fountain for a drink when he comes up behind me.

‘I guess we’ve both seen better times,’ he says.

Jack Vega’s voice has the quality of a wood rasp drawn across the broken edge of a tin can, the vocal legacy of cigars and alcohol. He’s tracked me to this little corridor and boxed me in between the water cooler and the rest rooms. Jack’s idea of a good meeting place.

When I turn he is smiling, standing there with his hand out extended in greeting, a goofy look on his face. To those he has never married, or conceived, Jack is probably harmless.

‘What can I say, Bro?’ He still refers to me as his brother-in-law, which we have not been for some time now. It’s an awkward moment. I give no reply, but stand looking at his offered hand until it is dropped, limp at his side.

I can see Laurel looking, focusing on me over her lawyer’s shoulder as she and Hemple talk fifty feet away. Whatever happened in the judge’s chambers has them agitated. A lot of hand gestures by the lawyer, manual conversation. But at this moment I am certain Laurel is hearing none of this, wondering instead how I could possibly exchange anything but profanities with this man.

Having his peace-offered hand rejected, Jack is now posturing for defense, circling the wagons around his ego.

His hair has less gray, more color than I remember from our last family outing, a year ago. It seems Melanie has driven Jack to a different kind of bottle. There’s a bald patch the size of a pitcher’s mound on top. This is surrounded by tufts and wisps in sundry tones of orange. Still, by any measure he is a handsome man in the way middle-aged and austere men can be.

He is like most of the pols I have known; a wannabe statesman, come up rug merchant. Over the years he has managed to learn a little style, and now wears it like the thousand-dollar suit that frames his angular body. The freckles that seem to run over his face like flyspecks seem more pronounced, a kind of ruddy out-of-door look. Jack has been in the sun. He lives for golf, especially the courses peopled by celebrities where they run a water wagon with iced cocktails to every hole.

He passes some pleasantries, that I look good, that life seems to be treating me well. This despite the fact that my wife is now dead, something Jack seems to avoid. He is testing for other more pleasant subjects, anything that might lead to a friendly opening. All the while he is bobbing and weaving, prancing from one foot to the other, up on his toes. This is a nervous tic that Jack has never controlled. In the Capitol, among the lobbyists who ply their trade kissing collective legislative ass and twisting arms, Jack Vega is known as the Dancer, at least behind his back. Like his voting record, Vega’s body seems to constantly migrate toward the last loud noise.

‘I’m glad at least that you didn’t take her case,’ he says, ‘for old times’ sake.’

He’s bounding on his toes in front of me like a child facing an urgent call of nature. For those who know Jack, this motion is a measure of his rising anxiety.