Skinny-dipping by Claire Matturro Page A

pretrial. Fax a copy to LaBlanc, the judge, and his J.A.”
    The phone, which had stopped ringing, started ringing again.
    Bonita didn’t even blink at the sound, but she nodded at me, a small smile playing about her full lips. “Got it. Take up LaBlanc’s time with your motion, argue that if your motion is granted it moots his pretrial. Buys you time to get ready for the pre-trial. How about I do the same on the motion to amend the witness list?”
    â€œExcellent. Do it.”
    Ambush, stall, live to fight another day. Guerrilla litigation tactics were by far the norm and not the exception these days.
    Our receptionist’s voice cut through the speakerphone. “Bonita, are you there? It’s one of your kids. You’d better get this.”
    Bonita stepped over to my phone, hit a button, and said something sweet-sounding in Spanish, followed by a very American “What’s up?”
    I chewed my lip and waited.
    â€œAll right. Put the tooth in a damp paper towel. No, don’t wash it. Wrap it up. Have Benicio drive her to the dentist. I’ll call and tell him you’re on the way. Pack some cotton on her gums and put a cold compress on her face, you hear?”
    I chewed my lip so hard I tasted my own blood and started thinking about which secretary I could commandeer if Bonita insisted on going to the dentist’s office herself.
    â€œYes, I know he’s only fourteen, but Benicio knows how to drive. Wear your seat belt and tell him not to speed.”
    I edged closer to Bonita.
    â€œYes. I’ll call your aunt and she’ll meet you at the dentist. I’ll be along soon as I can, but I have something here I must finish first.”
    Oh, bless her, I thought, and stopped chewing my lip.
    â€œNo, I’m not mad. I love you all. You tell her that for me.” This was followed by something sweet-sounding in Spanish.
    â€œAccident. I’ll tell you about it later,” Bonita said.
    â€œIf it’s serious, don’t sign anything and call Newly,” I said, knowing Bonita knew that.
    Bonita only glanced at me as she headed out to her computer, where within seconds after she’d called the dentist’s office, I heard the reassuring sound of legal jargon being typed into the computer at an incredibly fast rate of speed.
    Stephen LaBlanc, the hotshot Miami attorney representing the veggie baby’s good-parents, was already in the hearing room when I tumbled in with my entire entourage of one, Angela, the orange-haired wonder, both of us looking like feverish, crazed women. Naturally, Stephen sat calmly in his chair, posed as if for the cover of Esquire . Dapper. The man was dapper. I hate a dapper man. He rose smooth and easy while I struggled with my purse, the five-pound paperback Florida Rules of Civil Procedure, the most recent volume of the veggie baby pleadings file, three copies of my amended memorandum of law, and a stack of photocopied cases Angela had jabbed at me as I fled the office for the hot ten-minute walk over here. She had trudged along beside me, twisting her hair with one hand and with the other carrying a briefcase full of the most important summaries of Jackson’s discovery in case we actually had to do a real pretrial conference. The humidity had tripled my hair into a kind of wiry, electric-shock punk style, and I was keenly aware that I was visibly sweating. The air-conditioning in the building was set at about zero, which had the immediate effect of stopping up my nose.
    When Stephen stuck out his hand, I dropped the Rules of Civil Procedure trying to put enough stuff down to shake it.
    â€œWell, I see the bottom of the order is here,” he sniped and stepped back. Didn’t even pick up the dropped book.
    Angela did, and then she took the memoranda and the photocopies out of my other hand and smoothed them out and laid them on the table.
    Judge Goddard came into the hearing room. We all rose and I dropped the