Russell Banks - Affliction

Well, this time, by God, things would be different. This time his lawyer would be a man who cut the figure of a distinguished genius, a man wearing a three-piece suit, yes, but entering the courtroom in a wheelchair — a man so obviously skilled that he needed only his brain and his dark melodious voice to obtain justice for his client. This time that sexy tall lawyer of Lillian’s would find that his good looks and clothes worked against him. Wade resisted an impulse to smile and rub his hands together with relish, as he followed Hand’s secretary from the outer office to the familiar paneled room in back, with all the books on the shelves and the leather-covered chairs and sofa. This time, by God, Wade Whitehouse was going to have his day in court.

“I’ve taken a look at your divorce decree,” Hand said. “And frankly, Mr. Whitehouse, if you want the custody terms changed, I think you’re going to run into a few problems.”

“What do you mean, ‘if? What the hell do you think this is all about? Of course I want the custody terms changed!” Wade pulled out his cigarettes and lit up, inhaling furiously. The lawyer pressed the reverse button on the control panel with his left hand, and his chair zipped away from Wade to the middle of the room, where he watched Wade like a guard dog.

“I’m afraid you don’t understand,” Hand said. “In this state, a judge is going to be very reluctant to change the terms of custody, unless conditions in the life of the child now are radically different from what they were when the divorce was granted—”

“You don’t understand!” Wade interrupted him. “I thought we were going to nail her on the lawyer thing.”

Hand continued quite as if Wade had said nothing. “… and unless they have changed in such a way as to be deleterious to the child’s health or emotional well-being. Except, of course, when the original terms of custody appear to have been clearly and unjustly onerous — which frankly is not the case here — or when it can be shown that the judgment depended on information that was based on perjured testimony. Something like that, sometimes, can convince a judge to reconsider. But they hate to do it. They hate reconsidering divorce terms.”

“I thought — what I thought was we were going after this guy.”

“Who?”

“Cotter. Her lawyer. Her boyfriend. Remember?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“And what about her smoking marijuana? What about that? In her lawyer’s company, even. What about that?”

Hand sighed. “Mr. Whitehouse, let me ask you a few questions that you yourself would be asked in court if you tried to push this.”

“Shoot.” Wade exhaled a cloud of smoke and coughed.

“Have you yourself ever smoked marijuana?” He paused. “You’re under oath, remember. Or will be.”

Wade hesitated, as if trying to remember. “Well, I mean, yeah, I guess so. Who hasn’t?”

“And you are a police officer, right?”

“Yeah, yeah. I get the drift.” Wade waved him off with his hand.

“Let me go on. How much do you drink, Mr. Whitehouse? How much a day do you drink?”

“What the hell’s that got to do with anything?” Wade bristled.

“Never mind that. Just answer the question, please.”

“I don’t know how much I drink. I don’t keep count.”

“Too many to count?”

“Jesus Christ! What the hell are you trying to prove? I haven’t done anything wrong! Whose lawyer are you, anyhow?” Wade rubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray next to him. “Look, I’m just trying to make it so I can see my own child when I want to. That’s all. I don’t want to have to get permission from my ex-wife to see my own daughter!”

“You don’t. The divorce decree says that you can have your daughter one weekend a month, except for Christmas and Thanksgiving, and for one week in the summer.”

“Yeah, I get Halloween, she gets Thanksgiving and Christmas. It’s wrong, you know that! Wrong. The whole thing is wrong.”

“It’s unusually restrictive, I admit. But there are reasons.”

“Such as?”

“Apparently, you were physically violent with your wife on several occasions?”

“That’s in there? That’s not in there.”

“No. But the divorce was granted on the grounds of physical and mental cruelty. And I did speak with her attorney about the case. Jackson Cotter.”

“You did what? I thought you were on my side in this! I thought you were working for me!”

“Mr. Whitehouse, it’s not unusual to communicate intentions like yours to the attorney of the other party.”

“You mention his hanky-panky with Lillian? You mention that?”

“I didn’t think it appropriate to threaten him,” the lawyer said.

“You didn’t think it appropriate.”

“No.”

Wade slumped in his chair and looked at his shoes. “You’re telling me to drop this thing, aren’t you? Forget about it.”

“Yes.”

“You’re telling me I’m dreaming.”

“Not exactly. But yes.”

“I’m going to get married, you know. Soon. To a very nice woman, very motherly and all. And I have a house now, a regular house, the house I grew up in. That makes a difference. Doesn’t that make a difference?”

“Not really.” Hand stole a glance at his watch.

In a weak small voice, Wade said, “I’ve changed since then. Since the divorce, I mean. I really have.”

“I’m sure you have.”

“Did you explain that, to her lawyer, I mean, when you talked to him?”

“As a matter of fact, I did. And he offered an arrangement that should interest you.”

Wade quickly looked up from his shoes and watched the man with suspicion. He thought, Lawyers — the sonsofbitches are all in cahoots, making deals behind your back, swapping favors, trading off one case now to win another later. “Tell me.”

Hand wheeled in closer to Wade and smiled sympathetically. He did mention to Cotter — just in passing, he said, not as a threat — his knowledge of Mrs. Horner’s relationship with her attorney, which relationship, while not illegal, was potentially embarrassing, to say the least, and he did explain to Jackson Cotter that Wade recently had changed his way of living to a considerable degree. The combination of the two, he said, convinced Cotter, after consulting with his client, of course, to agree that if Wade would abandon his suit, Mrs. Horner would allow him to have Jill stay with him on two weekends a month and on alternating Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays and for two weeks in the summer instead of one. The arrangement, he added, need not be formalized in court.

Wade nodded solemnly. “I get it. You got Cotter to put the arm on Lillian, and now you’re putting the arm on me. You guys cut a deal so that Lillian gives up something, and I give up something, and you two go away with our money in your pockets.”

Hand backed his wheelchair to the middle of the room, where he slid his yellow pad into the carrier and his pen into his inside pocket. “This arrangement, if you accept it, keeps you out of court, Mr. Whitehouse, in a case you would surely lose. Which saves you ten times the money you have spent, not to mention the emotional damage these things inflict on all the principals, especially the child, whether you win or lose. And I have gotten your visitation rights doubled. What more do you want?”

“Nothing on paper. Right?”

“Mr. Whitehouse, you hired me for my legal advice. Do you want it?”

“Yes, goddammit.”

“This is the best deal you will get in this state. And you only got it because Jackson Cotter made the mistake of becoming involved with your ex-wife and does not want to ask your ex-wife to perjure herself by denying it, which, of course, she would do, and then it would be your word against hers, that’s all. And frankly, no one would believe you. Not even Mrs. Horner’s husband or Jackson Cotter’s wife. Consider yourself lucky,” he said, and he wheeled toward the door and swung it open for Wade. “Or hire another attorney.”