Free Lawyer for the Dog by Lee Robinson

offices. Joe might occasionally stroll down Broad Street to pay a call on his father at the family firm, but he’s never stopped at my door, never ventured into the office I rent on the second floor, just a couple of blocks from Baynard, Baker, and Gibson, LLP.
    It’s been a while since I saw him without his robe, and I’m struck by how much weight he’s lost. “Here’s the latest motion in the Hart case,” he says, handing me a big brown envelope, then taking a seat on my sofa without being invited to.
    â€œOh, I thought that might happen.”
    â€œYou haven’t even looked at it,” he says.
    â€œSomebody wants to fire me, right?”
    He laughs. “Don’t get your hopes up. No, it’s about the vet bill. Mrs. Hart wants her husband to pay half. I’ve set it for next week, thought you might like a heads-up.” He’s looking around at the artwork on my walls. “You always did like this abstract stuff!”
    â€œJoe, what’s going on? You didn’t need to hand-deliver this.”
    â€œJust wanted a little fresh air. I hate that damn courthouse.”
    â€œWell, I’m kind of busy.”
    â€œIt still makes you nervous to be around me, doesn’t it?”
    â€œA little, I guess.”
    â€œEver think why that is?”
    â€œJoe—”
    â€œMaybe it’s because you still care a little bit about me.” His voice is very soft, so soft I can barely hear him. And then he starts to cry. Hundreds of my clients have sat on this sofa and cried. I’ve doled out the tissues, an entire forest of tissues. I’m an expert at counseling and calming, but when it comes to my ex-husband’s tears I have no professional skills; I just do the only thing that seems right: I sit down next to him and take his hand. We sit there for perhaps two minutes, both silent. Then he stands up and heads toward the door.
    â€œI’m so sorry,” he says.
    â€œHave you and Susan been to counseling?” I ask.
    â€œIt wouldn’t do any good.”
    â€œIt might. And maybe you should see someone individually.”
    â€œI know what I need,” he says, squeezing my hand.
    â€œI don’t think this is a good idea,” I say, pulling it away. Before I can say anything else, he’s gone, practically running down the hall toward the elevator.
    Gina, of course, is more than curious. “Jeez, he seems kind of frantic. What happened back there?”
    â€œNothing. He just brought me another motion in the Hart case.”
    â€œThat’s weird.”
    â€œYeah, it was a little weird.”
    â€œWant to talk about it?”
    â€œThere’s nothing to talk about.”
    â€œOkay, if you say so. Don’t forget Mr. Hart, at three. His house.”

 
    Lusting in My Heart
    The front door of the Harts’ downtown house is supersized, mahogany or something, spit-shined so I can see myself in it, with an ornate brass doorknob the size of a grapefruit. I expect a maid in a starched uniform to open this kind of door, but no, it’s Mr. Hart himself. “Welcome,” he says, without enthusiasm. He doesn’t seem grand enough for his house. His flannel shirt is faded and wrinkled, and his toenails have poked holes through his canvas loafers.
    I’ve been inside houses in this neighborhood before, for bar association parties and charity fundraisers, and I’ve spent many evenings at Joe’s parents’ home just down the street, but this house is more spectacular than the Baynards’. This is as fancy as Charleston gets, an address any aspiring blue blood would covet. The chandelier in the entrance hall looks like it should hang in a chateau.
    Mr. Hart sees me staring up at it. “We pay some fellow four hundred dollars to clean it—three times a year,” he says.
    â€œIt’s magnificent,” I respond, as if I need to defend it.
    â€œHate the damn thing,” he