“Who cares? Half the people our law firm represents are the scum of the earth. The question you need to ask yourself is, is it winnable? Can we get a judgement in our client’s favor and make our money? Contingency fees, baby, they’re a beautiful thing.”
Arriving at the Court Street station on that sunny June morning, the two young attorneys squinted as they climbed up the steps from underground into the bright sunlight.
“It’s only a hearing. I could have handled it myself,” said Patrick.
“I know that,” said Danny. “Consider today a working vacation day for you. Relax, I got you covered.”
The hearing they were going to was for a personal injury complaint. Their client, a sleazeball named Ray Baxter, claimed that while dining at The Chili Shack, the owner, Mrs. Joanne Gillespie had spilled a bowl of their spiciest chili, Carolina Grim Reaper, on him while she was serving his food. Baxter claimed that the hotness of the stew and the spicy oils from the hottest pepper in the world permanently injured and scarred his nether regions. According to the year-old police report, after the accident, Mr. Baxter had been incapacitated for months. Mrs. Gillespie explained the only reason the chili ended up on Baxter’s lap was because she tripped over his foot that was sticking out in the aisle.
“It seemed like he did it on purpose,” said Gillespie, shaking her head as if in disbelief. “I’ve never spilled anything on anyone in over twenty years. I’m extremely careful. It was like he wanted me to spill it on him.”
Baxter maintained that Gillespie had used a dangerous amount of the hot chili pepper and heated it to a level that caused first degree burns that resulted in permanent scarring on his upper thighs and groin. Baxter was suing the Gillespies for pain and suffering, disfigurement and lost wages because of the time he took off from work to recover from his injuries. It was Patrick’s law firm’s contention that Ms. Gillespie was at fault because she used the world’s hottest pepper and heated up the chili to a temperature that was reckless and dangerous.
The hearing had been going on for about twenty minutes when Patrick stole a glance at the defendant. Joanne Gillespie, a woman in her fifties had brown hair flecked with gray and soft, gentle brown eyes. She looks like a nice person and this case is total BS. I hope her lawyer knows what he’s doing. Our client is a lying jerk.
“Your Honor,” said Gillespie’s attorney, “Joanne Gillespie and her husband run a small business that supports their entire family. Customers want their chili hot, that’s why they go there, that’s what the restaurant is famous for. The Chili Shack doesn’t heat up their product or use more hot peppers than any other restaurant that sells hot and spicy chili. She’s sorry that Mr. Baxter was hurt, but she in no way believes she is responsible for his injuries.”
“Your Honor,” interrupted Danny Vitello, laying out a number of eight-by-ten glossy photographs in front of the judge, “as you can see from these pictures, Mr. Baxter sustained some pretty serious scarring as a result of Ms. Gillespie’s negligence. No food product should be sold that could injure someone to the extent of Mr. Baxter’s now permanent disfigurement.”
Tears welled up in Joanne Gillespie’s eyes as she gripped her husband’s hand. Patrick glanced over at Baxter who was wearing a self-satisfied smile on his smarmy face.
This is all wrong, thought Patrick. That woman and her family are going to lose everything.
“Is there anything else you’d like me to consider,” the judge asked the defense attorney.
“Yes, Your Honor,” said Gillespie’s attorney. “We’ve recently come across some additional new evidence that supports our client’s innocence.”
Danny shot Patrick a confused look. Patrick smiled at Danny and held up his upturned hands. Before the new evidence could be revealed, a court bailiff approached the judge and whispered something into his ear.
“I’m afraid there is an urgent matter I must attend to immediately. Since it’s nearly lunchtime, we’ll reconvene at two o’clock,” said the judge as he got up from his chair.
As everyone else left the room, Danny pulled Patrick aside, speaking in a loud whisper, “What the hell is Gillespie’s attorney talking about? What new evidence? I don’t like surprises.”
“I have no idea,” said Patrick. “I guess we’ll find out after lunch.”
Danny shook his head and went into a small conference room to return some client calls while Patrick went down to the courthouse coffee shop on the first floor to get some lunch. Walking down a flight of stairs, he passed Joanne Gillespie and her husband coming up. He smiled at her but she only lowered her eyes and looked away.
She thinks I’m the enemy because I’m on the team trying to destroy her business. I totally suck.
While waiting in the coffee shop for his sandwich, Patrick bumped into an old friend from law school. They had both worked together at The Legal Aid Society after they graduated, until Patrick left for greener pastures.
“I can’t believe you’re still at Legal Aid,” said Patrick, shaking his hand.
“Still there. I don’t make the kind of money you do,” he said as they left the coffee shop, “but I feel good at night when I lay my head down on the pillow. Call me, we’ll grab lunch one day. Since you’re the big shot, you can buy.”
The hearing resumed at 2pm sharp. Things weren’t looking good for the Gillespies until their attorney submitted the new evidence to the judge. The documents clearly showed that Patrick’s client, Ray Baxter, had tried this same type of suit a dozen times in twelve different states. The residual scarring in the pictures were the result of an event thirteen years earlier. After a tremendous amount of arguing back and forth, the judge dismissed the case, ordered Baxter to pay Ms. Gillespie’s legal fees and suggested that fraud charges may be coming Baxter’s way. He also reprimanded Danny and Patrick and suggested they do a better job of vetting their clients before they wasted the court’s time.
“They totally owned us with those pictures,” said Danny as he and Patrick rode the subway back into Manhattan.
“Yup,” said Patrick.
“You win some, you lose some,” said Danny with a sardonic smile.
Arriving at their stop in midtown, they climbed up the subway steps and started to walk towards their law office when Patrick suddenly stopped. “It’s a beautiful day and I need to clear my head after that Brooklyn hearing fiasco. I’m going to take a quick walk. Meet you back at the office.”
Standing in line at a coffee shop on Madison and Forty Third Street, Callie ordered a drink and noticed a tall, good-looking man with wavy brown hair across the room waiting for his order. The man was reading a Bar Association newsletter and despite the promise she had made to herself that her search was over, she walked over to him. “Excuse me,” she said. “You’re carrying a legal brief and reading a Bar Association newsletter. Are you an attorney?”
“Guilty,” said the tall man, admiring the pretty girl in front of him.
“What kind of law do you practice?”
“Mainly personal injury.”
It’s him. It’s him. Oh my God, it’s got to be him.
She swallowed as she formulated how she was going to ask her next question without sounding like a lunatic. The words came out slowly. “You have exceptionally long arms and legs… it makes me think you may have done some rowing in the past?”
“I did, actually,” said the man, surprised by her comment.
“You did?” It’s him, it’s got to be him.
“I was on crew for two years in college.”
“Really? Do you like Cheetos?” Callie asked with a big hopeful smile.
“What?”
“Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, do you like them?”
“I don’t eat that kind of crap. I’m into natural foods. I like to work out.”
Whaaa? He doesn’t like Cheetos? “Not even the Flamin’ Hot ones?”
“Especially not those, they’re filled with chemicals,” he said. “And they turn your fingers red.”
&nbs
p; Not willing to give up the dream, she pressed on. “What do you think about term limits for politicians?”
“This is a really random conversation,” said the man, now thinking the pretty girl was a little unbalanced. “I don’t think we need term limits. If someone is doing a good job, let them stay. It’s a free country. Survival of the fittest.”
Callie tried one last time. “When you were a kid, did you have a dog?”
“Again, very random conversation, but yes,” said the man, taking a sip of his coffee.
Yay! Maybe it’s him.
“What kind of dog?” asked Callie, holding her breath.
“A yellow lab.”
She stared at the man for a second until the barista behind the counter shouted, “Callie,” and snapped her out of her trance. She grabbed her drink, muttered, “have a nice day,” over her shoulder and abruptly left the shop, leaving the tall lawyer scratching his head.
Twenty minutes later, Danny wandered into Patrick’s office to talk about the hearing they had been to earlier. After they finished going over the highlights of the case, Danny shared the story of the weird encounter he just had with a blonde in Starbucks. Half listening because Danny often boasted and exaggerated about hot women throwing themselves at him, Patrick suddenly stopped typing.
“What did you say?” said Patrick, looking up.
“She wanted to know if I ever rowed and what I thought about term limits. She asked me what kind of dog I had when I was a kid,” said Danny. “She was hot but clearly had a screw loose. You gotta stay away from women like that. They end up becoming bunny boilers. I’ve had my share of those.”
“What else did she say? What was her name?” Patrick said, standing up, his heart beating faster.
“I don’t remember,” said Danny. “Kelly, Carrie, Colleen, something like that. Why do you care? She was a whack job.”
“What did she look like?” asked Patrick.
“I don’t know, just some girl.”
“Was she tall or short? What color eyes did she have?”
“She wasn’t tall. Like I said, she was hot, that’s the only reason I talked to her. Green, I think her eyes were a blue-green. She kind of looked like that actress.”
“Emma Stone?”
“How the hell did you know that? Yeah, kind of like her. She was cute but clearly unhinged.”
Patrick walked over to his office door. “Which Starbucks was it?”
“The one on Madison and Forty-Third.”
“I’m feeling the afternoon slump. Going out to grab a coffee,” Patrick said as he ran out of the office. Taking the elevator to the ground floor, he walked briskly through Grand Central terminal, streaked past the big antique clock in the center and bolted up the white marble steps on the west side of the train station. Once at the top of the stairs, he pushed through the brass side doors and was soon outside on Vanderbilt Avenue. Sprinting down Forty-Third Street to Madison, he pulled open the front door of the coffee bar. Out of breath, he looked around at every woman in the place. Not a single blonde.
He took out his phone and texted Lorenzo.
Dude, you’re not going to believe it.
The reply came back:
What?
Guy in my office got a coffee on Madison and Forty-Third.
So??
A blonde woman asked him what the biggest problems in politics are.
OK???
She asked him if he had a dog when he was a kid.
And?
It’s the MW. She’s looking for me.
There was a pause, and then Lorenzo responded:
Too much text, I’m facetiming you.
Patrick went outside onto Madison Avenue to talk.
“Paddy,” said Lorenzo, “what the hell are you talking about?”
“Don’t you see?” said Patrick, smiling from ear to ear. “It was her.”
“Some woman asked your colleague his political opinion in a coffee shop and you know it’s her?” said Lorenzo, making a horrified face. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Renzo, she was short and blonde with blue-green eyes and she saw Danny reading a law journal. She asked him if he was a lawyer and when he said yes, she asked him what his favorite type of dog was. She and I talked about how we both loved beagles. I know it’s her!”
Lorenzo stared into his best friend’s eyes and shook his head. “Paddy, we gotta talk.”
24
“You’re going to have weak moments,” said Jess supportively as they walked up Columbus Avenue, discussing Callie’s disastrous meeting with the cute lawyer in the coffee shop earlier that day. “Nobody’s perfect. Netflix and wine tonight? I’ll stop home, pick up a bottle and meet you at your apartment around eight.”
Two hours later, there was a knock on Callie’s apartment door. “It’s open,” she shouted from the couch, wearing an old yoga outfit and sweatshirt with a multi-colored blanket draped over her shoulders.
“Why is your door unlocked?” demanded Jess, pulling the security chain deliberately across the latch. “This is New York City, we lock our doors here. I love New York but remember, we’ve got our share of strange and creepy people, too.”
“What difference does it make?” said a monotone Callie, a medium-sized pot on her lap and a big wooden spoon in her hand.
“Still wallowing?” said Jess as she noticed four or five bowls of comfort food at various stages of consumption littering the coffee table.
“Want some ramen or mac and cheese?” said Callie with no emotion as she pointed to a few of the bowls.
“What do you have in that pot?”
Callie looked down and lifted the big wooden spoon holding some mushy brown stuff and put a big gob into her mouth. “Stove top stuffing. You’re supposed to add hot water and butter. Except I didn’t have any butter so I used mayonnaise. I added some ketchup, too. It’s pretty good. You want some?” she said, offering Jess the wooden spoon.
“That sounds disgusting. Did you eat all this stuff?” asked Jess, looking at the half-filled bowls.
“No. Maybe? Sort of.”
Jess grimaced.
“I’m a fake,” said Callie with resolution. “A complete and total fraud.”
“Here we go. The pity party is about to begin.”
“I’m writing a guide on how to find your happily ever after and look at me,” said Callie, taking another spoonful of stuffing and putting it in her mouth. “I’m a phony.”
Jess pushed up her sleeves, took the pot of stuffing away from her friend, picked up the dirty bowls and dumped the contents into the garbage. “I’m going to say this one more time,” said Jess firmly. “You need to take your own advice and move on. Have you looked in the mirror lately? This Mystery Man thing has affected your health, your job and your writing—and not in a good way.”
Callie tilted her head back and blew out air. “I had moved on until I ran into that lawyer in Starbucks. That incident put me right back to where I started. I’m doomed. I’m like a hamster running on a wheel, round and round with no end in sight.”
“You’re so dramatic,” said Jess. “Do you think your Mystery Man is sitting at home drowning himself in stuffing and ramen noodles? And more importantly, would you want him to?”
A miserable Callie shook her head and groaned.
“Exactly,” said Jess. “If you really believe he’s your true love and you’re destined to find each other, then you have to trust the universe.”
Callie looked at her friend, her eyes widened and she smiled. “You’re right. Maybe he and I weren’t supposed to meet yet. Maybe I’ve been trying to force it and I need to let the universe work at its own pace.”
“I think that makes sense,” said Jess. “Now, can we order a pizza? Stuffing with ketchup isn’t going to work for me.”
25
The Fussy Virgin Guide:
“Moving On”
“Moving on” was never my strong suit. I’ve always hated to fail or to be wrong about
anything. Giving up on someone, especially if I thought he was “the one,” would have been almost unthinkable. Recently, however, I’ve had a revelation.
The man was tall and handsome and I fell for him—hard. It was a chance encounter and I was sure he was the person I had been put on this earth to find. Not a “Mr. Right Now,” but my actual honest to goodness “Mr. Right Always and Forever.” We connected and through a series of unfortunate events, we were separated.
Convinced the universe would ultimately bring us back together, I began to say “yes” to everything. I wandered around, open and vulnerable, arms extended (which is so not me), waiting for the universe to work its magic. But clearly, the universe had other plans.
Losing him made me wonder if there’s more than one soulmate for each of us. My parents told me that when they were buying their first house, they were outbid on the one they wanted and sure they’d never find another like it. Months later, they found another house that fit them so much better. They were grateful the first one had fallen through, because after some time passed they realized it wouldn’t have been the right house for them.
That’s how I feel now about moving on in relationships. At first, there’s a feeling of loss and failure. You wonder if you blew your only chance at happiness. You second guess yourself and ponder if maybe you were being too picky, needy or demanding. You question if you just sent the best person in your life packing for stupid reasons.
But, like my parents and their house, you eventually realize that the one that got away only got away because he wasn’t the right one after all. Moving on—sometimes it’s the best thing that can ever happen.
26
The Fussy Virgin Page 9
