Rebecca would extract that little dagger from her heart later, but for now, she ignored it. Lucy had been Grayson’s nanny until the divorce was final, and the kid had not quite yet forgiven the universe for her loss. He had not wanted to move and he had not wanted to be with his mom. He had wanted to be with Lucy. “Maybe we can go and see her sometime,” Rebecca suggested with as much cheer as she could muster. Grayson said nothing, just bent over her phone, randomly punching numbers.
Okay. Maybe not.
They pulled out onto the highway, and Rebecca turned on the radio. “Drive on down to Reynolds Chevrolet and Cadillac! We’ll beat any deal in South Central Texas!” Bud’s voice blared at them. Rebecca quickly punched another button, but it was too late—Bud’s voice had registered on Grayson’s young brain.
“How come Dad isn’t coming?” he asked her for the third time that day.
Rebecca kept her eyes on the road, hating Bud. “He’s really busy, Gray. He’s trying,” she lied, and thankfully, her answer seemed to satisfy Grayson for the time being. Unfortunately, he would be disappointed again, and she could hardly bear the thought.
Yep, this day had turned out to be a real winner, all the way around.
Chapter Three
Being in politics is like being a football coach. You have to be smart enough to understand the game, and dumb enough to think it’s important.
EUGENE McCARTHY
By the look of things, Judge Gambofini was about to bust a nut, which was not terribly surprising. Gambofini was one of those guys who, once he donned the black robe, thought that he ascended to sitteth upon the right hand of some Supreme Court Justice and took umbrage at every little thing. Nevertheless, Matt didn’t think he’d ever seen him quite this pissed.
Matt and his partner, Ben Townsend (who together with a handful of paralegals constituted the Parrish-Townsend law firm), stood shoulder to shoulder in front of Judge Gambofini’s chamber desk, taking their licks. Which meant they were concentrating very hard on trying to look properly chastened. At least Matt was, anyway, seeing as how he was the object of the judge’s complete disdain, and he couldn’t get a good look at Ben. But a moment ago, when he had gotten a look at Ben, he had the distinct feeling that his partner intended to kick his ass up one side of the courthouse and down the other.
Okay, all right, so he hadn’t actually listed Betty Dilley on the witness list. But how was he supposed to know they’d dig her up and she’d actually come out with a couple’ of juicy, jury-bending tidbits about the plaintiff? The means was not as important as the end—the plaintiff was a lying cheat and had retaliated against Matt’s client, big time. Mrs. Dilley just happened to be the last nail in a coffin that wasn’t quite shut. Granted, Matt could have told opposing counsel about her long before today (he’d just conceded as much to Gambofini, which made him puff up like a giant red M&M), but he had succeeded in planting a seed with the jury that maybe there was something had about the plaintiff they really needed to hear. It was a move, in his opinion, that had practically saved their case. But for purists like Judge Gambofini, it was what he liked to call “courtroom theatrics.” And Judge Gambofini made it quite clear that he did not like “courtroom theatrics.”
“Mr. Parrish, do I make myself exceedingly clear?” the judge asked him, concluding today’s rant while a smug opposing counsel looked on.
“Yes, Your Honor,” Matt responded instantly and contritely.
But not contritely enough, apparently. “Look, Parrish,” the judge said. “I know you’re the hotshot big gun everyone is talking about, but I don’t care. You will not be allowed to stage your dramatic little antics in my fucking courtroom.” (Part of that remark—not the antics part, but the hotshot big gun part—caused Matt to exchange a curious look with Ben, who appeared to be just as mystified by it). “You may think this court is your own personal little playground for showing off, but you will abide by the rules, or you will find yourself in contempt and wearing an orange jumpsuit to bed. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Your Honor, you certainly do,” Matt said again, and wished Gambofini would hurry up so he could personally wipe the lipstick smirk off the face of the plaintiff’s attorney, Ann Pritchard.
“I should hope so, for your sake,” the judge said, rising from his chair. “Now clear my chambers before I get really upset.”
Matt and Ben nodded, waited for Ann Pritchard to precede them through the door. Once outside the judge’s chambers, Ann (who, coincidentally, happened to be one of the many women Matt had dated in the past, only now he was looking at her wondering how the hell that had ever happened) turned her smirk up to a full scoff and snorted, “I told you that would get you nothing but an ass-chewing. On top of that, the jury thinks you’re a jerk.”
“I guess we’ll know if I’m a jerk when the jury comes back, won’t we?” Matt responded with a wink.