Miz Sara Goes on Maneuvers

It was a slow day at the office, so I thought I'd run out and pick up a few supplies from the grocery store. Atlanta was enjoying a beautiful autumn, so that gave me another inducement to get away from my law practice for a few minutes.

As I made my way through the produce in the grocery store, I thought, "Now that's unusual. What is Jim Davenport doing here on a week day?"

I pushed my cart down the aisle in his direction. "Hi, Jim. What a surprise to find you at the supermarket on a work day!" I called out cheerfully.

He smiled when he recognized me. "Oh, hi, Miz Sara, I guess you haven't heard: I got laid off at work."

"Oh, no, that's terrible, Jim!" I exclaimed. "I'm so sorry to hear that."

I was shocked. Jim was a mid-level executive at his company and seemed headed for greater responsibilities. I would never have thought he would be laid off.

He smiled again. "Actually, it may turn out to be a good thing for me, Miz Sara. My company needed to make some cutbacks, and I guess I was one of those who was considered surplus. But the good news is they decided to offer a number of us salary continuation that will take me to 55 -- early retirement age."

"So you don't plan to look for another job?" I asked.

He thought about it for a few moments. "I've spent my entire adult life working, striving to climb the corporate ladder. But now that I'm away from work, I find that I don't miss all the pressure, the deadlines, the conference calls and the corporate bull. . . I mean, all the corporate red tape."

"My wife and I are definitely going to have to cut back on our spending, and Peggy isn't too excited about that," he admitted. "But if we're careful, we'll be just fine. And now that I'm out of the rat race, maybe I can even start to enjoy life. I always wanted to go on a Mediterranean cruise but could never find the opportunity to take that much time off from work."

"It sounds to me like you're not having any problems making the transition," I said with a smile.

"The only real drawback I've encountered so far is that I have all this spare time on my hands," he laughed. "Now that I'm not working fifty to sixty hours a week, I'm going to have to develop a hobby."

I smiled at him. "Well, I'm sure your wife is delighted to have you around more."

"You might get a different answer if you asked Peggy," he grinned. "She doesn't know what to do with me at home all the time. She tells me I'm always under foot; that's why I'm out doing the grocery shopping!"

I patted his hand. "Well, I'm sure you'll find something to keep you occupied. But you have to admit: it's a nice problem to have!"

He agreed, and we went on our separate ways.

I knew Jim from when we both served on the board of a local charity here in Atlanta. Many people use board memberships as a way to pad their resumes, but Jim was a real doer, actively engaged in the workings of the agency. He had even agreed to serve as treasurer for a couple of years, a responsible but thankless task. I had a pretty high opinion of him.

I'd never met his wife Peggy, but I figured if Jim had married her she must have a lot going for her.

In any event, I hoped the two of them would use this new opportunity to enjoy themselves. Retirement can be a wonderful new chapter in a couple's lives, but the transition isn't always easy. Of course I didn't know that from first-hand experience, since I was still actively practicing family law. And Marcus had gotten sick well before he reached retirement age, so -- but enough of that. Now was not the time to indulge in self-pity; I had things to do.

When I got back to my office in the Virginia Highland section of Atlanta, Marcy was waiting for me. Marcella Jackson is my legal assistant. Like me, she's a graduate of Agnes Scott. I like to hire my assistants from my alma mater; it's one way I have of giving back to the school that gave me so much. But Marcy is different from the assistants I'd had before her: she'd enlisted in the Army immediately upon graduation and had served a stint in Afghanistan.

I had been skeptical about whether that sort of background would be appropriate, and she had been equally skeptical about working for me. But after a short time, we had developed a strong bond. I found myself relying on Marcy implicitly, and she proved herself so responsible and thoughtful that it was hard to imagine not having her by my side.

Interestingly, the one aspect of her experience I had hesitated about -- her military background -- was in fact a source of strength. She often amazed me with the way she applied her military experience to situations I would have thought had no relation, yet Marcy's perspective frequently shed new light on the problem. In short, it had proved a most fortuitous alliance.

As I came in the back door with my groceries, Marcy was there to meet me. "You have a client, Miz Sara, and she seems awfully upset!"

"Did I forget an appointment?" I asked. "I don't recall anyone on the calendar, or I wouldn't have run out to the store."

"No," she reassured me, "she's a walk-in."

"Hmm," I thought, "you never know what you're going to get with a walk-in. Still, I suppose I ought to see her."

"Well, dear," I said to Marcy, "let's go see what the lady wants."

We walked into the reception area together. Waiting for us was a woman I judged to be somewhere in her late forties, not beautiful but what we used to call "handsome." She was well dressed and had recently had her hair done, but her face looked as though she were under a lot of stress. She held her purse in one hand; in the other she clutched a sheet of bond paper that had been folded and crumpled.

I introduced the two of us. "And how can we help you, Ms. . . .?"

"I'm Mrs. Harriet Sheridan," the woman replied, "and I think I need an attorney."

"Please come into my office and let's discuss the matter," I suggested.

After we were all comfortably seated and she had a glass of sweet tea to sip on, I asked, "Why do you feel you need an attorney, Mrs. Sheridan?"

"It's because of this, Miz Sara," she said, handing the folded paper to me as though it were something vile and loathsome.

I unfolded the sheet and saw that it was an email that had been sent a few days earlier. It read:

Walter and I have been having an affair. He is in love with me and will soon leave your marriage. The sooner you accept this, the sooner you will be able to go on with your life.

Walter's True Love

"I assume that Walter Sheridan is your husband?" I asked, returning the email to her. When she nodded, I went on, "And what does Mr. Sheridan have to say about all this?"

"He denied everything," she cried. "He said he wasn't having an affair and there is no other woman in his life. But if there isn't, who sent this email, and why? And if he's lying, I need to protect myself. Oh, Miz Sara, what am I to do?"

I could see she was badly shaken, and I tried to calm her. "Mrs. Sheridan, do you have any other evidence, any other reason to believe that whoever sent this email was telling the truth?"

"No," she admitted tearfully, "but neither can I say with certainty that Walter couldn't be having an affair. I just don't know." She buried her face in her hands.

"How long have the two of you been married?" I asked her.

"Twenty-five years," she said.

"Have you had any problems like this before, Mrs. Sheridan?"

She shook her head vigorously in denial. "Not at all. Walter has always been good to me, and up until this, I would have said we have a strong marriage. He has his faults, but then, so do we all."

I reached over to clasp her hand. "Mrs. Sheridan, let me ask the most important question: do you still love your husband? Do you want to remain married to him?"

Her head snapped up. "Oh, yes, Miz Sara, I do love him. He's a good man; I don't want to lose him."

I pressed her hand, trying to reassure her. "Then my advice is to take your husband at his word and ignore this email. Clearly, someone is trying to interfere with your marriage, whether as a prank or for some other reason we don't know. Naturally, you're upset, but remember that anyone can send an anonymous email. Let's wait and see if anything further occurs. If it does, please come back and we'll see what we can do."

She took a deep breath. "Alright, Miz Sara, if you think that's best."

After she had left, Marcy came back into my office. "What a hateful thing to send to someone! Why would anybody do that, Miz Sara?"

"That's a good question, Marcy," I replied. "From the tone of the email, it doesn't sound like a practical joke but a deliberate act to try to stir up trouble."

"Isn't there anything we can do to help her?" she wanted to know.

I shook my head. "Without some idea of who sent the email, our hands are pretty well tied. I guess we'll just have to wait and see if something else happens or if ignoring it will make the problem go away. I don't like it one bit, but, realistically, there's not much else we can do right now."

I don't think either of us was very happy when we left the office that day. Sometimes it feels like you've truly helped a client; other times you just feel helpless.

Over the next few days, the weather warmed even more. I guess we were having what folks call Indian summer. It was so nice out that Marcy and I decided that we would pack a picnic basket and walk over to Piedmont Park to have lunch. It was over a mile, but we felt the walk would do us good.

As we strolled along the sidewalk, I happened to notice a car in a parking lot that looked familiar. Looking more closely, I saw Jim Davenport behind the wheel, apparently unconscious. Marcy and I hurried over, and I rapped sharply on the window. Jim's eyes popped open and he looked around groggily. Finally recognizing me, he rolled down the window.

"Jim, are you alright? Do you need assistance?" I asked anxiously.

His face flushed with embarrassment. "No, I'm fine, Miz Sara. I must have dozed off," he said hastily.

I wasn't so sure. "You'd better come with us. We're headed over to the park; come with us and have something to eat."

Men are always reluctant to show any sign of weakness, but Marcy and I wouldn't take no for an answer, and he grudgingly agreed to accompany us.

After we'd spread a blanket on the ground under a shade tree and forced some lemonade and a sandwich on him, I turned to Jim. "What in the world were you doing back there?"

He blushed again, and after he had finished his bite of chicken salad, he answered. "I was playing detective, Miz Sara."

Needless to say, that piqued our curiosity, and we demanded a full explanation.

The gist of his story was that three weeks ago Jim had been having a beer with Jerry Hamilton, his best friend. When Jim had complained about not having enough to do in retirement, Jerry asked for his help.

"He thought Mandy -- that's his wife -- was fooling around on him," Jim explained. "But he had no proof, so he asked if I would be willing to tail her for a while. She works in a building across the street from where you found me, and she usually goes out to lunch once or twice a week. Jerry thought she was meeting her lover over lunch. So for the last two weeks I've been watching her to see where she goes."

I frowned, but Marcy was intrigued. "What did you find out?" she asked eagerly.

Jim laughed. "I found out I'm not a very good detective! The first time I tried it, I saw Mandy leaving the office, but by the time I got my car going, I had lost her. I drove all over looking for her car, but never caught sight of her. The next time, I brought along a thermos of coffee to drink. By the time noon rolled around, I was desperate to relieve myself. When I finally got back to my car, she had already left."

"This week, I didn't drink any coffee, but the warm sun must have made me drowsy, and I fell asleep. Her car was gone when you woke me up." He shook his head. "This detective work is harder than it looks," he concluded wryly.

Marcy laughed. "I bet your friend Jerry wasn't too impressed by your efforts."

"Oh, no," Jim protested, "Jerry thanked me profusely for trying and practically begged me to keep after it. He says he can't afford to pay a private detective so he's really hoping I'll find out what his wife is up to."

Marcy seemed quite caught up by Jim's story, but I wasn't amused. "And what does your wife think about your shenanigans?" I demanded.

"Peggy doesn't know about it," Jim replied quickly. "Jerry asked me not to say anything to her. He doesn't want to take a chance of word getting back to Mandy."

I shook my head and glanced over at Marcy for moral support, but she seemed lost in thought.

"Jim," I said sternly, "You need to put a stop to this nonsense. You're not a detective and you don't have a license. What you're doing is stalking this poor woman. I'm not sure whether you're breaking any laws, but you're probably pretty close."

"But I can't stop now," Jim protested. "Jerry found out she's got another lunch date this Friday. He made me promise I'd see where she goes."

Before I could respond, Marcy piped up, "I have an idea, Miz Sara: let me do it. When I was in Afghanistan, I was assigned to a RSTA squad in a non-combat role, and I picked up a lot of technique from those guys. I'd really like to try my hand at it."

"What's RSTA?" Jim demanded.

"Reconnaissance, Surveillance and Target Acquisition," Marcy quickly answered.

We talked about it while we finished our lunch. I was very reluctant, but I it was clear that if Marcy didn't go, Jim would. So finally, against my better judgment, I decided it was better that Marcy look into things than Jim. At least I hoped so.

Jim made her promise that she would give him a full report Friday afternoon. "I'm going to go to a movie; then I'll come over to your office afterwards to hear what you find out. I don't want to break my promise to Jerry," he said.

As we walked back to the office after leaving Jim at his car, I couldn't help but press Marcy on why she had volunteered to do this. "Why the sudden interest in going on a stake-out like that? You've never expressed any interest in detective work before," I said.

"Miz Sara," she replied, "I've got a hunch about this. As I was listening to Jim, I started remembering some things I'd read about military tactics, and it reminded me of Operation Fortitude. I'd really like to see if I'm right or not," she replied.

"Operation Fortitude?" I asked. "I've never heard of it. And what does that have to do with watching Jerry's wife?"

Marcy looked at me cautiously. "I may be all wet, Miz Sara, so I'd rather not say just now. Let's wait until Friday afternoon to see if my hunch is right."

After that, I could get nothing further out of her, so, after making her promise not to do anything to get into trouble, I reluctantly acceded. I had faith in Marcy's good sense, but real doubts about this little mission of hers. "Nothing good will come of this," I fretted.

The next day I was working at my desk when I heard the front door open. I looked up curiously because we didn't have any appointments scheduled, only to see Marcy escorting Harriet Sheridan. I had but to glance at her tear-streaked face to know that our experiment in benign neglect had not worked.

The two of us quickly ushered her to the settee, and Marcy thoughtfully brought over a box of tissues.

"What's happened, Harriet?" I asked anxiously.

"Oh, Miz Sara, it was horrible! I tried to ignore that ugly email as you suggested, and things seemed to be okay until yesterday. Then I got another one," she managed to get out.

"Was it the similar to the last one?" Marcy asked.

"Oh, no, this was much worse. It had details about Walter that only a lover could know, things about his body! There was no doubt," Harriet said tearfully.

I took her hand. "I assume you confronted Walter. What did he have to say when you showed him the email?"

"He confessed, Miz Sara! He admitted that he'd had an affair with that horrid woman!" Her tears began to flow in earnest, and she reached for another tissue. "He swore to me that he had tried to end it, but she won't leave him alone. She kept calling and badgering him to leave me. I guess when he refused, she started in on me."

Marcy and I managed to get her calmed down and to take a sip or two of tea. Once we had done so, I looked her directly in the eyes. "Harriet, I need to ask you two very important questions, and I need you to think about the answers to both of them carefully before you answer. First, does Walter want to end your marriage? Does he want to be with this other woman?"

She looked up at me with reddened eyes. "He swears to me that he doesn't, and I believe him. He told me he'd do anything to save our marriage." She smiled wanly. "He was almost as upset by all this as I was."

"Then let me ask you the second question, Harriet. Do you want to stay married to him, even after what he's done? Can you forgive him?"

She took a deep breath, and I think she really thought about the question. "I do want to stay married, Miz Sara. I'm so hurt by what he's done, but I guess I'm not all that surprised. Walter is a good man, but he's not a particularly strong one. If she came on to him, it doesn't surprise me that he wasn't able to resist."

"Still," she went on, "he's been a good husband, and I honestly believe he's appalled at the way this has all turned out. If we work on it, I think I can forgive him. I don't want to throw all those good years away, not at this stage of my life."

Then she scowled and I thought she was going to resume crying. "But we can't work on our marriage until that woman gets out of our lives!" she exclaimed.

"If you're going to get past this, it's going to take a lot of hard work, and a talented counselor can be a big help in guiding you through the process." I turned to Marcy. "Would you give Harriet a copy of that list of marriage counselors?" I asked. Then, turning back to Harriet, I told her, "If you don't have someone you know, some of my other clients have had good luck with the counselors on this list."

"Thank you," she said, taking the list from Marcy, "but what about that other woman?"

"Has Walter told you who she is?" I asked.

"Yes," she said, "but I don't know her at all." Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a piece of note paper. "Walter wrote down her name, address and phone numbers."

"That's fine," I said, taking the note from her. "Why don't you leave" -- here I looked at the paper -- "Ms. Vera Martindale to me. You go home and tell Walter about our discussion today. The very fact that you've been to see me will reinforce to him that this is a serious matter and that he needs to make some real changes if he wants to save his marriage. Then, if you both still want to keep your marriage, give one of those counselors a call."

After we had escorted Harriet to the door, I thought about the situation facing the Sheridans. Marriage is seldom an easy relationship, and there are many stresses that can break up even the best ones. But a couple shouldn't have to fight off interference from an outsider. The more I thought about what Vera Martindale had been doing, the angrier I got.

Marcy followed me back to my office. "What are you going to do, Miz Sara?" she asked.

"I believe a frontal assault is in order, my dear."

I had noticed that the note included Ms. Martindale's office number, and I picked up the phone and dialed it. I was gratified when she answered.

"Ms. Martindale, my name is Sara Cannon, and I'm an attorney at law. You don't know me, but I have some important information that could have a significant effect on you. Is there any possibility that I could meet with you at your office this afternoon?"

"No, this isn't a matter that can be discussed over the telephone."