The Love Wars (12 page)

“But, Henry, if my job is simply buffering Lillian against the Liesels of the world, I don’t want it. I want to represent Fern. I was just hoping you could give me a little advice on how to bring it in as a pro bono matter, but don’t worry about it.”

I sound much more resolute than I feel. It’s an idiotic plan, no question. But even as I see its flaws, I am bound to it. I wonder if
this is what people feel like when they’re about to climb Mount Everest: backpacks on, walking in lockstep, marching forward, but ever cognizant of the fact that hundreds of people before them have bit it doing the exact same thing.

There’s no way I’m rescinding on representing Fern. She was so happy when I called that she started sobbing. Nor can I just walk away from my Payne-ment. I need to leave on my terms,
after
I get my money, after I pay off the Grant family debt, all acquired in the name of my quest to join this most glorious of professions and become a lawyer.

I see a real chance for it all to work out. First, Robert Walker’s attorney is a recluse, not part of the matrimonial cabal. Second, Lillian is especially uninterested in the details of our pro bono cases, refusing to discuss them as long as we’re meeting the firm’s hour requirements. I figure as long as I keep everything quiet, it will be seamless.

Henry rolls his eyes. “Okay—here’s a question. What are you going to do when Robert Walker sees that Bacon Payne is representing his ex-wife and the corporate department finds out?”

I am silent, not having thought of that particular twist.

“Molly, just pack up your things now. This is not going to end well. I hope Fern Walker—whom you’ve met, what? Once? I hope she’s worth it.”

“It’s not really about Fern. I mean, I like her and want to help her, but it’s what she represents.”

“What does she represent?”

I’m not about to tell him the truth, so I fudge. “She really needs help, Henry. And no one will touch her.”

“But we can find someone. Why you?”

“I don’t have any other life. Working here—being a lawyer—is the only thing I do. And if I can’t help someone like Fern, who, God save her, has been trying to get decent representation since last November and whom I actually like, then what’s the point? I know
that this whole thing might end badly, but for me…right now, it’s worth the risk.” I swallow. “Working here? It’s corroding my soul.”

“Isn’t that a bit dramatic?”

I consider for a moment. “No.”

“I’ve been there. I get it, I do. Working here, for these people…it’s not always the easiest. But why not just quit?”

I look down. “I have to get the Payne-ment.”

“The what? What’d you just mumble?”

“The Payne-ment. You know, the fifth-year bonus. I have just over a year left. No way I’m walking away from it.”

“Okay, if you think getting a few hundred thousand dollars—before taxes—makes it worth your while to cross all sorts of ethical and professional boundaries, I don’t know what else to tell you other than that it was a pleasure to work with you.” He shakes his head and turns to his computer, his profile stony and grave, Mount Rushmore’s fifth face.

“Some of us need to worry about money.” In my head, the words are zingers, a rebuke, but to my embarrassment, they come out soft and wistful.

Henry acts like he didn’t hear, but I can tell that he did by the way his jaw softens after he swallows. He doesn’t say anything, though, so I leave.

__________

T
hat night, I barely sleep. I know that Henry is right; with Bacon Payne splashed all over Fern’s papers, there’s no way I can keep this low-profile. I am about to do something I’ve spent the last three and a half years trying to avoid: swan diving into a blaze of infamy.

I must have sounded silly to Henry. But that is preferable to telling him the truth and explaining what I did to Karen.

The worst part is that I didn’t even give her a second thought. I didn’t think about Karen Block once after our meeting, and I probably would’ve forgotten all about her.

Two weeks after she came to the clinic, though, I was watching Channel Four news and I saw it. Tim Block, assistant manager of the Food Lion, had shot his estranged wife, Karen, in a parking lot as she was getting into her car. Twice in the head, once in the stomach. She was dead at the scene.

__________

T
he morning after our conversation, Henry e-mails me to meet him in the dining room at eleven o’clock.

When I get there, he is sitting at a table reading through a document. I grab a coffee and join him.

“You look especially tired this morning,” he says.

“Thanks. You wanted to say good-bye again?”

“You know, you’re confusing. You act all meek and obedient, but you’re actually crazy.”

“Um, thanks?”

“Not really a compliment. It’s a very stupid idea.”

“I know.”

“I mean, insane.”

“Okay, Henry. I get it.”

“I thought of something, though. You didn’t sign an agreement, right?”

“What?”

“When you started working here, there was no agreement?”

“Right.”

“Well, there’s nothing requiring you to work exclusively for Bacon Payne.”

“Yes, Henry. With my five hours of free time a day, why don’t I get another job?”

“So why can’t you establish your own law firm? Your first case can be
Walker v. Walker.”

“I can do that?”

“Oh, I’m not recommending it. You’ll definitely get fired if anyone finds out. But it is a way to keep Bacon Payne’s name out of things.”

“Starting my own firm. What’s involved with that? Do you know?”

“You definitely need liability insurance. Also, you have to make it very clear to Fern that she’s hiring you, not Bacon Payne.”

I don’t think Fern will have a problem with that. She never mentions Lillian when she talks about hiring me. “There were two people in my law school class who started their own firm last year. I can talk to them about what’s involved.”

Henry nods. “And of course, I’ll help you with the law if you need it.”

“Henry, why are you doing this?”

“I’m so programmed to just fulfill expectations here. I’ve been doing it with blinders on for nearly a decade. What you said yesterday—it’s nuts but it made some sense. And it’s so rare to see any associate here do anything gutsy or risky, especially for the cause of justice.” He chuckles. “Yesterday in my office, you were like one of those preview voice-overs.” He deepens his voice. “In a world of injustice, one young lawyer is driven to change things.”

I lower my voice. “‘Fighting for the triumph of the human spirit and the will to live.’ Isn’t that how they always end?”

He smiles briefly and then gets serious. “I’m on board to help. But I have to tell you, Molly. I don’t think it’s going to end well. Just promise me you’ll be prepared for that.”

“I promise.”

__________

T
he next morning, I track down Andy Smith, my former law school classmate and cofounder of Rappaport and Smith, LLP—for all your legal needs, with special expertise in family court, personal bankruptcy, corporate, employment and traffic law. Apparently, there isn’t much involved in hanging up my own shingle, as long as I go bare-bones.

I register my professional corporation with the state. I procure some professional liability insurance, along with a firm bank account, a corporate American Express card and accounts
billable to my firm at a service that files documents, an express mail service and an office supply company. My billing and accounting will be easy, because I only have one case. Andy thinks I can just do everything with Excel or a calculator.

On my home computer, I cobble together some templates for generic letterhead and simple business cards and a retainer agreement. Fern and I discuss the terms of my engagement: she will pay all costs and disbursements up front. I will not ask for a retainer check, but will keep a running tab of the bill. In my mind, this is a pro bono case, although Henry tells me I’m crazy, that custody battles take up a lot of time. Whatever. I’ve gotten used to Henry telling me I’m crazy.

I lock down a firm e-mail address through a free provider and buy a cheap cell phone for my office line. Andy and his partner generously give me the passwords to their online accounts for legal research in exchange for the promise of a steady stream of drinks.

I briefly toy with the idea of using my home address as my office address. If I can convince my doormen to call me if I get any motion papers served on me, it should be okay. But then I picture what will happen if any papers come when Rocky, the morning doorman, is on duty. He’d spend ten minutes flirting or joking with the messenger. Then the papers would become a place mat for his greasy hero du jour, while he sauntered back to 1G for his afternoon toke break.

I reject that idea. For eighty dollars a month, I find a virtual office address at a suite in a building on the same block as Bacon Payne. Because the place is so close to work, I’ll be able to duck out to pick up my mail or papers without putting on my coat, which could arouse suspicion.

This will work, I tell myself as I sign the lease.

By Saturday, Molly Grant, PC, is open for business.

____

T
he clerk has been thumbing through my papers without blinking, breathing loudly through his nose, for the past five minutes. I bite my cheek as he wordlessly picks up the six-inch-thick motion, tucks it under one arm and walks to the back of the room. He disappears behind a wall of filing cabinets, the tops of which are piled with stacks of uneven documents that look about to slide off and create a loose-leaf blizzard.

“Christ, you’ve gotta be kidding me. Today, people,” mutters the man on line behind me. “Whatcha got in there?” He stares at me accusingly.

Oh, nothing much. Only Fern Walker’s motion for sole custody against Robert Walker, King of Cable Media,
I want to shout. Instead, I raise my shoulders to indicate that I don’t know what the clerk’s problem is, as I run through a checklist in my head: yes, I had included an Emergency Affidavit; yes, Fern’s Client Affidavit was notarized; yes, my Attorney Affirmation was signed.

So what’s the holdup?

I shift my weight nervously and note the irony. Now that I have the most understanding boss in the world—me—and a client who will not blame me if the papers get rejected, I care more than ever about getting these filed today. I mentally prepare myself to suck up to the clerk, trying to gauge if he’ll go for a clueless and sweet vibe. They usually do, but this one seems especially dour.

The clerk returns, expressionless. “Take it to Brooklyn,” he says.

“What? Oh, no. Really? Judge Strand did the Judgment, so I thought for sure he’d be the proper recipient of the motion and both parties live in Manhattan—” I smile in what I hope is a winning, nonthreatening way.

“Yep. Judge Strand. Brooklyn.”

“But I just checked and—”

“Transfer.”

“But when?”

He sticks a finger in his ear. “Dunno.” He looks behind me, done with our conversation. “Next.”

I sigh. A schlep to Brooklyn means that I’ll be even later getting back to the office. I’ll have to reschedule my early-afternoon calls, including a dreaded appointment to speak with Liesel about something urgent involving her cat and the vet. I’m not sure how either one of those things is within the purview of her divorce lawyer, but bless Liesel, she will somehow make her cat’s health my problem.

Although maybe this is good news. Most of Bacon Payne’s practice is in Manhattan and on any given court visit, I am guaranteed to bump into several people I know, either adversaries or coworkers. I’ve only been to the Brooklyn Supreme Court once, back when I first started. I was getting an adjournment for Liz and I might as well have been in the Family Justice Services Branch of Saskatchewan, except of course that people were still rude and said “ya know” instead of “eh.”

I leave the courthouse and walk into the Brooklyn Bridge subway station. Bacon Payne associates travel only by town car, so hopping on the Number Four train in the middle of the workday is like being unleashed. I can tell that summer is nigh by the smell of the subway car: a mixture of garbage, body odor and heat—eau de city underground. There is a small, almost-person-sized space on the blue bench. I squeeze between a woman with sandals and
huge gold U-shaped earrings and a teenage boy with scruffy spiky hair and a high collar. I sit back and feel their bodies retreat into their seat borders, reluctantly making room for me.

With my elbows pinned at my side by my seat companions, I flip through the motion papers once more. I’ve been through them fifty times already, but I can’t help myself. We ask that Fern be granted sole legal and physical custody of Anna and Connor, meaning that not only will she be the one making decisions for them; they’ll live with her too.

Given that this case has involved trauma for the kids and will continue to do so, we’ve asked for a phased-in custody transfer to be coordinated by a psychologist and for ongoing treatment for all the family members, to be paid for by Robert, of course.

We’ve also asked that Robert pay all court costs, attorney fees and child support.

The train screeches into the Borough Hall station, making me wonder for the gazillionth time how much damage I’m doing to my ears by living in New York City. I climb the stairs to the outside world, emerging steps from the Brooklyn Supreme Court.

The feel is very different from Manhattan Supreme Court’s grandeur—the massive
Law and Order
pillars and dramatic rotunda murals depicting justice via fair-skinned people in flowing robes. The Brooklyn building is a boxy gray concrete structure with rows of tiny square windows alternating with rows of even tinier square windows—the type of place that conjures red tape and clock-punching and humming fluorescent lights, but that’s okay. Brooklyn Supreme Court doesn’t have to look like the birthplace of justice as long as they know how to dole out some.

I yank open the door to the courthouse and flash my washed-out photo ID to an officer with a bored expression.