Family Law by Gin Phillips (phonics reading books .txt) 📕

Dick.

“Your Honor,” Lucia said, “you just ruled on this issue.”

“Sustained.”

“I move to strike,” Lucia said.

Arnold shot her a look, and she held back a smile. It was amazing how a few interruptions could rattle someone.

Arnold rubbed a hand over his slicked-back hair. “Don’t you want this divorce—despite your husband’s desire to remain married—because you—”

“Objection,” said Lucia. “Your Honor, we have not heard Mr. Leles’s wishes. That question presumes a matter not in evidence.”

The husband stared openly at her now. The sad look he had kept pasted on his face slipped long enough to let the rage show. It stings, doesn’t it, she thought at him, to be shut up over and over again.

He fixed his face. But she could see under the table where his hands were in fists, pressing his thighs so hard that his pants were a mass of creases.

Lucia smoothed her skirt and enjoyed her view of his knuckles. She had not been honest with Rachel—she did not merely accept the need for conflict. She did not play some halfhearted role. When she saw a fight coming, she ran at it, landing with both feet, waiting to see how the pieces flew up around her and what shape they might take.

VII.

The days and the meetings and the faces did not exactly blur, but the edges overlapped. The shaking of hands. The settling into the chairs. The questions and answers and regret and resentment. The man now in front of Lucia had fired his lawyer and asked to meet with her directly, which was unusual, but he was a high school principal, soft-spoken, and she’d seen his paycheck stubs. They had left her sympathetic.

He was a tall man, knees touching the front of her desk and elbows overhanging the chair.

“I know my wife,” he said. “I know what she wants, and I know what I’m willing to do. So, as I said, I think I can save us all some time.”

“All right,” Lucia said. “Why don’t you tell me what you think she wants?”

“She wants me crucified,” he said. “She wants me to suffer, and there is no amount of money that will satisfy her.”

Lucia straightened a pen on her desk. He was not wrong. His wife would rather have his bloody pelt than alimony.

“Affairs do make people angry,” she said.

“I know,” he said, running a hand over his thin hair. “I was angry when she had her affair, too. But she’s not mad about my cheating. She’s mad because I left, which is the strange part. I don’t know how she can possibly want our marriage to continue.”

Again, Lucia couldn’t find a flaw in his thinking. “So far,” she said, “you don’t seem to feel very accommodating.”

“Kelly is not my favorite person in the world,” he said. “But I’d like to think I can be fair. I’ve drawn up a budget showing what I need to live. I’ll give her the house. I’ve listed a child support figure that I think is generous. I can’t magic up money where there is none. If she insists on going to court, that will eat up money, and she’ll get less. She needs to decide whether punishing me is really worth the financial loss.”

Lucia took the folder he passed to her. She hated to admit it, but he was more reasonable than his wife. More fair-minded. You didn’t like to think that sort of thing—you needed to stay firmly on your client’s side—and maybe that was why these meetings were meant to be between lawyers. You wanted to keep your focus narrow. Too much perspective could paralyze you.

•   •   •

A different day.

Donna Lambert’s main liability was her face, which brought to mind Bo Derek, all gorgeous cheekbones and eyes. Her hair was a problem, too, dark waves of it past her waist, although she could pin it up for court. Still, no judge would look at her and see a victimized woman. A judge would see a woman who was used to hearing “yes” more than “no,” and the judge would be right.

“I wanted to ask you about Jerry,” Donna said, hair falling over her shoulder.

Lucia had wondered why she wanted an appointment now when her court date was three months away. “The man you met at the barbecue? The one from Atlanta?”

“Yes. I wondered—”

“You can’t see him,” Lucia said. “Not if you want this to come out in your favor. The last thing you should do is start another relationship in the middle of a divorce.”

“I visited him last weekend,” Donna said. She smiled, and it was well practiced. “We’d been talking on the phone every night. It’s not—it’s not casual.”

Lucia lay her pen down. She let the silence expand.

“I told you not to see him,” she said at last. “I told you that you could talk by phone occasionally. You told me you wouldn’t see him. You lied. I told you that if you lie to me, we’re done.”

“I only—”

This is what it’s like to hear “no,” Lucia thought.

“We’re done,” she said.

•   •   •

A different week.

“I want them,” the man said. “Is there any way—any way at all—that I could get custody? I take them to school most days, and I help them with their homework. More than she does. I’m a good father.”

Lucia sighed. The same answer, always, no matter what man sat in the chair.

“I’m sure you are,” she said. “But unless your wife has some very problematic behavior that leaves her unfit, she will get custody. The courts believe that children are better off with their mother.”

He ran a hand over his forehead, pulling his eyebrows high, skin stretched tight.

“You believe that, too?” he asked.

“I don’t,” she said. “Not universally. I don’t think your legal rights should be based on your sex. If a woman makes more money than a man, she should be the one asked for child support. If a father is the more involved parent, he should be considered for custody. But that’s not the