The Love Wars (31 page)

It’s a well-exercised reflex for me to silently erase whatever Duck says about Caleb as soon as she says it—select, highlight, delete—but I have to consider: maybe she’s seen things more clearly than I’ve given her credit for.

“This time, you went for the real connection. Not the bait and switch, not something you conjured in your head.”

“Except that there’s no real connection between me and Henry.”

“I don’t know. My guess is it’s just bad timing.”

“Whatever. It sucks.”

“Yeah.”

We sit in silence for a minute. I get up from the couch, shifting forward my right shoulder and then my left in a stretch-shrug. “Thanks for calling, Duck. I’ve got to prep for tomorrow.”

“Right, good luck. I meant to ask about that. Your thing is tomorrow, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, I’m invested now, even though I still don’t entirely understand what you’re doing and why. So please let me know how it goes, whatever it is.”

“I will.”

“So, go get ’em. Whoever they are.”

____

T
his is my sophisticated and elaborate plan for covering my tracks on
Walker v. Walker
trial days, which are scattered like thunderstorms throughout the end of summer: as soon as I wake up, when my voice is still scratchy with sleep, I call the office and leave a voice mail for Kim, hoping it sounds like a sore throat. I’m not sure that the excuse will hold up, but so far so good.

Yesterday, day one, went by in a blur of nerves. Fern did well on her direct testimony and came across as I had hoped: responsible, loving, likable. But it’s time for Risa’s cross-examination, and I can tell that Fern, clenching her jaw in the witness booth, is nervous as she waits for Risa to begin.

Strand tries for the second time to move things along. “Ms. McDunn, your witness.”

Risa doesn’t acknowledge him.

“Ms. McDunn”—Strand coughs deliberately—“whenever you’re ready.”

Risa sits motionless, staring into space, red coils of hair atop her head in a regal bun. Her eyes are narrowed—they might be closed entirely—and her lips move ever so slightly. I can’t tell what she’s saying—perhaps she’s visualizing a perfect cross-examination, perhaps remembering her grocery list, perhaps summoning the dark arts. Graham is standing up at the table, a
flurry of activity, stacking and restacking files, bunching, grouping, clipping.

After a few seconds of silent chanting, Risa stands up quickly, as if clapped awake by a hypnotist. She briskly wipes her hands together and tilts her head to the side.

“Ms. Walker.”

“Yes.” Fern’s shoulders bunch together as she slants her torso toward the microphone.

“You testified yesterday you had postpartum depression.”

“Yes, after Connor. Yes. It was rough.”

“Postpartum can be serious. Usually suicidal thoughts accompany it.”

“Objection,” I say.

“Withdrawn.” Risa continues. “So, you were depressed, clinically depressed, for a period of over a year only two years ago?”

“I had postpartum depression years ago.” There’s an edge to Fern’s voice.

“And in the two years since then, have you ever been depressed?”

“Depressed? No,” says Fern.

“Humph. You’re sure?”

Graham hands Risa a paper and she looks at it, nodding.

“You’re saying you never e-mailed anyone in the last few months to say, quote—I don’t know how I can keep going—end quote?”

“Objection.” Both Roland and I shout, standing, at the same time.

Roland speaks first. “Your Honor, inadmissible on two grounds, no pretrial discovery under Rule Four Hundred and Eight, and it’s hearsay.”

Risa stands there with a small smile. “I’m not admitting this into evidence, Your Honor. I’m just asking Ms. Walker whether she wrote a statement like that over the last few months.”

Strand nods. “Okay, you can answer.”

Fern looks nervously at me. “I don’t remember,” she says.

“You don’t remember whether you made such a dramatic declaration?”

“I might have, but I was probably talking about not seeing—”

“Just yes or no. Is that a statement you could have made?”

“Yes.”

Risa keeps Fern for hours, interrogating her about one blind date she went on with a deadbeat dad; how Connor and Anna reacted to the first visit with her; the history of mental illness in her family. Risa asks each question in a tone designed to make Fern feel like a criminal. I want to scream.

Strand lets us take a brief recess during the second hour and I stagger to the ladies’ room. Despite the grossness of the sink and the fact that I had applied mascara—not waterproof—this morning, I bend over the cracked porcelain sink, splashing cold water on my face until my fingertips are numb. I’m in the hallway, girding myself to walk back into the courtroom, when someone taps my arm and I turn.

“Hey, Roland.”

“That got a little crazy in there,” he says.

“Indeed.” At this point, I know better than to try and talk shop with him.

He waits for a few beats. “Thing is, it’s kind of like she’s fighting a different case than the one I’ve been on.”

“A different case?”

“Exactly.”

“What do you mean?”

He tugs his ear. “Just an impression.”

I notice it as soon as Risa resumes her questioning about the day Connor went to the emergency room—she’s still playing her own game, hammering away that Fern is an unfit parent. But things have changed, because we’ve made them change; Fern
has proven herself over the course of the year. I’m not sure why Risa isn’t acknowledging this shift, but perhaps her rigidity is stagnation, not strength.

I know exactly what I have to do with my cross-examination of Robert.

__________

O
ur team—me, Fern and Jenny—spends our lunch break at the diner across the street from the court. After picking at a turkey club, I leave the rest of the group to prepare for the afternoon. The hall outside Strand’s part is empty, so I grab my usual bench and start reviewing my notes.

“Mols? Molly?”

There, wearing a monochromatic black suit and turtleneck, is Liz.

“Hi.” I quickly clamp shut my manila folder with
Marie Washington Direct, Walker v. Walker
typed across the top, and then, trying to look casual, open my bag and shove it in.

“What are you doing here? I thought you were out sick.”

I cough. “I am sick. I took a lot of meds.”

“You don’t look sick. You look great, actually.”

“Makeup. Lots of makeup.”

“But what case do you have in Brooklyn?”

“Oh, it’s a new one. I’m filing an Order to Show Cause.”

“You get it signed already?”

“I just have to pick it up at the clerk’s office. I’m early.”

“What case?”

“Walk—Walken.”

“Like the actor?”

“What?”

“The actor, you know, Christopher Walken?”

“Um. Yes, like him, but not him.”

“Any relation?”

“I don’t think so, no.”

“Really? I’ve never heard the name anywhere else. And he is from New York, you know.”

“No, I’m pretty sure. No relation.”

“Well, I love him. You have to tell me if you get to meet him.”

“Um, okay. Listen, Liz, I’m still kind of out of it. Don’t tell anyone you saw me, please. I don’t want them to think I can function. So why are you here?”

She nods and rolls her eyes. “It’s new. The parties live in Brooklyn Heights and wanted us to file here. It should settle, but there’ve been some discovery issues, so I had to come down today and talk to the clerk. Pain in the ass.”

“So inconvenient. What discovery issues?”

Liz sits down and starts filling me in, just happy to commiserate on the ins and outs of work. She is probably five minutes away from offering to wait for me while I get my papers signed so that we can grab frozen yogurt together after court.

And here I am, willing her to keep talking as I half listen, lying about everything from my health to my reasons for being here. All I want to do is lose her so I can go back to focusing on
Walker v. Walker
. I feel like an asshole, and for a split second, I am tempted to tell Liz what’s really going on. But I know I can’t—it’s too long of a story, she’d have too many questions and couldn’t just knowing what I’m doing get her in trouble?

I glance at my watch. Fifteen minutes before our trial resumes, and while I am pretty sure Risa and Robert will waltz in late, Roland is consistently prompt. I want to avoid seeing him—he has taken to greeting me somewhat warmly—lest it inspire a new round of questions from Liz.

I stand up quickly and Liz follows suit, using her palms to smooth the wrinkles out of her pants.

“Let me walk you out on my way to the clerk’s office,” I say. “I want to check on the papers again. So, you were saying, Strand is appointing a discovery master? What’s he like anyway?”

Liz smiles and continues her story as I lead her down the hall and toward the elevators.

__________

A
t five o’clock, Strand breaks for the day. Risa finally released Fern and we’ve started her redirect examination. As we file out, I notice a man on the benches outside, waiting for Strand, whose day apparently isn’t done. Perhaps judges do work harder than I realized, I think, taking in the guy’s scruffy beard, wire-rimmed glasses and long shaggy brown hair. Typical bewildered divorcé, I think, giving him a sympathetic smile. He smiles back.

____

L
ooking at the new girl trapped in Everett’s office is so familiar it’s like watching an old home movie. Her at-the-ready posture: legs crossed, leaning forward, pen in hand, legal pad on knee, stuck, as Everett yammers on about Atlantic beaches versus Pacific beaches or something equally relevant. Jane joined the matrimonial group at Bacon Payne a full week ago and I have yet to even invite her to lunch. But I can do one better. I lean my face in Everett’s doorway.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey, Molly. What’s up?” Everett swivels his chair around. “We were just talking about all of the Jewish holidays.”

“Really?” I say. “For what case?”

“It’s never too early to learn.” Jane nods her head solemnly. “Everett was explaining everything. I had no idea there were so many.” She gazes at him, her eyes pools of appreciation. Man, she’s good.

“Yeah. Um, Everett? I could be wrong, but I think I heard Lillian on the phone talking about Goldburg or Greenburg?”

“Goldburg?” He sits upright and grabs a pen. “Um, what was she—well, okay.” He turns to Jane. “Stay here. I’ll be back in fifteen.”

I feel almost bad as he hurries out of the door but lean my head in farther and speak in a stage whisper. “Just go, you’re free.”

Jane looks at me, brow furrowed. “But Everett said I should—”

“It doesn’t matter. You’ll be fine—just go and hide. Thank me later.”

“Oh, that’s okay. I’ll wait here.” She gives me a look that implies I am a crazy person.

“You don’t need rescuing?”

She shakes her head.

“Everything’s going well?”

Jane nods vigorously.

“You like working with Everett?”

She beams. “That’s the best part. I love Everett. He’s totally taken me under his wing. He is such a good teacher and so detail-oriented. No partner at my old firm ever spent this much time with me.”

“Okay, then. Glad to hear you’re liking it so far.”

Jane gives a simple, genuine nod, as if to say,
Of course I do. What on earth would I not like about this place?

Sure,
I think, rolling my eyes as soon as my back is to her,
what’s not to like about the matrimonial group at Bacon Payne?

I walk by Henry’s office, avoiding looking in, of course, but hearing him on the phone, doing his job. I pass one of the conference rooms. Liz is in there, meeting with a client, gesturing wildly, her curls bobbing.
No, really
, I think again, with slightly less sarcasm.
There’s a lot not to like, but what’s to be so bitter about?

Henry, Liz and Rachel, and now Jane, are able to take it all in stride. Maybe the fact that I’ve struggled so much here—with the authority, the demands, the hours, the responsibility—says as much about me as it does about the firm. Sure, the bosses are crazy and phony, but let’s face it: these days, so am I.

__________

F
ive minutes later I’m back at my desk when Kim buzzes. “Linesevenforyou.”

“Who is it?” I say, but she has already transferred the call.

“Liesel Billings here.”

Her tone makes my skin freeze. “Hi, Liesel.”

“Listen, Stewart is at it again. He’s now claiming my art collection is marital property.” She laughs without any musicality, three staccato syllables:
Ha. Ha. Ha.
“Apparently he met some appraiser and realized how much everything is worth.”

I am speechless, a state that Liesel unsurprisingly interprets as an invitation to keep talking.

“I knew he was going to find every opportunity to drag me to court. Didn’t I tell you this is exactly what he would do? Anyway, I’m not calling to chat. I need you to e-mail the cat motion papers.”

I find my voice. “Sure. You don’t have them?”

“I have the hard copies, but my new lawyers—I’m not quite sure about whether everything is screwed on straight there—should use them as a template. You know, the papers were pretty well done.”

I nearly fall off my chair. “That’s really nice to hear, Liesel. Thank you.”

“It really was as much my doing as yours. And I will definitely need to change some of the things you put in, but they were a decent start.”

“Right.”

“Molly, one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“I was thinking about you when I realized I needed these papers, and I wasn’t sure you knew how difficult things were for me during that first year.”

“I had an idea.”

“You’ll be heartened to know that I’m finally starting to realize I’m better off without him.”

“I’m really glad to hear it.”

“And,” says Liesel, her rat-a-tat cadence not slowing down, “I wish that you had gotten to see me at my best.”