At the reception desk, a twenty-something gal with large hoop earrings answered the phone with a long string of surnames. She was transferring the call when Russ Graniello appeared in a charcoal-gray suit. He wore his black hair neatly slicked to frame his olive complexion.
“Good morning,” he said to Audra. “Sorry to have kept you waiting.”
“Oh, gosh, not at all. I appreciate you squeezing me in so fast.” She grabbed her purse and stood, expecting a friendly hug. It had become their usual greeting after sharing potlucks and birthdays and more than one off-key duet of “Islands in the Stream.”
Instead, he offered a handshake.
“Come this way.” He guided her down the hall and into his office.
The room was smaller than she had imagined for a nice-sized firm. Aside from a few file folders and a single lawbook, his desk appeared too tidy for an attorney. Not one who rolled up his sleeves, anyway, and dug deep into his cases.
“Please, have a seat,” he said, and lowered himself into his tufted rolling chair. As he flipped through a folder, Audra sat down, now fully alert.
From conferences with the school principal to sessions with Dr. Shaw, these scrutinizing reviews had become regrettably familiar.
Russ began to pen notes on the documents she had faxed over the night before.
On the lateral file cabinet by the window was a framed photo of his family, exuding love and smiles. A stark reminder of what Audra stood to lose. She had dressed in tan slacks and an emerald V-neck, wanting to look nice for this meeting, but wondered if a suit would have been wiser.
“So, it appears,” he said, “that your in-laws’ primary grounds for seeking custody are based on suspicions of abuse.”
She would have presumed his inflection on abuse would communicate even a hint of incredulity. Yet from his tone, he could have substituted a thousand trivial words—stone, bowl, log—and they would have conveyed equal emotion.
“I love my son more than anything. I’d never in a million years try to hurt him.”
“Of course,” Russ said assuredly, but proceeded in work mode. “Now—just so I understand the whole situation—have Robert and Meredith ever addressed their concerns with you?”
“No,” she insisted. “They never said anything about filing a petition. Ever.”
“Sure, that’s not surprising. But what about the issues they’ve outlined? Jack’s injuries, his reclusive nature, and so forth.”
“Well . . . I suppose some of it. They brought up the bruises on his wrists once. But I told Meredith, those were from Jack’s struggle on the airplane.” Audra wasn’t sure how much Russ knew about the flight. “You see, he panicked a bit during takeoff ... but I thought he’d enjoy flying, because he’s always loved planes—”
Russ gently interjected, “It’s okay. You don’t have to explain. I’m aware of the incident.”
Audra sat back and nodded.
“What about your son’s birthday barbecue? Did they ever ask you about the bruises they noticed at that point?”
Audra recalled the distinct change in mood, after she’d returned from her car with Jack’s gifts. She had assumed Devon’s absence was the cause, unaware—until the petition—that Jack’s sleeves had slid up just enough to expose his marks.
“Meredith did say something while we were doing the dishes. She made a comment about it looking like Jack was still having nightmares. But that’s it.” Once more, Audra wasn’t clear how informed Russ was on the topic. “Tess might have told you, but Jack suffers from night terrors. They can be extremely violent. That’s the reason his room was in shambles when Meredith saw it.” Contrary to the woman’s allegation. “Sometimes I even have to hold him down to keep him from hurting himself.”
“Like the fracture to his arm?”
“Yes. Like his arm.”
This seemed sufficient enough to move on from the cast issue. But then Russ asked, “Do you know why your in-laws think alcohol was involved?”
Alcohol. The merlot she had spilled before taking Jack to the ER.
“I’d fallen asleep on the couch, holding a glass of wine. I was still wearing the stained shirt the next morning when they saw me. I hadn’t even taken a sip of it.”
“So, you didn’t pass out from inebriation.”
“God, no,” she said. “I don’t drink.”
Of course, if taken literally, the statement would be viewed as false; over the years, Russ himself had seen her enjoy margaritas and martinis firsthand. “What I meant was, I don’t have a drinking problem.”