“Good night...”
Susan lay on her side in the dark, holding the receiver in both hands. As if by doing that, she could hold Michael close. But the attempt was futile. He was no longer there.
DRESSED IN a conservative black suit, Susan sat at the defendant’s table the next morning, struggling to focus on the arguments she had to present, on the judge. And nothing else. Most especially not on the Tennesee woman, a few years younger than Susan, whose son was facing a tragic life. Identifying with the woman in ways she’d never imagined, she was finding it impossible to be impartial, objective.
How would she feel if they were discussing her child?
“Tell the court about your son’s mental state, Mrs. McArthur,” Joe Burniker said, gesturing toward the room. He was pulling out all the stops, dragging everyone’s emotions into play in the hopes of a sympathy call.
Susan sat alone and listened as the boy’s mother described the change in her son—from a fun-loving boy who laughed frequently and always had an extra hug to give, to an often sullen, q
uiet kid who sometimes wouldn’t let anyone near him. She tried not to hear the tears in the woman’s voice, the unbearable heartache that couldn’t be concealed.
Tricia Halliday hadn’t even bothered to show up. Not that she was required to come. She paid Susan to represent her. But Ed would’ve been there, sitting right beside Susan all the way.
“I don’t know what you expected me to do with this one, Susan.” Joe stopped her on the way back into the courtroom after a break for lunch. “Your case is airtight.”
Unable to say a thing, Susan stood her ground and held Joe’s gaze head-on.
“You know something I don’t?” he asked.
She turned and reentered the courtroom.
“How DID IT GO?”
“About like I expected.”
Michael’s heart sank when he heard the weariness in Susan’s voice. He’d barely made it through his business dinner in his haste to get upstairs and call her.
“Is it over?”
“No, we spent the afternoon going over design specifications. Then there’ll be at least another day of medical reports.”
“Remember what I told you,” he said, feeling helpless. “There are always options.”
“Yeah. We haven’t won yet.”
“So...” Michael picked up the pen on the desk in front of him. “Did it happen again?”
“Did what happen?”
“The bubbles.” He scribbled some lines here. Some there. “Getting kicked.”
“Oh.” She paused. “Yeah, once.”
“Well, I’d better let you get back to what you were doing.” He had some reports to go over.
“Okay.”
God, he missed her. More than he’d missed her since that first year after their divorce.
“Good night.” Looking down, he saw a pretty good replica of a toy train.
“Michael?” She sounded hesitant. Needy. Making Michael hard.
“year?”
“Good night.”