Lawyer for the Cat Read Free

up.
    That’s what you say about Carmen. He poured himself some juice, didn’t offer me any. Here’s this wonderful animal— he reached down, scratched the beagle under the chin— who needs somebody to love her. You say you want her, but somehow you can never bring yourself to take her home. Do I see a pattern here?
    Okay, I said. I’ll do it.
    Which, take the dog, or marry me?
    Let’s start with the dog, I said.
    He laughed. Thank God he laughed. One thing at a time, I guess, he said. You want to take her tonight?
    Not tonight. Soon. I promise.
    He pulled me close. Just don’t break this poor animal’s heart, okay?

 
    Trouble All Over It
    Most of the Probate Court is housed on the fourth floor of the new judicial center, but Judge Clarkson’s office is in the old courthouse on the corner of Meeting and Broad—“The Historic Courthouse,” they call it—and this seems appropriate for a judge about to retire, who’s spent most of his life dealing with the business of the deceased: wills and trusts, testators and executors, the detritus of the dead.
    Probate Court is foreign territory for me. I know my way around the Circuit Court and Family Court. In my younger days as a public defender I handled hundreds of criminal cases in the Circuit Court, defending the indefensible. And these days I spend almost all my time in the Family Court. I know its courtrooms and corridors as well as I know my own condo. The clerks and deputies call me Sally. The judges all know me, too. One of them, the Honorable Joseph H. Baynard, is my ex-husband. Once, when a client protested, “You can’t possibly understand what it’s like to go through this!” I could say, in all honesty, Yes, I do. And I knew better than to send her off, after I’d handed her a certified copy of the divorce decree, with a silly “Congratulations!” because I’ve learned the hard way that this piece of paper might end the marriage, but it doesn’t end the sadness.
    This morning in the Probate Court I feel like a neophyte lawyer all over again. I don’t even know which way to turn when I get off the elevator. It’s reassuring, then, when the woman behind the sliding glass window says, “Ms. Baynard, Judge Clarkson’s expecting you. He’s in his chambers. First door on the left.”
    The judge rises slowly from behind his desk, which is almost completely covered by stacks of files. “Old cases,” he says, “going to storage. Time to retire them, like me.” We shake hands. “Baynard,” he says, as if he’s taste-testing the name. He has a bulbous nose, outsized ears, a shiny bald head. “You married John Baynard’s son. From upstate, aren’t you?”
    â€œYes, sir. Columbia.” No need to go into the divorce if he doesn’t remember.
    â€œThis cat case … Have a seat.… Thought I’d seen it all until this one. Heard you like animals.”
    â€œI like them, sir, but I’m not sure that qualifies me—”
    â€œOh, don’t sell yourself short.”
    â€œI don’t do probate work, Your Honor.”
    â€œI know that. You stay over there in the Family Court most of the time, don’t you?” He breathes heavily, as if talking is too much exertion.
    â€œThese days, yes sir.”
    â€œWell, that’s perfect. Then you know how to handle yourself in a cat fight!” He laughs hard, pats his plentiful belly as if to congratulate himself on being so clever. “Seriously, I hear you don’t let anyone push you around.”
    â€œNot if I can help it.”
    â€œHeard about that dog case. You managed that one pretty well, I’m told.”
    â€œIt sort of settled itself.”
    â€œAnyway, this cat case … very unusual. Ever heard of a pet trust?”
    â€œLike Leona Helmsley?”
    â€œExactly. She set one up for her dog.… What was