Paydirt

37

Friday, February 3

Two Days Before the Super Bowl

Judge Seymour Gerstein studied the legal documents and twitched his nose, rabbit-like, nearly tossing his rimless glasses overboard. "You filed a motion for rehearing?" he asked, peering over the top of his reading glasses.

"Yes, respectfully Your Honor, I would submit that the Court's prior ruling should be set aside," Bobby said. He employed his bootlicking, lawyer-to-judge tone, in which a clever advocate delivers the message: "you blew it, asshole" without offending the court. "It is not in the interests of my son to be shipped off to a boarding school."

"And where is your lawyer?" the judge demanded, shooting a glance at the grandfather clock in the corner of his chambers. Next to him, the court stenographer, an older woman with eyeglasses on a chain, waited for Bobby's answer.

"I've discharged Ms. Suarez," Bobby said. "I'm representing myself."

I've fired her from my life, too.

She'd been calling Bobby, wanting to get together, but he had neither the time nor the inclination. Ever since the night when Christine had nursed his injuries in her hotel room, his thoughts were only of her, and Angelica seemed to know it.

"Do you know why you're fighting this case so hard?" she had asked him.

"Because I want my son."

"Because it's the only way to keep in contact with your ex-wife. It's sick, Bobby, but you don't see it. When will you face the fact that she's gone? She doesn't love you! You'll never get her back."

After Bobby had pulled the sword from his stomach, he told Angelica good night, then burned rubber pulling out of her driveway.

Bobby returned his attention to the judge who was shaking his head unhappily.

"You know the expression about having a fool for a client," Judge Gerstein said.

"Yes, Your Honor, but even a fool could win this case."

Or see which way to rule.

"I've only granted a handful of rehearings in twenty-two years on the bench, so you've got your work cut out for you, Mr. Gallagher."

"I understand, Your Honor." Bobby knew the odds were against him, but this was his only hope. An appeal to the Third District would take a year, and Scott would be long gone. Here was a chance to get the trial judge to overrule himself.

"Very well, then," Judge Gerstein said. "Now, who's this handsome lad?"

Next to Bobby, Scott squirmed in his seat. Bobby had wanted to bring him to the first hearing to demonstrate their closeness, but Angelica told him it might backfire. Judges don't like to put kids in the cross hairs of their parents' big game rifles.

"Your Honor, this is my son, Scott."

"Any objection?" the judge asked, turning to the other side of the table.

"Please allow me to consult with the boy's mother," Jailbreak Jones said, turning to Christine, whose face was tightened up like a spring. Jones wore a beige suit with shoulder piping and a string tie with a silver clasp. Next to him, a stack of poster boards leaned against the table, covered mysteriously with a black cloth.

Bobby stared out the window at the downtown skyline. In a dozen high-rise office buildings, he imagined, lawyers at this very moment were fabricating their evidence, salting their briefs with false accusations, and billing their time at outrageous rates.

"There's no need to put the minor child through this torture." Jones glared at Bobby with the same disapproval he might use for a pedophile kindergarten teacher.

"Scott is a material witness," Bobby said. "I'd like the Court to take his testimony."

Across the table, Christine looked stricken.

"This is a rehearing, not a trial de novo. It's completely improper to take evidence." Perched on the edge of his chair like a vulture on a limb, Jones seemed to consider a notion before continuing. Bobby had been a trial lawyer long enough to know that the Biggest Mouth West of the Pecos was changing gears.

"Upon reflection, Your Honor," Jones continued, a smile stretching his thin lips, "we welcome the re-opening of evidence at Mr. Gallagher's request."

Uh-oh. What now?

"We will demonstrate that the father has exposed the minor child to lowlifes, felons and miscreants, to professional gamblers and bookmakers, and that the father himself is a bookmaker." With a wave of a hand, he theatrically swept the black cloth from the stack of poster boards, and held up the first one, a grainy black-and-white photo blown up to gargantuan size. "Exhibit A, Your Honor. The father, the minor child, and a convicted felon mingling in a saloon."

"That's my Uncle Goldy!" Scott piped up, and Bobby hushed him with a gentle hand.

"Your Honor, that's Goldy Goldberg," Bobby said," a lifelong friend. We were in the Oceanside Deli eating dinner."

"I had a Reuben," Scott said.

"Goldy's like a member of the family," Bobby said.

"A crime family!" Jones boomed. "The man has a rap sheet as long as the reins on a forty-mule team. This disbarred lawyer who calls himself a father consorts with criminals in the presence of the minor child."

"I like to hang with Dad," Scott said.

"We have affidavits," Jones said, without taking a breath. "We have files from the county sheriff, the city police, the state Department of Law Enforcement, the FBI…"

What, no CIA?

"The boy would be better off in an orphanage than with this sorry excuse for a father," Jones concluded.

"Bullshit!" Bobby boomed. "That's complete crap, and this flannel-mouthed windbelly knows it."

"Mr. Gallagher!" The judge glared at him, his cheeks reddening. "I won't tolerate that! One more outburst, and I'll hold you in contempt. If that is the kind of language you use in the presence of your son, it's no wonder you're in such trouble today." The judge adjusted the spectacles on the bridge of his nose, straightened in his high-backed leather chair, and nodded toward Jailbreak Jones. "All right, both of you. Talk's cheap. Let's hear some evidence."

The rest was dreamlike. Foggy and detached, Bobby felt as if he were floating above the conference table, looking down on the rest of them, listening to the babble. Isn't that what it's like when you have a near-death experience?

Jailbreak Jones droned on, thumping his drums, bellowing with indignation. He introduced his evidence, and the judge tut-tut-tutted and looked at Bobby, first with displeasure, then shock, and finally a blistering anger.

Bobby tried to defend himself, but he was in a daze. The voices in the room overlapped, his own words echoing like distant thunder. He seemed paralyzed. He tried to concentrate on what was being said, Jailbreak's voice rising and falling with the cadence of a country preacher, slathering on accusations like butter on biscuits.

Bobby glanced at Christine, whose forehead was knotted, her eyes filled with pain.

And pity! The same look she'd give a dog run struck down crossing the highway. Is that what I am…roadkill?

When it was over, when they were through hacking away at his limbs like loggers at a tree, the fog began to clear. The judge sat silently a moment, spun around in his chair and stared at the ceiling. In the moment of quiet, Bobby listened to the cough and rattle of the air conditioning and looked outside the window where the black turkey buzzards, ugly as death, floated effortlessly in the updrafts between the downtown skyscrapers.

"I don't take this action lightly," Judge Gerstein said, whirling around to face the litigants and their attorneys. He spoke directly to the stenographer whose fingers banged away at her machine, recording the words for posterity and the appellate court. "I'm going to grant your petition for rehearing, Mr. Gallagher and vacate the prior order, but I'm afraid this is a Pyrrhic victory for you. Based on the evidence submitted, it is the judgment of this court that you are not a fit and proper parent for custody, joint custody, or even liberal visitation. Your actions have had a deleterious impact on the minor child, and if continued-"

"No, they haven't!" Scott called out. "Dad's fun. He teaches me a lot of neat stuff and he needs me. I mean, I need him, too. He's my Dad."

"Young man," the judge said sharply. "Be quiet when an elder speaks. Please look to your mother and grandfather as role models, and not your father."

"Bullshit!" Bobby shouted for the second time that morning.

"You're in contempt, Mr. Gallagher!" the judge fired back. "That will cost you five hundred dollars, and if you repeat it, you'd better have packed your toothbrush in that attache case because you're looking at thirty days in the stockade."

Bobby fought the urge to leap up and pull down the floor-to-ceiling shelves of law books, burying all of them in useless words. Despair howled in his ears like a winter wind. He had lost Scott.

"It is the further judgment of this court," the judge continued, "that Robert Gallagher be stripped of all parental rights, and that full custody and all decisions regarding the minor child shall be forthwith vested with the mother, Christine Kingsley Gallagher. Mr. Gallagher shall be entitled to limited visitation upon a strict schedule to be promulgated by the domestic relations child welfare unit, said visitation to take place only in public facilities such as the courthouse or court liaison offices, and only in the presence of licensed counselors from H.R.S. or the comparable agency in Texas. No overnight visitation will be permitted until such time as Mr. Gallagher demonstrates a change in attitude, lifestyle, and fitness as a parent. We'll set a report date for further proceedings in six months."

With a bang of his gavel, the judge dismissed them and said good day.

Jailbreak Jones cleared up his files. Christine motioned to Scott to come with her.

The boy looked at his father who nodded, gave him a squeeze on the arm, and let him go.

"I'll be outside," Scott said, hurrying out of chambers.

The judge and stenographer walked out, too, leaving Bobby and Christine alone with the whir of the air conditioning and the ticking of a grandfather clock.

"I'm sorry, Bobby," Christine said. "This isn't what I wanted."

"You could have stopped it. You could have said 'no' to your father."

"This never would have happened if you'd just let Scott go off to boarding school."

"So it's my fault!"

"Yes, it's your damn pigheadedness. It's what led to our breaking up and all of this. You've lost everything, but you blame everybody but yourself."

"And you've won everything. Your father must be very proud. You've turned out to be just like him."

Bobby grabbed his briefcase and fled.

"When we won the AFL Championship, a lot of people thanked their wives. I'd like to thank all the single girls in New York. They deserve just as much credit."

— Joe Namath before Super Bowl III