The Love Wars (32 page)

I nod, knowing that for Liesel, this is an apology. “I understand, Liesel.”

In the weeks after the Cat Hearing, a sense of guilt had motivated me to track down Liesel and Stewart’s wedding announcement. I found it in that staple of newspapers everywhere, the section celebrating dewy-eyed newlyweds, neatly summarizing their lives in achievement-heavy blurbs. Especially heartbreaking was the photo of the two of them, their heads pressed eye to eye, shining with promises that I knew would be broken.

But there’s a postscript to Liesel’s heartbreak—it takes strength to figure out the way to move beyond a broken promise, and it makes me wonder, why isn’t there a section devoted to those on the other side of the vows? “Betsy, teacher (42), who knew it was over when Mike forgot her birthday for the fifth consecutive year and hopes to keep the house,” or “Peter, a computer programmer (40), who never saw it coming and whose primary concern is that the kids be raised Jewish.” It will never happen—no one wants to linger on the sad truth that vows don’t last forever. But still, it would be something to acknowledge the courage and tenacity and flexibility of those ready to start over.

____

B
y now, I have enough experience in Strand’s courtroom to know whether he’s paying attention when I’m examining a witness. He has not taken his eyes off forensic expert Gary Newkirk, PhD.

This fascination, I’m sure, has to do more with Newkirk’s appearance than his testimony. The rest of the witnesses have been indistinguishable in their neutral suits and neat hair. Not Newkirk. From the neck down, he looks like a clerk at one of those office supply superstores: light blue button-down shirt tucked into precuffed generic khaki pants. From the neck up, however, it’s another story. I’m not sure if the clumps in his gray and white hair are technically dreadlocks, but if not, they have serious potential. And though his hair is pulled back in a ponytail, not much of his face is visible, thanks to his substantial beard and large-framed glasses. It’s as though Santa Claus became a huge fan of Phish and spent the off-season following them around the country, adopting the style of their fans.

Thankfully, Newkirk’s appearance is the only surprising thing about him. Sure, his voice is a little surfer-inflected and he says “Mmmmm” too frequently in response to questions, confusing the record. His testimony, though, has been spot-on for Fern: this is a textbook case of alienation of affection caused by Robert Walker; Robert has not been acting in the children’s best interest; Fern should have sole custody. Check, check, check.

When I rest, I look over at the defense table, although I already know what each one of them is doing. Graham hurriedly stacks and restacks papers; Risa, wrapped in some ridiculously heavy silvery fabric given the eighty-five-degree August day, channels her inner Wiccan; Robert scowls over his BlackBerry. Finally, Risa stands up quickly, as if poked by a pin.

“
Dr.
Newkirk,” she says, her voice accenting his title just enough to indicate skepticism. Never mind that the guy’s CV was read into the transcript earlier today and included three Ivy League universities.

“Mmmm.”

“What did you do on the night of July fifteenth last year?”

“Objection.” I stand up as Newkirk blinks and starts to scratch his beard. “I don’t see how Dr. Newkirk’s evenings are relevant here, Your Honor.”

Strand nods agreeably. “Yes, yes. Counselor, where are you going with this?”

“Withdrawn, Your Honor. Dr. Newkirk. Please ignore that last question. On September sixteenth, you met with Robert Walker?”

“Um, yes. On September sixteenth and also another time the following month, I think. Can I look at my calendar? Mmmmm. October.”

“Yes, well, thank you for answering beyond my question,” says Risa, “but please stick to what I’ve asked you. What time did you meet with the father?”

“Um, hmmm. It must have been midmorning. Ten, ten thirty, something like that.”

“And, did you—well, excuse me for asking this, hopefully this won’t embarrass you and perhaps I’m wrong, hopefully I’m wrong—but did you partake in the use of any illegal substances on the evening of September fifteenth?”

“Objection, Your Honor.” I stand as quickly as I can. “Dr. Newkirk should be advised to plead the Fifth.”

Dr. Newkirk waves his hand. “It’s only a matter of time before they legalize it,” he says.

Strand shrugs. “Continue.”

Newkirk raises his shoulders. “Hmmmm. I don’t really remember.” Is he grinning under that beard? It’s hard to tell but Newkirk doesn’t sound embarrassed. He sounds nostalgic.

“Let me help you out,
Dr.
Newkirk. On September fifteenth, you went to go see the Allman Brothers at the, um—” Risa pronounces it All-Man, as though she’s describing a Navy Seals unit or a Chippendales show.

“At the Beacon. Go every year. But you’re right, because usually it’s in March, but not this year. I do remember that.” He is smiling under his beard.

“Thank you, right. The Beacon Theatre, where you go to see the All-Man Brothers every year. And while at the All-Man Brothers concert, did you partake in using any illegal substances?”

“Objection.” This time it’s Roland.

Strand blinks. “I’ll allow this.”

“I don’t really remember. That was many moons ago.” Dr. Newkirk starts to chuckle.

“Is it possible?”

“Objection.” I try again.

Risa presses her hands together and brings them to her lips. “Your Honor. It’s entirely relevant to determine what kind of mind-set
Dr.
Newkirk was in….”

“Let’s just…see where this goes.” Strand looks intrigued, like a kid who just discovered a stash of
Playboy
s in the attic and isn’t ready to put them back under the mattress. Apparently the Allman Brothers never play Mayberry.

“Is it possible, Dr. Newkirk, that you used an illegal substance on September fifteenth?”

He nods. “It’s pretty likely.”

“And which substance was that?”

“Not sure entirely. Probably just a little marijuana.”

“Okay, so within twenty-four hours of your meeting with Robert Walker, you used marijuana?”

“Hmmmm. Well, to be fair, I’d say I probably used marijuana.”

“Okay. Let me rephrase. Within hours of a crucial interview with Robert Walker, you ‘probably used marijuana’?”

“Hmmmm.” Dr. Newkirk nods his head slowly. “I can agree with that.”

“Is it possible you were still feeling the effects of those illegal substances during your meetings with Robert Walker?”

Finally, at this, Newkirk’s mellow is harshed; he appears to be frowning, based on the creases that appear in his forehead. “Oh, no way. There’s no way.”

Risa arranges her features exaggeratedly, skepticism radiating off her raised eyebrows and twisted mouth. “Of course not,” she says, all mock innocence. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

I glance over expecting to see Robert looking smug as the proverbial canary-swallowing cat. Instead, his head is down and his jaw is clenched. And his forearms are moving almost imperceptibly, which any law firm associate would recognize as the mark of clandestine BlackBerry typing. Fern looks at me uncertainly and I try for a reassuring smile.

We both glance down at my feet, distracted, as we hear the barely perceptible buzz of my BlackBerry in the bottom of my bag, which I’ve stashed under the table.

She leans in. “It was buzzing like crazy during your questions.”

I reach into my bag without looking down and feel around until I’ve pressed the off button.

Strand nods at Roland. “Your witness, Mr. Williams.”

Roland walks over to a spot directly in front of the witness stand. “Dr. Newkirk. I must remind you again that you are free to plead the Fifth to any of these questions I’m about to ask you.”

Dr. Newkirk looks at his fingers and nods.

“Were you high or under the influence of any drugs or substances when you met with Robert Walker?”

“No way.”

“Were you high or under the influence when you met with Fern Walker?”

“Nope.”

“Were you high or under the influence when you met with Anna or Connor Walker?”

“Nope.”

“Were you high or under the influence when you wrote your report for this case?”

“No, for sure no.”

“Okay. Thank you for clearing that up. Now I have a few questions about the parental alienation study that you were citing, the McLarnen report. What year was that done?”

Newkirk clears his throat and launches into a cogent explanation of how the study is applicable to the Walker case. I breathe a sigh of relief.

A little later, when Strand releases Newkirk and dismisses us for the day, Robert bolts up and out of the courtroom, his BlackBerry pressed to his ear. Claire says something to Risa and hurries after him.

I look at Fern. “Any clue what’s going on there?”

She looks hopeful. “Maybe he’s interviewing new lawyers.”

I grimace. “At this point, even Risa would be preferable to starting fresh.”

Fern looks like she can’t imagine that would be true. “Should I worry about Newkirk’s testimony?”

“I don’t think so. Even our president has admitted to drug use. Just more lawyering by sensationalism.”

“So, you still think we’ll be done by next week?”

“I do.” Strand has us booked for two days next week and Claire and Robert are the only witnesses left.

As I hold open the heavy courtroom door for Fern, I spot the same scruffy man who was there a few months ago. He’s leaning against the wall and holding on to the strap of his courier bag. It’s four thirty-five, but he’s got a big smile, like he doesn’t know what’s about to hit him. I once again feel a surge of pity for this poor unrepresented soul.

“Hi again,” he says.

“Hello.”

“I’m Ari.”

“Nice to meet you, Ari.” I gesture back into the courtroom. “He’s all yours.”

He grins—wide and a little goofy—his eyes locking into mine. “You’re a lawyer?”

“I am.”

“What’s your name?”

Fern pats my arm. “This is Molly Grant. She’s WON-der-ful.” She drags out the word, emphasizing each syllable and sounding like a Disney princess.

“Grant,” he says. “Can you spell that?”

“G-R-A-N-T, like it sounds,” says Fern.

“And you do custody trials?”

“Of course,” says Fern. “She’s doing one right now.”

“Do you have a card?”

“No, sorry. Not on me, but good luck, Ari.”

“Hi,” he says to Fern, extending a hand. “I’m Ari.”

“Yes, I heard.” She smiles. “I’m Fern.”

“See you later, Ari,” I say, grabbing Fern’s arm and pulling her past as Ari, apparently the friendliest divorce litigant in the world, stands and waves at us, still smiling.

“You should really have given him a card,” she says. “He could be a potential client. Practice-building 101.”

“Thanks, Fern. I appreciate the good word, but let me get my employment situation straight before I start adding clients.”

“Oh, right.”

She reaches into her bag and pulls out her phone. As always, watching another person check her messages makes me itchy to check my own phone, which starts ringing as I turn it on. It’s Henry, calling me for the first time in months. I have no idea how to even talk to him anymore, so I press Ignore, at which point I see I have seventeen texts waiting in the wings. Seventeen texts!

I scroll through quickly. A few from Duck, a handful from Rachel and Liz. All of them are variations on
call me
and
where r u?

Fern has her phone pressed to her ear, so she and I mime good-byes to each other as I dial Duck.

She picks up on the first ring. “Well, hello, wayyyy too yellow, and wayyyyy too clunky.”

“Huh?”

“Oh, sorry. Checking out an end table. So, apparently there is big workplace drama round your parts.”

“What? Wait, why are you the one telling me this?”

“Henry called me because he was having trouble reaching you. Are you guys talking again?”

“No.”

“Well, here. Wait a sec. I took notes because I knew I wouldn’t remember. Okay, so apparently Lillian was looking for you and had a mini-meltdown at the office.”

“Oh, God. What did she do?”

“I don’t really know details. There was something about her going into your office and yelling, slamming doors.” She pauses as if actually imagining the scene. “I’m sorry. That sounds like a total tantrum. What will you do?”

“I don’t know.” I bite the side of my thumbnail. “Any thoughts?”

“Well, maybe it will all blow over by the time you’re back.
Oh, and there’s something else—I’m supposed to read you a blurb from that ‘Nitty Gritty City’ column.” She clears her throat dramatically. “‘Robert Walker, reclusive head of Options Communications, has been battling it out in custody court with his ex. Word is things are getting nasty.’” She trills the last word to make it singsongy. “Okay, that’s it.”

“Oh, that’s it? What a relief.” I raise my voice. “Are you kidding me? What else could there be?”

“Eggplant meets violet. What is that, purple? No, the purple. Where did you find it?”

“Focus, Duck. Jesus.”

“Sorry, Rico again. No, nothing else. This is your mystery case, I assume?”

“Yep.”

“I wouldn’t really worry about it. I’ve never heard of the guy and you’re not even mentioned. And it’s clearly a slow news day. The top blurb is about how some reality star was spotted at Home Depot in the faucet aisle. I mean, how desperate can you be? B&B Italia is blocks away.” Duck snorts. “But you should call Henry. He sounded very shaken up—or is it shook up—shaken up? Anyway, he sounded very unsettled on your behalf.”

“Okay, I’ll let him know you got me,” I say, knowing I’ll do no such thing; I can’t stomach pity from Henry right now. “Well, thanks. Really. So wonderful to hear that my career is in such dire straits.”

“That place sucks. Getting fired would be the best thing to happen to you, I promise.”

“So, you’ll get your rich husband to pay off my student loans?”

Duck laughs as though I am joking. “Always keep that sense of humor, girl.” She hangs up the phone.