The Love Wars (15 page)

I laugh. “Never been so happy to hear about nepotism. I guess you have job security even if I’ve pulled you into this mess.”

My buzzer rings and Henry looks at his big black sports watch. “How is it five o’clock already?”

“No clue how that happened.” I open the door for Duck, who’s talking as she waltzes in, something about my doorman and his wedding. I try to follow along, but she stops when she sees Henry standing by the door.

“Oh, hi,” she says as I say, “This is Duck.”

“Henry.” They shake hands. “Great to meet you.”

“Henry is a saint who was helping me with some work.”

“Of course he was. God forbid you would take a Sunday off, you automatons. Henry, come and see a movie with us. We’re planning to see—what is it?—
East Spy, West Spy
, that new Ben Brick movie, but we are open to anything that is mindless and is showing around seven.”

“I’d love to, but I can’t. Maybe another time.”

Duck rolls her eyes. “I haven’t been able to get this one”—she pats my shoulder—“to see a movie since six months ago, so I’m not holding my breath, but sure—another time sounds lovely.”

Henry looks at me. “Thanks for lunch.”

“Thanks for coming over. Can you tell how ready I am now?” I know my smile looks like one of those squiggly Charlie Brown ones.

“It’ll be fine. Bye, Duck.”

As Henry leaves and I shut the door behind him, Duck comes over and stands directly in front of me, her eyes wide. “Um, hello? He’s hot. Like, really hot. How have you not mentioned him before?”

“I have. That’s Henry.”

“Yeah, but why have you not mentioned the hot part?”

“Please. You’re ridiculously transparent.”

“What?”

“You’re trying to get me interested in someone who’s not Caleb. But I’m not interested in Caleb. I said no.”

“Of course you’re not, which is why you ask me oh so casually about every detail of his office renovation.” She blinks innocently. “But I have no ulterior motives. I’m just asking why you haven’t mentioned Henry’s dashing good looks.”

“It’s not relevant. Stop giving me that look. He has a girlfriend.”

“Do you ever socialize with guys who don’t have girlfriends anymore?”

I ignore her, but Duck continues as though I’ve responded. “He can’t be serious with her. If he is, then why are the two of you alone in your apartment on a summer weekend?”

“Jeez, Duck. Are you also steamed that I was entertainin’ without my white gloves and a crinoline? We were doing work.”

“But you’re not denying you think he’s cute.”

“Of course he’s cute.”

“Aha!”

“Again. He. Has. A. Girlfriend.”

“He does? Gawd. Why didn’t you just say so?” Duck smiles at my exasperation. “Go get your bag so we can get out of here.” She gives my tank top and shorts an exaggerated once-over. “Not like you put any effort into your study outfit. I guess that’s as clear a sign as any that you’re not harboring a crush.”

“Exactly,” I say, grabbing a cardigan and my bag. “Nothing to see here. Let’s go.”

____

T
he night before Fern’s court date, I finally doze off at three o’clock in the morning, only to dream about frantically wandering around my college campus, being unable to get to the room for my Abnormal Psych exam. When I finally find it and push open the door, I have floated onto the set of
Jeopardy!
and am behind the electric blue podium as Alex Trebek barks confusing questions about somatoform disorder and antisocial personalities.

A few hours later, I jolt awake. My entire week has been a long dark tunnel winding toward this morning: Oral Argument Day. I get out of bed, blast hot water for a brief shower and twitch my way into a navy suit. After forcing down some dry toast, I promptly throw it up, and decide to get the hell out of my apartment. I emerge from the subway at the Borough Hall station almost two hours before our appearance, more than enough time to purchase herbal tea at a coffee cart and park myself on a bench in the hall outside Strand’s courtroom.

An hour and a half later, Robert Walker,
Forbes
’s 256th-richest American, walks in. He’s alone, which is strange. Lillian always meets her VIP clients at the office and strides into court like the Mod Squad, the client flanked between her take-no-prisoners legal team.

Relishing my brief moment of anonymity—in twenty-five
minutes, Robert will know to forever be on guard in my presence—I pretend to look down at my papers as I check him out. Duck would probably describe him as a human potato: big lumpy features, thick, short, graham cracker brown hair that looks too uniform in color for his sixty-five years.

I hear the panning percussion of Jimmy Buffett’s “Margaritaville”—this has to be the first time it’s played in the Brooklyn Supreme Courthouse—and Walker picks up his phone. So he’s one of
those
, a type-A shark masquerading as a beach bum: deep-sea fishing on his fifty-foot yacht; putting an avuncular arm around the resort’s golf caddie, with whom he’s on a joking and first-name basis five minutes after meeting; and then, having convinced the world what a good dude he is, discarding his wife, terrorizing some employees, damaging his kids. He answers with a gruff “Yeah,” nods once, hangs up and starts firing away on a BlackBerry. He is still typing when a tall-heeled woman clicks up to him, carrying two coffee cups.

No, definitely not Risa, I conclude, after she leans in to straighten his tie. He holds up a hand to stop her, finishes typing and then allows her to resume the grooming. This must be Claire Dennis. Risa’s reply papers had rhapsodized about her—part earth mother, part PTA machine, Claire is Robert’s girlfriend of two years and, according to the papers, a consistent maternal presence in the lives of Anna and Connor.

Claire is in her mid-to-late thirties, a delicate little pink seashell of a person. It’s how Fern must have looked before she ran smack into life’s hardships: petite, proportional and freshly pretty. Claire’s shoulder-length brown hair is pulled back into a sophisticated low ponytail—no bumps or frizz—and her court attire is oh so appropriate, a short-sleeved dark gray dress, nipped in at the waist and accessorized with high black pumps.

After straightening Robert’s tie, Claire hands him the coffee cup and then reaches into her textured reptilian navy bag for a
small container of Aleve. He dutifully puts a pill on his tongue and washes it down with coffee. She sits very close to him on the bench and occasionally pats his leg or rubs his shoulder. They nestle there sweetly, looking the picture of either father-daughter devotion or romantic contentment, depending on how much you know.

I’m watching them out of the corner of my eye when Fern arrives. She walks by their bench, her eyes fixed on me, deliberately not looking at the lovebirds to her left. When we hug, I see, out of my peripheral vision, Robert Walker stiffen.

“How are you?” I say. Each week, Fern’s eyes have gotten less watery, her gaze more direct, her voice firmer. The fight has made her stronger, galvanized her.

“I’m good,” she says. “A little nervous, but honestly, I’m glad it’s finally here. You?”

“I’m ready.”

“So that’s Claire?”

“Either that or a very affectionate assistant.”

“Is his lawyer here?”

“Not yet.” I check my watch. Nine twenty-five. “Do you want to go over anything again?”

“Nope. Let’s talk about something entirely different, please.”

“I keep forgetting to tell you. I went into your shop, Petal and Stem.”

Fern smiles. “Which location?”

“The one on Lex.”

“Oh, that’s the first one my boss, Brian, opened. He’s actually there a lot. Did you see him?”

“Fern”—I start to laugh—“I have no idea. I’m just trying to make conversation. I was there months ago, ordering flowers for Secretary’s Day.”

“Administrative Assistant’s Day,” she corrects me as an officer swings open the doors, signaling that the court is open for
business. “Please, talking about work is relaxing me. Do you remember who rang you up?”

“A young girl, I think. Brown hair.”

“That was probably Jenny, Brian’s daughter. Did you see Brian? Tall, gray hair? I went to high school with him.”

“Is that a coincidence?”

“No, we’ve been in touch since we both moved up here. And then he gave me a job when I needed one. And then, he gave Lolly a job.”

“Your sister, right? Is that her real name?”

“Her real name is Laurel Dolly.”

I repeat this, but my voice goes up at the end like I’m asking a question.

“I know. It doesn’t really flow. Dolly was my mom’s favorite aunt. Plus, she was hooked on the plant motif for us—”

“Fitting for your later work.”

“Exactly.”

“So did Lolly move up to work at Petal and Stem?”

“Not exactly. She moved up when I was pregnant with Connor. Actually, Robert had promised her a job, which never materialized when everything fell apart, so then she took care of me, and Brian hired her for a bit.” Her voice drops several decibels, although it hadn’t exactly been loud to begin with. “She hates Robert. Passionately.”

I don’t get a chance to reply that I don’t really blame her, because I’m watching a woman walk over to Robert Walker and Claire. If that’s Risa McDunn, she isn’t the severe, suited Amazon I’ve been picturing. She’s small, with what my mee-maw would have called an ample bosom, but what’s most noticeable is her outfit. It’s straight from the wardrobe department of
Little House on the Prairie
: long, pleated lavender skirt, ivory blouse buttoned up to a high collar that must be itchy torture on this hot July day and pointed beige shoes. No bonnet or parasol, but they would not be out of place.

Risa is trailed by a lanky man with floppy blond hair. Everything about him screams associate: his hopping, uncomfortable stance; his protective grip on the black litigation bag; the way his head is constantly leaning in toward Risa and Robert, resulting in a stooped, kind of giraffe look.

Robert Walker points at us, flicking his index finger against his thumb, like disposing of something sticky and gross, and Risa’s eyes glide from my head down to my shoes.

I walk over, hand extended. “Molly Grant.”

She shakes it, without a smile. “Ah, Molly.” She peers at me as though she’s been commissioned for a reading of my aura.

I turn to Robert Walker. “Molly Grant. I’m representing Fern.”

He shakes my hand as though it’s a dirty tissue to be crumpled, his eyes over my head the entire time.

I nod at Risa. “Should we go talk down there by the benches?”

She’s expressionless for almost a minute. Then, as though I’m a waitress who has asked if I can get her anything else, she tilts her head to the side, purses her lips and shakes her head no, smiling politely. Usually this is when the attorneys kibitz: we find a neutral space away from our clients and try to persuade the other that he or she has no case. The tone is always different—I’ve laughed, gossiped, been called wrong, stupid, immature and too young to know any better. Until today, though, I’ve never been ignored.

I return to the bench, my eyes wide with disbelief.

“Bad?” says Fern.

“More like—” I pause and hum the theme to
The Twilight Zone
.

“Fitting,” says Fern. “Because that’s how my whole life feels.”

Eventually, the clerk emerges and shouts, “Lawyers on Walker.”

I stand up and Fern whispers, “Do I just stay here?”

“For now. They’ll call you in at some point.”

She nods and I follow the clerk behind the courtroom, into
Strand’s chambers. I feel like I’m in a jury duty video: Justice Strand sits behind a huge walnut desk, the American flag waving behind him. He has a wide toothy smile, and perfect posture under his robe. Mike, Strand’s law clerk, sits to his right, chin up, papers in his lap.

Strand waves his hand in the direction of the chairs in front of his desk. “
Walker v. Walker
, have a seat, counselors.”

All three of us murmur greetings. Risa and I sit down.

“So, hello. Welcome to my courtroom. What can I help you with today?” He smiles broadly and pats our motion papers, which are stacked neatly on his desk in front on him.

He has just completed the last syllable when Risa pounces.

“Your Honor. We desperately need your good sense. My client has single-handedly raised his son and daughter for the past three years. Ms. Walker has not been in the picture for the simple reason that she’s mentally ill. She’s been diagnosed, Your Honor—depression, homicidal thoughts—not a safe environment for children. Terribly sad situation for everyone involved. Anyway, she abandoned her children years ago because she couldn’t deal with them and now, suddenly, she has decided to upend everything again. But she can’t handle it, Your Honor, and the kids don’t even know her—”

I jump in. “Your Honor, this is simply untrue. Ms. Walker, my client, I mean, the mother, is not mentally ill—”

“Counselor. Don’t interrupt me. Let me finish. Your Honor, may I finish?” Risa keeps her eyes on the judge.

Justice Strand’s smile wavers. “Yes, you may finish.” He looks at me apologetically. “Please, let her finish. No interrupting in my courtroom. Only courteous behavior here.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“As I was saying. Her client is mentally ill, sees hallucinations, can’t be around knives, that type of thing.”

“What? This is crazy. That’s a lie—”

Justice Strand eyes me sternly. “Ms.—,” he starts, before realizing he doesn’t know my name. He looks down at the papers as Mike quickly says, “Grant.”

“Ms. Grant,” Strand continues. “You’re not doing your client any favors. No interruptions. You’ll have your turn later.”

Risa nods as though justice has been restored. “Thank you, Your Honor. So the father, Robert Walker—incidentally, Your Honor, a community pillar, I’m sure you’re familiar with him—hundreds of people would speak for his integrity, competence, valor, heart. Really, he is just an incredible human being, a beacon to all. Every time he and I meet, I am blown away by his character. And I do not say that about just anyone. Anyway, the father was devastated at his ex-wife’s desertion, but he stepped up. He’s become, well, he’s become superdad, prioritizing these kids, being their rock, their champion.