Rogue Lawyer Read Online Free PDF Page A

Talk about a shot to the gut. I’m sure there were clues that my dearly beloved was actually a lesbian, but I missed every one of them.
    We got married. Mom said she changed her will and I would get not a penny. We lived together off and on for five wretched months, were technically married for fifteen more, and split to save our sanity. Starcher arrived in the middle of the war, a casualty from birth, and we’ve been sniping at each other ever since. This ritual of meeting once a month for drinks is our homage to forced civility.
    I think I’m back in my dear mother’s will.
    “And what does Mummy plan to do with my child?” she asks. It’s never “our” child. She has never been able to resist the little digs, the sophomoric cheap shots. She picks at the scabs, but not even in a clever way. It’s almost impossible to ignore, but I’ve learned to bite my tongue. My tongue has scars.
    “I think they’re going to the zoo.”
    “She always takes him to the zoo.”
    “What’s the harm in going to the zoo?”
    “Well, last time he had nightmares about pythons.”
    “Okay, I’ll ask her to take him somewhere else.” She’s already causing trouble. What could be wrong with taking a fairly normal seven-year-old boy to the zoo? I don’t know why we meet like this.
    “How are things around the firm?” I ask, my curiosity similar to that of watching a car wreck. It’s irresistible.
    “Fine,” she says. “The usual turmoil.”
    “You need some boys in that firm.”
    “We have enough problems.” The waiter notices both glasses are empty and goes for another round. The first drinks always disappear fast.
    Judith is one of four partners in a firm of ten women, all militant lesbians. The firm specializes in gay law—discrimination in employment, housing, education, health care, and the latest: gay divorce. They’re good lawyers, tough negotiators and litigators, always on the attack and often in the news. The firm projects an image of being at war with society and never backing down. The outside fights, though, are far less colorful than the inside brawls.
    “I could join as the senior partner,” I say in an effort at levity.
    “You wouldn’t last ten minutes.” No man would last ten minutes in their offices. In fact, men avoid them zealously. Mention the name of her firm and men run for the hills. Fine fellows caught screwing around jump off bridges.
    “You’re probably right. Do you ever miss sex with the opposite sex?”
    “Seriously, Sebastian, you want to talk about straight sex, after a bad marriage and an unwanted child?”
    “I like straight sex. Did you ever like it? You seemed to.”
    “I was faking.”
    “You were not. You were pretty wonderful, as I recall.” I know two guys who slept with her before I came along. Then she ran to Gwyneth. I’ve often wondered if I was so lousy in bed that I drove her to switch teams. I doubt it. I must say she has a good eye. I loathed Gwyneth, still do, but the woman could stop traffic on any street in town. And her current partner, Ava, once modeled lingerie for a local department store. I remember her ads in the Sunday newspaper.
    The second drinks arrive and we grab them.
    “If you want to talk about sex, I’m leaving,” she says, but she’s not angry.
    “I’m sorry. Look, Judith, every time I see you I think about sex. My problem, not yours.”
    “Get help.”
    “I don’t need help. I need sex.”
    “Are you propositioning me?”
    “Would it do any good?”
    “No.”
    “Didn’t think so.”
    “You have fights tonight?” she asks, changing the subject, and I don’t resist.
    “I do.”
    “You’re sick, you know. That’s such a brutal sport.”
    “Starcher says he wants to go.”
    “You take Starcher to the cage fights and you’ll never see him again.”
    “Relax. I’m just joking.”
    “You may be joking, but you’re still sick.”
    “Thank you. Have another drink.” A shapely Asian in a short, tight skirt walks by and