A Southern Girl: A Novel

13: Coleman

A Southern Girl 122 “We could run into Manhattan.” “Not enough time. Her flight arrives at 5:48 and the Open Arms briefing starts at 4:30. Benita Mallory was emphatic that we make that if possible.” “So that’s all we have to do, eh? Show up at a briefing. I wonder if they’ll hand out some kind of ticket or chit; you know, ‘Present this to the flight attendant to claim your kid.’ You don’t suppose she’ll be in baggage claim, do you?” As I admired the now-ready crib, I found him admiring me. A good sign, I thought. j 13 i Coleman I stayed in touch with Barron Morris. He put no expiration date on his offer, telling me he realized it represented a major decision and urging me to take whatever time was needed. Elizabeth and I discussed pros and cons, but casually, as though the debate was a hypothetical one not truly related to our future. In the meantime, I pressed ahead with billable hours. A few days before Mother arrived for her visit, I sat at my desk, a stack of depositions piled in front of me and notebooks covering the credenza to my left. Two weeks remained until the McLauren trial, at which I hoped to punish a stingy insurance company for its latest offer, one the company termed “final.” Our client, Ted McLauren, had been a passenger in a Volvo broad-sided by an eighteen wheeler in an intersection. The damage to McLauren’s right leg was severe and permanent. Experience made all the difference in evaluating such claims, and it was here that I felt I earned my pay, weighing as objectively as I could evidence, depositions, medical reports, legal theories to determine a range of value. My door opened and Don Mahoney’s head appeared. “Stop in when you get a moment,” Mahoney said. I knew, as did every other lawyer in the firm, that the outside limit on the “moment” was fifteen minutes, and that failure to report within that time would bring Mahoney back, “wondering Confluence 123 what the hell happened to you.” I gave it ten minutes, straightened my tie and ambled down the hall to Mahoney’s corner office. “Sit down,” Mahoney intoned in his cavernous voice as I entered. “Coffee?” “Thanks. I’ve had my quota.” “What are you working on these days? How’s the Anspach matter?” “Can’t get to it. McLauren goes to trial in two weeks and I’m getting ‘litigator’s lament.’” “A terrible affliction,” Mahoney agreed. “I’ve had it myself many times. What’s the offer?” “Fifty grand.” Mahoney winced. “And we said ‘no?’ What are the damages?” “Seventy-five thousand and climbing, but liability is the problem; the old red-light, green-light debate. Our key witness had a very poor vantage point. They know it and we know it. Naturally, our client sees that as a technicality and plans to retire on our efforts.” “Naturally.” Mahoney paused. “Changing subjects, I hear you and Elizabeth are expecting. Chinese, did I hear?” “Korean.” I felt pressure in my throat, as though I tightened my tie to excess. Mahoney nodded but said nothing, turning his gaze toward the blindcovered bank of windows to his right and drumming his fingers lightly on the surface of his desk. “Is that a problem?” I asked, sensing in Mahoney’s silence the air of admonition. Mahoney grinned, but without humor. “Oh, I don’t see why. Besides, it’s your business. But it has been the subject of some discussion at the club. A couple of folks on the membership committee have come to me wondering if they risk setting some sort of precedent . . .” I saw where Mahoney was headed, but decided not to help him get there. “Gee, aren’t there already some adopted children among the members ?” “Well, sure there are,” said Mahoney with a hint of impatience. “The point is this child is . . . ethnic.” “Ah,” I said, feigning a dawning of the light. “The Reggie Page problem.” A Southern Girl 124 “No, no. Reggie Page is another matter altogether. You can’t equate the blacks with the Orientals.” “No, of course not,” I agreed. “I only meant that both involve exceptions to the norm, and I guess any time you make exceptions you have to consider the long-range implications.” “Naturally,” agreed Mahoney. “Everyone...