The Love Wars (17 page)

Within minutes, the other parties wrap up their business and Linda calls out for the parties on Billings. Justice Love addresses both Lillian and Ethan in a clipped, professional tone that makes me almost forget that Justice and Mr. Love were guests at Lillian and Roger’s Hamptons home last summer.

During direct testimony, Ethan tries as hard as he can, pacing across the courtroom on his tree-trunk legs, furrowing his white brow in concern as Stew testifies about how much Pepe LeMew, Pickles von Ketchup and Princess Fifi mean to him.

Stew trots out the arguments from his motion papers—that he and Liesel always intended to make the cats into a profitable showing and breeding business and that, as such, they are joint property. I’m getting whiplash from his testimony: during some points, he gets very emotional about the cats, referring to them as his “everything”; at other points, it’s like he’s talking about bars of gold. Lillian, her glasses on, scribbles notes on the legal pad that I had set up beside her. When Ethan finishes, she doesn’t even bother to glance at what she’s written, walking right up to Stew.

“Hello, Mr. Billings.” Her tone is friendly, sincere.

“Hello,” Stewart says, blinking rapidly.

“You testified about Article One, Provision Four, of Exhibit One, the Prenuptial Agreement?”

“Yes.” Stewart swallows.

Lillian hands the court officer the agreement, who presents it to Stewart. “Could you read that for me, please?”

“‘In regards to any joint venture started after the date of the marriage, and to which joint venture both parties contribute in any way, including but not limited to contributions of monies, time and/or effort, same joint venture shall be and remain joint property.’” Stewart’s voice gains confidence as he reads and when done, he looks up triumphantly.

“You started a joint business during the year after your marriage?”

“Yes.”

“It was called Game, Set, Match Up?”

“Yes.”

“It was a matchmaking service?”

“Yes, matchmaking through tennis lessons.”

Lillian pauses and I imagine all of us in the courtroom, save Stewart and Liesel, are contemplating the mechanics of combining these two services. “And does it still exist?”

“No, it folded about eighteen months after we started it.”

“And when you started the venture, did you file with the State of New York?”

“Yes.”

“You incorporated?”

“Yes.”

“And did the corporation issue stock?”

“Yes.”

“And who owned the company’s stock?”

“My wife and I did.”

“Both of you, jointly?”

“Yes.”

“And did you file a corporate tax return for each year you operated?”

“Yes.”

And it goes on like that. Politely, cleanly, effectively, Lillian first makes clear the legitimacy of Game, Set, Match Up and Stewart’s expectation of income from it, however frustrated. Then she walks Stewart through the acquisition process and the cats’ lack of show experience. There’s no dramatic moment—nothing like in
A Few Good Men
, when Jack Nicholson roars that Tom Cruise can’t handle the truth—but Lillian meticulously picks away at Stewart’s testimony. By the time she’s finished, it’s impossible to imagine that Stewart and Liesel ever had plans for the cats beyond scratching behind their ears and occasionally waving around a laser pointer for them to chase.

After Stewart’s turn on the stand, Liesel is sworn in. Her delivery is slightly hostile and defensive, but she credibly establishes that the cats were purchased—in her name—to be pets. Lillian completes her questions and Ethan eases up from his seat with considerable effort. When, after about fifteen minutes, he asks Liesel who was responsible for grooming the cats, Liesel’s lips purse.

Seeing her expression, Ethan moves closer. “You didn’t like the way Stewart groomed the cats?”

“Objection,” says Lillian. “Out of the scope of direct testimony.”

“Ms. Billings testified that she spent time on the day-to-day care of them. I’m just exploring that, Your Honor,” says Ethan.

Judge Love nods. “I’ll allow it.”

“What I didn’t like,” says Liesel, leaning back conversationally, “was how he’d say he’d groom the cats and never did.”

“He didn’t follow through?”

“That’s putting it delicately. He is a complete loaf of a human
being. I would have to ask him fifteen times to do anything. I mean, I was working all day, paying for everything, and he couldn’t even take care of the cats. It was too much for him. So yes, the day-to-day care and distribution of jobs was a source of tension.”

“Fifteen times? That sounds like a lot.”

Liesel snorts. “Please, if anything, that’s a lowball estimate. Once”—she shakes her head at the memory—“Pickles had a fatty tumor, so I asked Stewart to take her to the vet.”

It takes some effort to stop from repeatedly banging my forehead against the defense table.

“Pickles had a tumor?”

“Objection,” says Lillian, “way off course.”

Liesel rolls her eyes and holds up her hands at Lillian. Judge Love, who has been scribbling on a pad in front of her, slowly turns her head toward Liesel in stupefied disbelief. Ethan’s sizable mouth drops open. Oblivious, Liesel continues, leaning forward in the witness seat. “It was a fatty tumor, not harmful, but unsightly. They protrude and continue to grow until they become a real problem. How many times do you think I asked Stewart to take Pickles in? How many times? Seventeen. I know because I made a spreadsheet of each time I asked him.” Liesel spits and fumes like a Joan Crawford impersonator. “Finally, I had to hire someone else to take the cat to the vet. Can you imagine that? He”—Liesel points to Stewart—“has no job and I still have to arrange to outsource a vet appointment. And he claims to love these cats?” She stares down Ethan Crosby as though he’s personally responsible for Pickles’s tumor; apparently she doesn’t give a crap about sucking up to her boss’s third-grader.

Lillian stares at Liesel through narrowed eyes, her fists gripping her pen so tightly that her knuckles are white.

Ethan nods as though he completely feels Liesel’s pain. “So if it wasn’t a dangerous tumor, why was it so important?”

“Because Pickles is an F1 Savannah pedigreed purebred. She was bred from a long line of show cats, including three Grand Champions and five National Winners, and cost me twenty thousand dollars. If she had a tumor hanging off her goddamned gut, she’d be worth nothing, a complete and utter waste of decades of work.”

Ethan steps back, looking more surprised than victorious. He clears his throat uncertainly. “No further questions.”

On redirect, Lillian tries to clean up, emphasizing that Liesel and Stewart had not made any money from Pickles, no matter how expensive she had been.

I expect a scene as I pack up our files, but Lillian flutters around saying her good-byes as she normally does. We file out of the courtroom and into the elevator. As the doors close behind us, Liesel smiles confidentially. “That went well.”

“We’re not discussing it here,” Lillian says.

Liesel purses her lips in annoyance but, amazingly, says nothing as we emerge from the elevator and walk in awkward silence through the rotunda and down the steps of the building. On the sidewalk outside, right next to the security station, Lillian stops abruptly and turns around, crossing her arms across her chest and giving Liesel a deliberate once-over.

“It went well? It went well for me. I put on the best damn case anyone could for you. But you? You were hands down the worst witness I have ever seen in my life. Interrupting your own lawyer? Holding up your hands at me? I know you’ve made yourself a lot of money, sweetheart, but you must be the dumbest bitch I’ve ever represented, and I’ve represented some real dummies.”

Liesel’s face drains of color until it’s a violent, vampiric white. “It had to be said. He was making it sound like I was crazy to be upset.”

“Bullshit. That’s his job. And your job was to talk about what
I told you to talk about. All you had to do was listen to my instructions and pretend to be pleasant for a fucking hour. Too much of a challenge for you, apparently.”

“I was telling the truth.”

“I’m glad you feel good about it, but just so you understand how this went—this should’ve been a slam dunk, but after your la-la land performance in there, Pickles von Pepe or whatever the fuck you named her might well be spending her days with that doughnut you married.” Lillian barks out a caustic laugh. “I really get why Molly can’t stand you.”

I fix my eyes on the building across the street and feel my cheeks redden.

Lillian continues. “Probably the only person who likes you right now is Ethan Crosby, because you gave his case a fighting chance in hell. We will remain your attorneys on record until the decision comes in, but after that, we’re done. Come on, Molly.”

I touch Liesel’s arm and whisper, “Sorry,” but she doesn’t respond. As Lillian walks away, Liesel stands frozen in the middle of the sidewalk, her jaw hanging open.

Scurrying after Lillian, I feel terrible and I’m not sure why. My days of handling Liesel are over, and that is cause to rejoice. As many times as I’ve imagined ripping into her in the way Lillian has just done, though, there was nothing satisfying about it. I feel a little ashamed, actually. Watching her crash and burn on the stand made me cringe, but it also made me realize that beneath her negligible interpersonal skills, Liesel is crying out for an audience. Granted, it might have been a bit smarter to unload on a therapist rather than her husband’s divorce lawyer, but she’s staying on message: she needs the world to know that she’s in pain and it’s Stewart’s fault.

There’s no amount of money that would make me represent Liesel again, but still, some part of me wishes I had had this epiphany before today.

____

T
he phone connection to my mom is crackly and fading in that way that immediately identifies she’s not only on a cell phone but also in transit and indeed, she tells me, “I’m here!”

I look out the window of my office, half-expecting her to appear outside my window, levitating by the thirty-seventh floor. “How was the flight?”

“Heaven.”

“Which part—the middle seat or the three-hour delay on a hot tarmac?”

“I sat. I read. I sipped the drink someone thoughtfully brought to me.”

“Where are you now?”

“Aymade is driving me.” A friendly male voice corrects her pronunciation and she repeats after him. “Ah-med, oh sorry, like red, I get it. Ahmed is taking me down the FDR Drive now. What time is dinner?”

“Six.”

“Isn’t that too early for you to leave work?” My mom sounds worried, like my priorities are all wrong, joyriding instead of studying for the big test tomorrow. “Molly? I don’t want to get you into trouble.”

“It’s August. It’s slow. It’s fine.” We have the same conversation each visit, but I especially appreciate the irony now; as if,
with all the fireballs I’m juggling, leaving the office at six on a Friday would be the thing to fell me. “How’s Dad?”

“Sad he had to stay, but hopefully distracted by working on payroll.”

For as long as I can remember, the demands of Cheddar and Better have dictated an alternating “man-on-man” visitation schedule: Mom hangs with me; Dad babysits the store. Partner swap. Repeat. One unforeseen benefit of this is that I can assure my clients with a straight face that little Emma will be no worse off after spending Saturday alone with Dad and Sunday alone with Mom. If anything, I tell them, it will strengthen and deepen their children’s individual relationships with their parents, encourage real and honest conversations. Perhaps I should start telling my clients that their coparenting schedule will imbue their children with an independent spirit, as I have no plans to engage in a deep and honest conversation with my mom this weekend. My goal is to get through the weekend without disclosing the following: my role in the Walker case, my fear of Lillian, my flirtation with Caleb, about whom my parents know nothing.

The rest of the afternoon ticks by, and I’m in the middle of a conference call with Sully, a private investigator—Kira Wades has been adamant that her husband has offshore accounts, which we’ve been trying to track down—when I hear effusive laughter from a few doors down. It’s a little too loud, a little too forced—
Ha! Ha! Ha!

Lillian must be on a walkabout.

When Lillian is truly bored, she breaks free of her office and goes roaming around the halls. It’s like a geriatric rock legend going on tour; it doesn’t happen all that frequently, but when it does, we—her adoring public—are supposed to show up and swarm the stage (i.e., locate the office where she’s landed and crowd in like skipping, smiling teenagers in a music video), no matter how feeble the show actually is.

On the other end of the phone, Sully hems and haws about how this search didn’t find anything, but maybe if the client throws, I dunno, another couple thousand at the search, he’ll be able to get me some information.

There’s a shriek from down the hall—
“You’re too much! Ha! Ha! Ha!”
—and I shift in my seat. It’s like missing someone’s birthday party, even if you never really clicked with the birthday girl; even if they’re having it at the roller rink and you hate skating; even if they’re serving one of those giant submarine sandwiches composed primarily of bread that tastes like cardboard. It’s screwed up, but you still don’t want to show up at school on Monday when they’re all reminiscing about the group skate to Journey, so I hang up with Sully and rush down the hall to Rachel’s office.

“Lillian’s evening plans were canceled,” says Liz, and I can tell by her tone that this is a warning as much as a celebration. “And she’s taking us for manicures!”

“Wow.”

“Five thirty.” Lillian grants a beneficent smile. “Kim’s calling Svetlana now. We knew you’d want in, so I’m having her make four reservations.”

“Great,” I say, my voice ringing with phony joy as my brain skips ahead to my evening plans. If I tell my mom that my boss required my presence, she’ll understand and we can just push dinner back a half hour. It will be fine.