Waiting for Cary Grant (5 page)

Despite the ever present caffeine twitch, exacerbated by the stress of Harlan in his face, Taylor managed to tug at his little bow tie while smugly responding: “Relevancy is not a proper objection at deposition.”

And Harlan knew Taylor was right. Relevancy is only a proper objection at trial. But Harlan didn’t care. His client, an eleven year old girl, who worshiped the ground he walked upon, burst in to tears.

“I don’t care about the rules. you’re not going to turn this deposition into a child abuse opportunity for you. If you continue to ask these questions, which don’t have any bearing on this case. I will conclude this deposition. And I will go to Law and Motion and I will request a deposition referee and sanctions against you.”

“Really?” Taylor said in a tone of pseudo-confident bravado. But his twitching Adam’s Apple gave the state of his nerves away.

“Lets take a break. I need five minutes. Why don’t you come out with me?” Harlan reached for Kathy’s hand and led her out the door. It was a psychological technique. During the break, Harlan was counting on Taylor mulling over his conduct and deciding he shouldn’t risk sanctions. It was true that relevancy wasn’t a proper objection at deposition. But Judge Franklin wouldn’t warm to an over paid defense lawyer grilling an orphan for dirt on her parents. And no one wanted to enrage Judge Franklin.

“We’re going to need a longer break.” Harlan put his head in the room.

“She went to get her cat,” he said in a low voice only Stephanie could hear.

They stood in the hallway.

“Harlan, can I ask you something hypothetically?”

“Sure. Fortunately, I’m not under oath.” He tugged boyishly at his tie.

“Say you found out another attorney in your firm wanted to insert dates in documents. On the theory that he knows what date it must have happened, he just—”

“—That’s fraud! I couldn’t offer that part of the bill in evidence. I’m a good lawyer. But I can’t create good evidence. And I can’t make bad evidence disappear.”

“I’ve told Melvin we should settle this case.”

“And?”

Their eyes met again. It was crazy to trust Harlan. He was an opponent.

“He won’t settle. Melvin’s theory is that in a few years, she’ll be a teenager who wouldn’t have wanted her parents around.”

“Because the typical teenager would enjoy seeing her parents live abroad? You’re kidding, right?”

“No. I can’t believe it.”

“I heard you’ve had big verdicts.”

“I got lucky,” he said modestly.

Her mother always told her not to meddle in other people’s lives. Most of the time, it was probably a good rule. But Harlan could reach into someone’s life and make it better for having known him.

“I’ve been doing this longer than you, Stephanie. I think you’re a sharp lawyer. I’ve read your stuff. You have good instincts.”

“But can you really prove that Safety Tire had patented a safer design for multipiece wheels but chose this one instead? Can you prove that Safety Tire made a mercenary choice? That protecting profits meant more than protecting people? I know you can’t discuss any details but tell me honestly—”

“—No way.” He grinned.

“I’m a lawyer and I’m your opponent. I’m a man and I’m attracted. And you ask for honesty? No way, Stephanie.”

Taylor Stanworth felt irritated. You could see the naked admiration on Stephanie’s face a mile away. And as good as he looked in Hugo Boss, she’d barely said hello.

One flying leap and the cat came to a perfect landing on the table, scattering papers and spilling coffee. Kathy giggled.

“Is this cat going to stay for deposition?” Taylor asked Harlan.

“Yes. You can ask her any questions you want. My hunch is that she’ll refuse to answer.” Harlan said.

“I’m allergic,” Taylor rubbed his nose.

“Get over it. My client’s psychiatrist has recommended a pet for her well-being.” Harlan announced. He looked over at Stephanie. She looked away. Too quickly.

“Who’s her psychiatrist?” Taylor licked his lips, discomfort temporarily forgotten, as his Mont Blanc pen poised over a yellow legal pad, and he salivated at the prospect of juicy mental health records.

“Harlan Michaels.”

“I can put her outside. I don’t want you to feel bad.” Kathy quietly picked up her friend.

She stayed stoic, looking at the lawyers who continued to ask the same questions, but in slightly different ways, as if simple phrasing could translate tragedy to ordinary drama. No, she hadn’t been with her family on the day of the accident. She’d had a play date. Her friend’s Mom was making dinner and watching television when Kathy walked into the kitchen and recognized their car on the news. A somber mood settled through the room. It remained after the deposition ended.

Taylor spoke first. “The deposition in Provence is canceled. Sorry.”

“Sorry? You can’t cancel!” Harlan glared.

Taylor spread his arms out at his sides. “Go figure. I just found out. Safety Tire won’t produce Adam Banks. He doesn’t work for Safety Tire anymore. There’s nothing I can do.” He looked apologetically at Stephanie.

“I know he doesn’t work for Safety Tire anymore, counsel. I have the investigation bills to prove it! After I spent a fortune finding him, you volunteered to produce him.”

“I feel that—”

“—This isn’t about what you feel! It’s about what you’re going to do. Produce him!” His stomach churned. He’d spent a fortune nailing down Banks’ deposition while the impending trial date loomed and his bank account emptied.

“Safety Tire’s been having some problems. We may be filing for Bankruptcy.” He shrugged. When bad things happen to rich corporations, there’s no easy explanation.

Harlan watched Taylor pack up his cell phone, Mont Blanc pens and monogrammed legal pads. “What a financially dynamic company,” he said drily. “Just last week, my broker sent me a prospectus that claimed you could stretch Safety Tire’s dollars all around the globe and wonder what to do with the millions left over.”

Taylor’s adams apple, always highly responsive to Harlan, now bobbed wildly. Stephanie tried not to stare.

“I can’t control brokers!” He banged his knee against one hardwood chair, averting his eyes form Harlan’s fierce stare and hobbling out as quickly as his Ferragamo loafers could carry him.

“They won’t get away with Bankruptcy,” Stephanie said hopefully.

“I know they won’t get away with it! But they’ll delay the trial. And I’ve put a lot of money into this case.” He looked away. Why was he telling this girl?

She couldn’t speak.

“I need Banks’ deposition. I have to go to Provence. What’s the fastest way out of here?” His thumb slipped under one red suspender. He had too much money in this case to quit.

“I’ll show you a shortcut.” She pulled back the ancient lace curtains and opened French doors to a clangy metal balcony. A few feet away, a fire escape lay affixed to the wall, leading to a parking lot.

“Are you psychic?”

“Just a little psycho. I used to be a student here.”

“That’s cool.”

They raced down the creaky old fire escape, Stephanie felt a familiar glee at escaping the school’s clutches.

“Do you still have your uniform? I’d love to see you in it.” Mischief danced in his eyes.

Unbelievable. All the time she spent trying to look sophisticated, and this guy wanted to see her in a schoolgirl uniform.

“Harlan, the one vow I took was to never wear a schoolgirl uniform again.”

“Oh. Where were your parents?”

“All over. They have a business. Educational toys. Boarding school made sense.”

“That must have been hard.”

She winced. “For years, I wondered what I had done wrong. My Dad used to ask why I was so quiet when he came to visit. I couldn’t talk. I always thought I must have said something that offended him.”

“There are worse places.” Harlan made a sweeping hand gesture at the mission style buildings, nestled on a hilltop sanctuary, above the world’s problems.

“I’m grateful for it now. Boarding school fosters independence. And that’s a good thing.” She tried to sound glib but her voice revealed a child’s hidden bewilderment.

“Did you ever try counseling?” His hand slipped beneath the heavy briefcase strap and lightly massaged her shoulder.

“Of course. But at some point, analysis becomes useless.”

She stood, surrendering to the massage’s power.

“I’d like counseling if I could go just once a week and say, here are all my problems. You work on them. And I’ll be back next week to see what you come up with.”

“That’s cool. Just delegate it. You could tell me your problems, Stephanie. I’ll work on them.”

She drew back. The briefcase had doubled in weight. Why hadn’t she just shut up?

“Oh sure. Wouldn’t that be convenient?”

“Okay. Maybe when the case is over?” He sounded hopeful. A rising intonation had turned the phrase into a question like a voice on a foreign language tape. She reached to touch him. Her fingertips traced his soft cotton shirt, revealing hard muscle underneath. Warmth surged from him.

Then she remembered hearing he had a lingerie model girlfriend with the I.Q. of a goldfish.

“I don’t think this is about being opponents, Harlan. You like my mind. You’re entertained by my schoolgirl crush. And in return, I get the friendship and advice of the lawyer I admire more than any other. But I think we both know when know that when you go home at night, you like to play with Barbie.”

“That’s cold. Did you ever think that she might be sweeter than you?”

“You can’t tell me that. I’ve heard about her.”

“H
ere, I brought you some new bulbs. They use less energy.” Lana’s Mom, Natalie, walked through the door of the house Lana bought herself as if it was her teenage room at home.

“These bulbs don’t get as hot.”Natalie fanned herself.

“Shhh, Mom. This is my favorite part.” Lana said. For the weekend, she had picked up “The Awful Truth” starring Cary Grant and Irene Dunne as a married couple about to divorce and mounting a ferocious custody battle over their dog: Mr. Smith, who looked like a large but adorable terrier.

Irene Dunne’s character wins the dog but still yearns for Cary Grant. Though he may yearn for his estranged wife too, that doesn’t prevent testosterone driven Cary from rapidly becoming engaged to a debutante. Lana loved it when Irene Dunne, the wife goes to Cary Grant’s house, and realizes she’s still in love with him. When the debutante calls, and Irene Dunne answers, Cary says she’s his sister. Lamest old line in the world.

But then, he realizes he still loves her too. When Cary Grant says, “Marriage is based on faith—if you lose that you lose everything.” Lana always cried.

Sometimes, in the middle of a therapy session, she wanted to scream that she understood. With any love, you have to believe in a vow that could be broken. Some people break and never get put back together again. She had to convince Kathy to believe in something she was too afraid to risk herself. Love.

“What’s this? Every Girl Should Be Married? Well, at least the title’s a good start.”

“Give me that.” Lana grabbed the DVD from her mother.

“Lana, I’m the only one in my club who doesn’t have grandkids.”

“Moxie and Baby are your grandkids.” She affectionately played with one of Moxie’s ears.

“I want a two-legged one.” Natalie insisted.

Lana stared at Cary Grant and lucky Irene Dunne on the screen. Her heart melted. She yearned for love. For someone who cared if she was alive or dead at the end of the day.

“What’s the point if it’s not good? What’s the point if it’s not about love?” Lana asked.

“The point is to not be alone with a furry little animal in your lap at night. I love Baby and Moxie. But it’s not enough. Why don’t you go on the Internet?”

“The Internet! Don’t you know how dangerous that is? You’re my mother! You’re supposed to be warning me away from the Internet. Not telling me to jump on it!”

“Well, a lot of people are meeting that way. And if you would just pick someone, get married and get pregnant, you could put this whole nightmare behind you.”

“My life’s not a nightmare.” Lana protested. Did you ever see “A Touch of Mink?” Lana asked her.

“Of course. When I was your age, my fiancee and I would go to the movies.”

“There’s a part where Cary Grant tells Doris Day that after they get married, and return from their trip around the world, his Manhattan penthouse will be ready for them. And if she’s not happy with his penthouse, she can have any other one in New York. It’s so romantic. That’s why I’m not married. I’m waiting for this.” Lana gestured at Cary Grant on the screen.

“You’re waiting for Cary Grant?!” Her Mom’s shopping bags clanked on the floor. She’d brought the cats their favorite tuna. They eagerly climbed in the first bag as if this time they could open it without a can opener. Or a human.

“Keep waiting, Lana. You could create a club. The Waiting for Cary Grant Club. And they can put it on your tombstone. Because you’ll die waiting.”

“Don’t be so negative.”

“I just want you to be realistic. We all wanted Cary Grant. If I’d waited for Cary Grant, you wouldn’t be here today.”

“How do you know someone like Cary Grant isn’t just around the corner?” Lana asked, reluctantly turning away from the screen.

“Well, he might be just around the corner or close to it but you’ll never know because you never leave the house.”

“Everyone I meet just seems to repulse me somehow.” That wasn’t entirely true. There was someone. But she couldn’t remember Cary ever being a lawyer.

“There are so many dating services. You should be married. I should have grandkids. Before I’m too old.” Natalie clutched her chest like she was having a heart attack.

“Well if I have to date for you to have grandkids, forget it.” Lana said.

“I
’m not surprised Harlan Michaels won the motion to take Adam Banks’ deposition in France. I think there’s a conspiracy of judges against me in this town.”

Stephanie couldn’t think of what to say. She’d heard once that even paranoids have enemies. Maybe in Mel’s case it was true.