The Family Lawyer

  “I don’t want that,” Janet says. “She’s not good enough. This is our daughter’s life.”

  “She’s a terrific lawyer,” I say. “She knows Hailey, and she’ll fight for her.”

  Janet scoffs. “So you say, but she’s riding your coattails. You’re the trial lawyer, not her. She’s an elitist, a spoiled rich girl, and it shows. I can’t believe jurors really like her.” Debra’s father was a successful real-estate developer, and Debra went to Princeton undergrad then Yale law school. Janet had a rough childhood. She was raised by a single mother who worked in a school cafeteria. Admirably, Janet graduated from state college with a degree in library science. But she’s sensitive about her upbringing, suspicious of the privileged. Which didn’t stop her from insisting that we send our kids to an exclusive private school.

  I expect her to suggest that we hire one of the celebrity lawyers, but she says, “You should defend Hailey. She’s your daughter.”

  “That’s exactly why I shouldn’t be lead counsel,” I say.

  “Mom’s right, Dad,” Hailey says. “Everyone knows you’re the best trial lawyer around. You win all those impossible cases against the police, and they write about you in the news. Please.”

  “Hailey, it’s a bad idea. You wouldn’t expect a surgeon to operate on his own daughter.”

  “Of course I would, Daddy, if he was the best like you.” She rarely calls me daddy.

  Then something even more unusual happens—Janet comes over, put her arms around my neck, and kisses me. “We have faith in you, Matthew Hovanes,” she whispers. “We love you. You’re the only one who can protect us.”

  Manipulative, sure, but I’ve missed the affection, craved the harmony. So the kiss is meaningful no matter what the motivation.

  “I love you, too,” I say. And as impulsively as I asked Debra to take the lead, I now agree to do it.

  There’s also an objective reason for changing my mind. Debra might have a more incisive legal mind than I do, but I’m more effective in the courtroom. In fact, I feel that I’m as good as Davies, Grutman, and Thau—better, because I’m not a celebrity and so have to rely on skill, not press clippings, to persuade a jury. And Janet’s right—no other lawyer will fight as hard for Hailey. The legal profession attracts egotists. You have to have an ego to believe that you’re fighting for justice. I’m no exception.

  “I have a suggestion,” Janet says. “Why don’t you hire Roy Davies to assist you?”

  “Davies won’t sit second chair for anybody even if he were to agree to sit second chair,” I reply. “Neither would any of the superstars. Besides, if I’m going to do this, I’ll need Debra. No one has a better legal mind.”

  Janet is about to protest, but Hailey says, “Yeah. I absolutely want Debra. She and Dad are awesome together.”

  First thing the next morning, I tell Debra about the change of plans.

  “It’s a mistake,” she says. “You must know that deep down. I saw how you reacted to that horrible video of Farah—like a father, not a lawyer.”

  “If you want out, I understand. But I hope you’ll stay involved. I need your help.”

  “I’ll be beside you every step of the way, Matt. You know that.”

  Her intelligent green eyes are wide with sincerity. And then something unsettling happens. Throughout the years of our partnership, Debra has been my business colleague and my pal. But at rare moments, I’ll notice how she brushes a strand of auburn hair away from her cheek or how she’s applied a bit too much perfume, and I suddenly feel as if she’s more than just a partner and friend. This is such a moment, and as always, I struggle to suppress the feeling.

  “I appreciate your support,” I say, trying to sound businesslike. “Good to have you on board.”

  “I have to go on record, Matt. You’re making a huge mistake.”

  Chapter 8

  In the following weeks, Debra and I prepare for People v. Hailey Nicole Hovanes, but we also have other clients to represent. On this morning, I stand at the lectern in a stuffy, run-down courtroom and try to convince a politically conservative judge that my homeless client has a constitutional right to sleep in public parks. I lose—of course I do—but I’ll appeal.

  “Where do I sleep, Mr. Hovanes?” Cecilia, my client, asks. She’s thirty-seven but looks a hardscrabble fifty. “I like the parks. I can hide in the trees. The streets are too dangerous.”

  Because she’s paranoid, I can’t suggest a shelter. She believes they’re under the control of a secret cabal run by Donald Trump.

  “Come back to my office building,” I say. “I’ll speak with Downtown Dennis. He’ll make sure you’re not hassled anymore. If it’s cold, I’ll slip the night janitor some money and you can sleep in my lobby until we think of something better. Meanwhile, we’ll pursue your appeal.”

  She nods in gratitude and walks off, and I can only think, what’s wrong with this world that this troubled woman has to be grateful for an offer to sleep in a law-firm lobby?

  Most attorneys, even those who love trying cases, find courtroom appearances physically exhausting and emotionally draining. I’m one of the lucky few who finds them energizing, and now I feel invigorated despite the loss and Cecilia’s travails. Then I exit the courtroom and check my cell phone, and all my newfound energy dissipates like a drop of water on a hot skillet.

  There’s a text message from Daniel, sent twenty minutes ago: DAD GET DOWN TO THE SCHOOL NOW! URGENT! There’s also a voice mail from the assistant head of the Star Point School, who in a somber tone requests my presence and informs me that she already spoke with Janet, who said I’d handle it.

  I drive into the school parking lot. My Chevy is a jalopy compared to the foreign luxury cars and late model SUVs, most of which belong to the students at this tony private school. Even Hailey’s used Toyota, a present on her sixteenth birthday that we couldn’t afford, is nicer than my car. But Janet wants the best for our kids. I do, too. Daniel refuses to get his driver’s license, so at least we didn’t have to make two purchases.

  As always when I’m on this campus, I feel like a hypocrite. I’ve built my career on fighting for equality, on breaking down distinctions between rich and poor. I wanted to send my children to public school. Janet wouldn’t hear of it. “Not safe,” she insisted. “Inferior education.” I lost that battle and tens of thousands of dollars in tuition.

  As I make my way to the administrative offices, I see Hailey talking with a group of her friends. She looks like a royal holding court. I don’t know how she came by her charisma. As a kid, I was neither here nor there in the social hierarchy. Sure, I was a decent athlete, good-looking enough, I suppose, but too academic, too politically combative, too interested in skateboarding and Dungeons & Dragons to hang with the in-crowd. Janet doesn’t talk much about her childhood, but she wasn’t popular, either. More of an outcast like Daniel, I suspect. Maybe that’s why they clash so often.

  The good news is that the criminal charges against Hailey apparently haven’t harmed her social standing. If her friends know she’s innocent, so will a jury.

  When she sees me, she waves but doesn’t come over. Does she know what’s going on with her brother?

  I arrive at the assistant head’s office to find a sullen Daniel sitting on the sofa. The assistant head—Miss Kirby—has her hands folded on the desk, looking more like a prison matron than a high-school administrator. Only then do I see the ugly scratch on Daniel’s left cheek, oozing blood.

  “Why isn’t someone tending to that cut?” I ask.

  “He refuses to see the school nurse,” Kirby says. “There was a fight.”

  “Why were you fighting?” I ask.

  He doesn’t respond, won’t make eye contact.

  “What happened?” I ask Kirby.

  “The other boy has been taken to the ER with a possible broken nose. He says that Daniel hit him without provocation.”

  “I can’t believe that,” I say.

  Kirby gapes at me. Based o
n Daniel’s history, she believes it.

  “Why were you fighting, Daniel?” I repeat.

  Again, no response.

  “He won’t tell us anything,” Kirby says.

  “Witnesses?”

  “Two students say they saw Daniel punch the other boy in the face. That’s all they saw. But let me get to the point. I’m afraid Daniel may no longer attend Star Point.”

  Without looking up, Daniel lets out a half-snort, half-guffaw.

  “Excuse me?” I say.

  “I’m being expelled,” Daniel says. “Fine with me. I hate this fucking place.”

  “Wait for me outside, son. Better yet, go see the nurse and get that taken care of.”

  “No, I’m good.” He stands and walks out, looking down at his shoes, hands in pockets. The posture gives him an odd, hulking quality.

  Once he’s out the door, I say, “You don’t have all the facts, so why judge and pass sentence?”

  “We do have all the facts. Your son injured another child without provocation. That’s grounds for expulsion. And it’s not the first time he’s gotten physical.”

  “The other incident involved some minor shoving.”

  “Still physical, Mr. Hovanes.”

  I plead my son’s case, ask for leniency, negotiate for a suspension. It’s like speaking to granite.

  “What happened to innocent until proven guilty?”

  “This is a private school, not a court of law, sir. Read your contract.”

  “I’ll do that. Remember what I do for a living. I’m good at finding loopholes. And I won’t have to pay legal fees like the school will.”

  She inhales wearily. “May I speak off the record?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “I’m sure you know that the school has received a lot of negative publicity because of Farah Medhipour’s suicide and the criminal charges that have been filed against your daughter. Your children aren’t the most popular students among the administration or the trustees. There’s a concern—a belief among some—that your kids did bully Farah.”

  The words anger me, but I’ll only make things worse if I show it. “What evidence do you have against Hailey? And, what do you mean kids?”

  “I’ve said too much. Just know that the school isn’t afraid of a lawsuit from you. They’re far more concerned about a lawsuit from Farah’s family. Your son is no longer a student here. We’ll e-mail you and your wife some alternatives for his education if you decide against public school.”

  I walk out of the room without a word, because my words wouldn’t be nice. Daniel is waiting in the corridor, leaning against the wall, one leg bent at the knee with the sole of his foot on the wall. It’s an attitude many of the homeless men loitering outside my building often take, and I shudder at the comparison.

  We drive in silence. When we’re halfway home, I ask, “What do you know about Farah’s death?”

  “That’s Hailey’s problem, not mine.”

  “What about the fight?”

  “Oh, this jerky kid Adam came up to me and said Hailey is a murderer. I tried to walk away like you tell me to do, but he grabbed my sleeve, so I shoved him away. He took a swing and cut my face with his ring, so I hit him back.”

  “Why didn’t you tell this to Miss Kirby?”

  “She wouldn’t have believed me. Besides, the asshole deserved it. I wish I’d broken his neck.”

  Chapter 9

  In civil cases, a lawyer can compel witnesses to appear for depositions, but in criminal cases, discovery is rare. So, Debra and I try to set up meetings with people who might know something about Farah and Hailey. We reach out to Adam, the boy who Daniel fought with, but it turns out he was just spouting off and knows nothing. His admission that he taunted Daniel doesn’t cause the school to rescind its expulsion decision.

  It seems that Farah truly didn’t have any friends. Sad, but selfishly, good for Hailey’s case, because there are fewer potential witnesses who might accuse Hailey of bullying conduct. We start with those close to Hailey, kids who’ll testify that she had nothing to do with Farah’s death. Or so we hope.

  We first interview Aaron Crawford, Hailey’s boyfriend. He’s handsome, articulate, and confident, and like Hailey, a star athlete, the captain of the lacrosse team. He’s also rich. Or at least his parents are—his father owns several sports arenas. I don’t like the kid.

  Then again, as Janet points out, I didn’t like Hailey’s prior two boyfriends, either. But there’s something different about this kid. He’s a senior, two classes ahead of Hailey, too old for her in my opinion. He’s also a future frat boy, materialistic and snarky with his peers, unctuous with adults. And when he comes to our house to visit, he ignores Daniel.

  Aaron and I sit in the conference room and talk baseball, waiting for Debra. When she arrives, he says without prompting, “I want you both to know that these charges against Hailey are bogus and that I’ll do everything to help her. You know how I feel about her, Matt. She’s awesome.”

  Debra asks him what he knows.

  “At the start of the school year, Hailey was assigned as Farah’s mentor because they were both soccer players. She was nice to Farah. She’s nice to everybody. At first, Farah seemed cool, but then she got weird.”

  “Weird how?” Debra asks.

  “That’s the ironic thing. Farah was the stalker, not Hailey. She’d text Hailey constantly, claiming that they were BFFs—she really used that term, BFF, which is lame, because no one says that anymore. Then Farah wrote a text where she said she was in love with Hailey. It was creepy. Hailey told her to back off. I know because Hailey showed me the text before she sent it, because she didn’t want it to sound harsh. But Farah kept on annoying everyone. Then, Farah started sexting me, saying she wanted to hook up. Totally creepy.”

  “Did you tell this to Hailey?” Debra asks.

  “Absolutely. I showed her the texts. Obviously Hailey was pissed. What girlfriend wouldn’t be?”

  “Did you tell your parents?” I ask. “Or the school administration?”

  “I didn’t, Matt. Most kids don’t share stuff like this with their adults. I think Hailey told her mom, though.”

  I wonder why Janet didn’t tell me.

  “What did Hailey do when she learned Farah had sexted you?” Debra asks.

  “She and I met up with Farah at school and told her to stop. Hailey told Farah she didn’t want to be her friend and that Farah should leave her alone. Farah started to cry, I mean really cry, like hysterically. So we just walked away. It was very disturbing.”

  “Did the sexting stop?” Debra asks.

  “I didn’t get any other texts from Farah. Hailey told me that Farah kept trying to communicate, but Hailey just deleted the texts. I do know one thing. There was no stalking and no bullying. No way. Hailey just ignored Farah. That’s what a person should do in that situation, right?”

  Debra asks some follow-up questions but doesn’t get any more information.

  “Is that it?” Aaron says. “Anything else you want to know?”

  “Who else should we should speak with?” I ask. “Other kids that might have something to say about Hailey and Farah.”

  “You might talk to Brianna Welch. She’s known Hailey forever. As you know, of course, Matt. Brianna is on the soccer team, and I saw her and Farah hanging out a few times. Other than that, I don’t know. Hailey didn’t do anything wrong, and it’s hard to prove a negative.”

  We end the meeting, and Aaron stands and shakes our hands. “Like I said, I’ll do anything for Hailey. If you need anything else, just text or call me. See you at the house, Matt.”

  Though tempted to say sarcastically, I’ll be counting the hours, I nod.

  “So what do you think of the boyfriend?” I ask after Aaron leaves.

  “He said all the right things,” Debra says. “And, he’s very poised and confident. Good looking, articulate. I think he’ll make a very good witness.”

  “I don’t like him.”


  “I’ll bet Janet does.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Because he’s likeable. You don’t see it, because you’re a dad, and he’s dating your daughter. Trust me, a jury will love him. Especially the female jurors.” Her assessment should hearten me, but it doesn’t. There’s something I don’t trust about that kid. And my daughter’s future—her life—is partly in his hands.

  Chapter 10

  Although I’ve known Brianna Welch’s parents since our girls started middle school together and became soccer teammates, they won’t let me speak with her unless they’re present. I don’t want to do it that way—the father, also a lawyer, is overbearing, and the mother is overprotective. I’d be interviewing them, not their daughter.

  So, I drive out to the Klatch, a coffee house in the strip mall across the street from the school. According to Hailey, Brianna is addicted to caramel mochas. Fifteen minutes after school lets out, Brianna walks in with Ethan Gold, a boy I’ve known since he was a preschooler. I hope Brianna will speak with me. Hailey asked her to do so a few days ago, and the girls are good friends.

  Brianna and Ethan order their drinks and find a corner table. In contrast to Hailey, who carries herself like an adult, Brianna could pass for a twelve-year-old. I approach them and say hello.

  She flinches. “Oh, hi, Mr. Hovanes,” she says in a quivering voice. I can’t blame her for being skittish. I’ve blindsided her.

  “Hey, Matt,” Ethan says. He’s losing the gawky teenager look. He’s apparently traded his glasses for contact lenses. His complexion has cleared up. He looks as if he’s been working out excessively. Or, maybe he’s had help building those muscles.

  “Looking good, Ethan,” I say. “Pumping iron?”

  “Five times a week.”

  “Stay away from the steroids,” I say. “They’ll shrink and shrivel your…” I point downward in the general direction of a portion of his anatomy below his belt.