A Good Mother by Lara Bazelon (classic books to read .TXT) 📕

a bit faulty on that one, Abigail. That’s common in women who have recently given birth. Yet another reason, perhaps, to reconsider the length of your maternity leave.”

She nods. “Except it’s not actually my memory I’m working from. I have it recorded on my cell phone.”

A shadow passes across his face but it’s only for a second. “Bullshit.”

“Not bullshit. True shit.”

A finger point. “There was no reason for you to record that meeting. It was about a favorable plea offer that we were extending to your wholly undeserving client.”

Abby settles back in her chair. “Yes, of course, but I didn’t know that at the time. I was walking in blind. Blind and alone. And you sounded so, well, how shall I say this, so frantic on the phone the night before. It made me wonder, Dars. It really did. I just had no idea what was going to come out of your mouth. And I was nervous, too. My first meeting on the fifteenth floor with the big shots. I wanted to make sure I remembered every minute of it.”

The finger point is now a stabbing motion. “No. It’s a felony to record someone without their permission and you know it. I could have you indicted.”

“You could,” she says agreeably, “but at what cost?”

“Give me your phone.”

“I’ve upgraded since then. But not to worry, there are plenty of copies. One safely stowed with my lawyer, Jonathan. You know Jonathan, right?”

“Play it for me.”

“No.”

He sits back now, too, relaxing. “I knew it. There is no recording. It’s reckless beyond even what you are capable of.”

“Oh, but I am capable of it, Dars. You tried to prove there was something wrong with the way I got the ballistics report that exonerated Rayshon Marbury. Unfortunately, the dirty cop’s wife who gave it to me wouldn’t cooperate with the state bar investigators you sicced on me.” Abby lifts her shoulders and gives him a wide fake smile. “Too bad. But now that all of that unpleasantness is in the rearview mirror, I can give you the details. Unless, of course, you’d rather not hear about it.”

“Do go on,” Dars says, “you know how much I love your stories.”

“Late in the trial, after I realized that Rayshon was probably going to get convicted, I got desperate and showed up at the wife’s house late one night uninvited. She had gotten a restraining order against the dirty cop at that point and I thought, maybe she has something on him.”

“After she complained to my office that you were harassing her and the judge told you to stay away from her.”

Abby nods. “But that’s not the half of it, Dars. I watched while she drank herself into incoherence. I told her she would lose custody of her children if she didn’t help me take down her husband, legal advice that was unsolicited and almost certainly wrong. I interfered with and polluted the relationship she already had with her own lawyer. A lawyer who, unlike me, was acting in her best interests.”

Dars shakes his head. “You’re lying.”

“About what I did to win the case?”

“About your cell phone.” He motions with one hand. “What you did to let that murderer walk free is entirely in keeping with your character. But he didn’t get far, did he?”

Abby feels her throat close. She had sat between Nic and Paul at the memorial service. Rayshon’s little boy had cried and cried. At the time, it had literally been noise to her. Remembering it now makes her want to cry herself, not that she would ever give Dars the satisfaction. Being a mother, she’s come to realize, is a terrible vulnerability.

“Give me your bag.”

She hands it over and he dumps the entire contents out on the desktop: baby wipes, nipple guards, a spare diaper, two pacifiers—both covered in lint—crumpled tissues, lip gloss, dental floss, Tic Tacs, her cell phone, her date book. He inspects every item, leaving the phone for last.

“What’s the password?”

“I told you it’s not on—”

“What’s the password?”

She gives it to him and waits while Dars scrolls through the various screens, checks her list of callers, her voice mails, and her photographs. Once it would have been mortifying: the drunken texts and other evidence of her numerous hookups. Now there is absolutely nothing of interest. Messages from Nic, Jonathan, Will, Paul. Her mother. And the pictures, the endless shots of Cal: cooing, sleeping, screaming. Lying on his side, staring wide-eyed at nothing she can see.

Dars is still scrolling, his mouth twisted. “Ah, Jonathan. I do recall him now. Your coworker, personal lawyer, and little gay bestie. Sure is interested in this baby of yours. Make sure to text him back as soon as you leave, sounds like he and Quinn—” Dars’s voice goes up an offensive octave “—are hanging out with your baby daddy at your house and wondering if you’ll be home in time for dinner.”

Abby takes a slow, quiet breath, before pasting on an inviting smile. “You should check out the video of the birth. Kind of gory, though. I needed twelve stitches.”

Dars drops the phone into her purse and shovels in the rest of the contents like he’s sweeping up garbage. “Come over to my side of the desk.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to pat you down.”

“You think I’m wearing a wire?” This she had not expected and her heart starts beating fast. He’s taking the bait.

Dars snaps his fingers. “Let’s go.”

The thought of his hands on her body feeling her up and down is so awful Abby can’t suppress a shudder. “I’m not going to let you touch me, Dars.”

“Well, then, we have a problem, don’t we?”

The solution that pops into Abby’s head at that moment is so crazy she can barely believe she’s even considering it. Jonathan’s warning flashes through her mind—word is going to get out—even as she hears him saying, “Hot. Filled Out. Great color, your skin is glowing.” On her best days, she is pretty; never hot. Too pale and sharp-edged with her little girl’s body.