A Good Mother

isn’t going to report me,” she says quietly.
“Don’t make me go to Paul.”
“You can’t go to Paul,” she says. “You’re my lawyer, remember? The very able lawyer who extricated me from the nasty clutches of the state bar the last time around. You know that going to see Paul to tell him what I tell you is flat-out unethical.”
Jonathan rolls his eyes at her reference to his role as Ethics Counsel within the public defender’s office. It is a thankless job that rotates every two years, with no extra pay and that no one wants. Last year it happened to be Jonathan’s turn, which is how he ended up representing Abby.
“And anyway,” she continues, “I never said I was going to see Dars. That’s just—” she shrugs “—uninformed speculation.”
“It is informed by years of knowing you. Look, even if Dars doesn’t turn you in the word is going to get out. It always does. And you cannot afford more rumors of—of impropriety, especially now. You just had a baby, you met a nice guy, you stopped drinking and doing the—the other stuff.” Jonathan’s eyes search hers. “You have a chance to turn the page on the last eighteen months and prove that you are a different person.”
“I’m not a different person. Jesus, Jonathan, what is that even supposed to mean? That I am supposed to forget everything that happened? That none of it mattered? That I should just walk away from this client, so Dars gets to have her, too?” Abby rubs furiously at her eyes, which are stinging.
“Dars didn’t get to have Rayshon. You won last time, remember?”
“What a victory,” she says bitterly.
“That case is over. That part of your life is over.”
The firmness of Jonathan’s tone, its sanctimony, infuriates Abby, and she lashes out at him. “You sound like Nic. Expecting me to have some magical motherhood transformation. That’s never going to happen.”
“Walk away, Abby. Walk away.”
“If I wanted your advice, counselor,” she says coldly, “I would have asked for it.”

Monday, January 8, 2007
6:45 p.m.
Chambers of the Honorable Dars Ducey
Los Angeles
“Abigail.” Dars does not get up from behind the enormous desk. He’s in shirtsleeves, monogrammed cuffs rolled up, his black robe hanging on a coatrack behind him. His dark hair is slicked back in its usual pompadour, his small eyes trained on her like he’s hunting. He’s jowlier than she remembered.
The room is cavernous. Red-veined marble walls, twenty-foot ceilings, old mahogany furniture—in addition to the massive desk, there is a long conference table to her left, ringed by eight upholstered chairs. The carpeting is so thick Abby’s heels are sinking. Directly over her head a giant iron multipronged light fixture hangs like a malevolent spider. If it fell it would crush her, but the light it casts is dim and gloomy.
Dars has not invited her to sit, but Abby picks one of the upholstered chairs opposite the desk and deposits herself in it anyway. Her calves ache from wearing heels all day after weeks of padding around the house in Nic’s gym socks.
She can feel Dars eyeing her silently as she removes her purse from her arm and sets it on the empty chair beside her. She makes sure to take her time, smoothing her skirt and crossing her legs.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Dars.”
“That’s Judge Ducey to you.”
“Not in here.”
“Ah, Abigail. How I’ve missed our banter.” Heh-heh-heh. She’d forgotten about that laugh. How much she hates it. “Odd, though, that childbearing doesn’t seem to have softened you any. My wife on the other hand—she never could lose that last ten pounds after our third one. Got some saddlebags on her now.”
Abby tries not to let her revulsion show on her face.
“Then again—” Dars is still musing on this theme “—you look a bit, how shall I say this? Inflamed. Then again, at least you didn’t get fat in the face. That happens to a lot of women.” He puffs out his cheeks to demonstrate. “Not you, though. Those last few months, you looked like a garden snake that had swallowed a basketball.” Another heh-heh-heh.
She continues to look at him, saying nothing.
“Which marshal was it again?”
“Why?” She nods toward his private bathroom. “Are you thinking of giving him extra work scrubbing the skid marks off your judicial toilet bowl?”
Dars waves a hand. “Being linked to you for the rest of his life is punishment enough. You didn’t marry him, though, did you? Or was he the one that didn’t marry you? Which is really saying something, given his station in life.” He shakes his head. “Well, either way, Abigail, single-parent households are not good. Not good at all. But of course, I don’t have to tell you that, do I? Sad situation for the poor kid, especially if it’s a boy. And you had a boy, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“What’s his name?”
“Cal.”
“Calvin?”
“Macallan.”
Dars shakes his head. “After the scotch?”
“The place.”
“In Texas?”
“Scotland.”
A long pause. Dars rubs his chin, then gives. “So, to what do I owe this most unexpected of visits? And without Mr. Ellet? Never mind the prosecutor. Quite unusual, this sort of ex parte contact. Not very kosher, but then, it doesn’t exactly surprise me coming from you.”
Abby leans forward. “You need to recuse yourself. My client has a constitutional right to a fair and impartial judge. That’s not you, Dars.”
Another head shake, more vigorous this time. “I’m sure Mr. Ellet has advised you of my ruling.”
“So un-rule. It happens all the time. Upon careful reconsideration, you have reached a different conclusion.”
“The fact that I bear an abiding personal dislike for you has nothing to do with my ability to be fair to your client.”
“An abiding personal dislike,” Abby repeats slowly. “Yes. Though you said it a bit less elegantly over a year ago when we met in the executive suite of the US Attorney’s Office to discuss Rayshon’s case. Back then I believe your exact words were, ‘I wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last cunt on earth.’”
Dars smiles. “Your memory may be