Free Lawyer for the Dog by Lee Robinson Page A

growls. He looks at his watch. “You’re early. She hasn’t brought Sherman yet.”
    â€œThat’s okay, we can talk.”
    â€œShe’s supposed to bring him at three. Want to sit in there?” He points to the room on our right, a very formal-looking parlor with furniture that seems to have been here a long, long time, the kind of furniture that looks like it’s never been sat on. “Or there’s the piazza on the third floor. That might be better. Nice day. Good view of Fort Sumter. Lemonade or something?”
    â€œNo thanks.”
    I follow him up the wide staircase. He’s probably thirty pounds overweight, and at the first landing he stops to catch his breath. “You okay?” I ask.
    â€œJust fat and slow, as my wife would say.” We stop several more times before we reach the top. He holds onto the railing, sways a little. “Doctor says I need one of those stress tests, for the heart, but I tell him my old ticker’s survived plenty of stress already, it’ll probably keep on ticking without the intervention of the medical establishment.”
    On the piazza we sit in white wicker rockers overlooking the harbor. The view is breathtaking. “Wow, I feel kind of like Scarlett O’Hara up here,” I say, though never once in my life have I felt like Scarlett O’Hara. Below us a horse-drawn carriage moves along the street, its driver shouting facts to tourists. Except for the cars, this neighborhood probably looks much as it did before the Civil War—or, as my mother still calls it, the War Between the States.
    He hands me binoculars. “We’re just down the street from where Mary Chestnut watched the bombardment of the fort. You ever read her diary?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œOught to,” says Mr. Hart. “She really tells it like it is. Or was. First night of the war those crazy Confederates sat on their porches—right here—drinking mint juleps, partying while the fort got pounded. Convinced themselves the war would be over in a week, the Yanks would surrender. They should have listened to Petigru.”
    â€œPetigru?”
    â€œJames Petigru. The lawyer. Stood up at the secession convention and said, ‘South Carolina is too small for a republic and too large for an insane asylum.’ Brilliant fellow, but nobody listened to him. But I guess you aren’t here for a history lesson, are you?”
    I take out my legal pad. “You understand my role in the case, Mr. Hart?”
    â€œWant me to be honest?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œNow mind you, young lady, I have nothing against you, but it seems crazy to me, adding another lawyer into the case. Two is too many.”
    â€œI can understand how you feel, but I think Judge Baynard is trying to make sure Sherman’s interests are fully protected.”
    â€œWould he do the same thing for a goldfish?”
    â€œI doubt many people fight over goldfish.”
    â€œBut isn’t this, uh, this situation … unusual? I mean the guardian thing?”
    â€œFor a dog, yes. But Judge Baynard has already made up his mind about that, and unless your lawyer can convince an appellate court to reverse the decision before trial—”
    â€œGod, no. She’s already told me that’s not likely to happen. Besides, I’m sure once you’ve done your work you’ll do the right thing, and then Sherman and I can get our lives back to normal.”
    â€œWhy don’t you tell me about that … your life with him.”
    â€œWhat do you want to know?”
    â€œAnything you want to tell me.”
    â€œSherman’s my best buddy.”
    â€œI’m sure he’d be flattered.”
    â€œI mean it. Rather spend time with Sherman than anybody I know.”
    â€œWhat kinds of things do you do together?” I sound like a social worker.
    â€œUsed to spend a lot of time at the beach together until Maryann