A Map of the World - Jane Hamilton [177]
If I had a meeting with Rafferty, I’d take Howard to work and in the same shopping center I’d drop Claire off at Happy Haven, a day care that had previously been a Fashion Bug store. Claire didn’t mind the atmosphere of commerce, the fluorescent lights, the shiny linoleum. She had a friend named Brianna and she loved the applesauce that was white and came from a jar. She was the family member who had been serene before and had remained so, who seemed to have come through unscathed. I waited, watching for signs of disturbance, for sleeping or toileting problems. I wondered if there was something wrong with her, to have been untouched by our troubles.
It seemed strange at first, to walk, on my own power, to Rafferty & Finn, to climb the stairs to what had once been a bedroom, and sit with Paul in his mess. He was good about explaining what he meant to do in the trial. “Think of it this way,” he said. “The prosecutor’s case is a dot-to-dot puzzle. If she connects all the dots she has a beautiful picture of a guilty defendant and she gets her conviction. My job is to mix up the dots so that no clear picture emerges, so that there is a jumble. My job,” he said, making mock diabolical hand-washing motions, “is to sow seeds of doubt.” We sat on the sofa and he scrawled on his paper, showing me some of the things he expected to get out of the witnesses in his cross-examinations. Under Robbie’s name he wrote, “Provoke him, by my mere presence, to be disrespectful and rude. Show the jury he’s a temperamental, unreliable, violent kid. Ideally, get him to admit he’s seen Mom in compromising situations.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“We have Mrs. Sheridan. Wait until you see her. You are going to love Mrs. Sheridan. If Judge Peterson denies me Mrs. Sheridan I’m going to lie down on the carpet and bang my head. I’m going to file appeals until we get Mrs. Sheridan. Mrs. Sheridan is going to be our star witness, with higher billing than even you. I’ll never forget that day I knocked on her door and she looked up at me with her runny eyes as if I was the Angel of the Lord.”
I said, “I think you’re having fun.” The Paul Rafferty I had known when I was in jail, the fatherly, concerned man who would restore my life, occasionally let down his guard in the privacy of his boudoir, to reveal a slightly effeminate character, an eccentric who was in no way embarrassed by the pleasure his job afforded him, who was concerned, but not preoccupied, with the players’ pain and suffering.
“Of course I’m having fun. I wouldn’t be any good if I didn’t have fun, you know, the kind of fun a person has on Outward Bound, killing yourself so that afterward you feel great. That’s what we’re talking about here, the kind of travail that brings reward. However, a work such as Mrs. Sheridan is more than fun: It’s downright exhilarating, like hauling in the prize fish. You don’t get a witness like Mrs. Sheridan hand delivered more than once in a lifetime.” He adjusted his tie, put his hand on my shoulder, affected his sober Father expression. “I’m not having fun at your expense, Alice. Is that how it seems? You can be sure I’m enjoying the prospect of getting the real story out. Susan Dirks is going to be doing a lot more homework on the next sex-abuse case she takes, and so are the investigators, I can tell you that much. We’re shedding light into dark corners, into places most people don’t go. I am always respectful of serendipity in my cases, and if I am having fun it is only in isolated moments, getting my kicks where I can. I’ve had my share of disappointments in this case—you know the score. I’ve had a hell of a time getting a hold of the boyfriends and the one we