Читать книгу Next - Michael Crichton, Michael Crichton - Страница 17

Barry Sindler was bored. The woman before him yammered on. She was an obvious type—the rich-bitch Eastern broad who wore pants, Katharine Hepburn with an attitude, a trust fund, a nasal Newport accent. But despite her aristocratic airs, the best she could manage was to hump the tennis pro, just like every L.A. fake-tit dimwit in this town.

But she was perfectly suited to the dumb-ass attorney by her side—that Ivy League jackoff Bob Wilson, wearing a pinstripe suit and a button-down shirt with a rep tie and those stupid lace-up wingtips with the little perforations in the toes. No wonder everyone called him Whitey Wilson. Wilson never tired of reminding everyone he was a Harvard-trained lawyer—as if anybody gave a shit. Certainly Barry Sindler didn’t. Because he knew Wilson was a gentleman. Which really meant he was chickenshit. He wouldn’t go for the throat.

And Sindler always went for the throat.

The woman, Karen Diehl, was still talking. Jesus, these rich bitches could talk. Sindler didn’t interrupt her because he didn’t want Whitey to state on the record that Sindler was badgering the woman. Wilson had said that four times already. So, fine. Let the bitch talk. Let her tell in full, exhausting, incredibly stupefyingly boring detail why her husband was a lousy father and a total shit heel. Because the truth was, she was the one who’d had the affair.

Not that that could ever come out in court. California had no-fault divorce, which meant there were no specific grounds for divorce, just “irreconcilable differences.” But a woman’s infidelity always colored the proceedings. Because in skilled hands—Barry’s hands—that fact could easily be turned into the insinuation that this woman had more important priorities than her darling children. She was a neglectful parent, an unreliable custodian, a selfish woman who sought her own pleasure while she left the kids all day with the Spanish-speaking maid.

And she was good-looking at twenty-eight, he thought. That worked against her, too. Indeed, Barry Sindler could see his central theme shaping up quite nicely. And Whitey Wilson looked a bit anxious. He probably knew where Sindler would take this.

Or maybe Whitey was troubled by the fact that Sindler was attending the depo at all. Because ordinarily Barry Sindler didn’t conduct spousal depos. He left those to the jerkoff peons in his office, while he spent his days downtown, racking up expensive courtroom hours.

Finally, the woman stopped to catch her breath. Sindler moved in. “Mrs. Diehl, I would like to hold this line of questioning and go on to another issue. We are formally requesting that you undergo a full battery of genetic tests at a reputable facility, preferably UCLA, and—”

The woman sat bolt upright. Her face colored swiftly. “No!”

“Let’s not be hasty,” Whitey said, putting his hand on his client’s arm. She angrily pushed him away.

“No! Absolutely not! I refuse!”

How wonderful. How unexpected and wonderful.

“In anticipation of your possible refusal,” Sindler continued, “we have drafted a request that the court order these tests”—he passed a document to Whitey—“and we fully expect the judge to agree.”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Whitey said, thumbing through the pages. “Genetic testing in a custody case…”

By now Mrs. Diehl was full-bore hysterical. “No! No! I will not! It’s his idea, isn’t it? That prick! How dare he! That sneaking son of a bitch!”

Whitey was looking at his client with a puzzled expression. “Mrs. Diehl,” he said, “I think it’s best if we discuss this in private—”

“No! No discussion! No test! That’s it! No!”

“In that case,” Sindler said, with a little shrug, “we have no choice but to go to the judge…”

“Fuck you! Fuck him! Fuck all of you! No fucking test!”

And she stood up, grabbed her purse, and stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

There was a moment of silence. Sindler said, “Let the record show that at three forty-five p.m. the witness left the room, thus ending the deposition.”

He began to put his papers into his briefcase.

Whitey Wilson said, “I’ve never heard of this, Barry. What’s genetic testing got to do with child custody?”

“That’s what the tests are intended to find out,” Sindler said. “This is a new procedure, but I think you’ll find it’s the coming thing.” He snapped his briefcase shut, shook Whitey’s limp hand, and left the office.