Legally Blonde

by Amanda Brown

  “No, that will be fine, Your Hon-or,” Ben played along. Tittering giggles could be heard around the room.

  “Good. Now that we’ve got our dramatis personae down, Miss Iliakis, let’s see if we can help them get into court.”

  Eugenia looked helplessly at Elle.

  Professor Erie turned to his favored “counsel,” Ben, who happily demonstrated his civil procedure acumen for the benefit of his growing law student following. His twenty-four-function digital watch, which looked as if it also functioned as a data bank, showed 11:45. Another peak tanning hour wasted.

  In the hall, Eugenia caught up with Elle. “Do you want to grab some lunch with me before Torts?”

  “If we can leave this dungeon,” Elle answered, shocked that someone was actually speaking to her, much less asking her to lunch.

  “Sure,” Eugenia agreed. “Wherever.”

  The margaritas at lunch were irresistible. Eugenia suggested they call it a day. “I can get the notes from Claire or somebody.”

  “Cool.” Elle had lucked out.

  Over lunch Eugenia told Elle she was from a Greek neighborhood in Pittsburgh, grew up among Eastern Rite Catholics, in particular the Warhola family. Elle listened with interest. “My mother used to see Andy Warhol at church when she was a little girl, before he went to New York and produced the Velvet Underground and all that.”

  “At church?” Elle imagined an improbable entourage of transvestites in kimonos.

  “Growing up in Pittsburgh, and then going to Yale, I thought once I’d landed in California I’d hit the creative world, you know? The art scene: air kisses and egos.”

  Elle laughed. “You’re like Christopher Columbus. Right direction, but you landed about five hundred miles too far north!”

  Eugenia was impressed when Elle told her that her mother ran an art gallery in L.A. and even more intrigued that Elle wanted to be a jewelry designer, not a lawyer. She didn’t even ask why Elle was at Stanford Law.

  Elle marveled. Had she actually found a friend in law school?

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was early October and Elle was confined within the gray walls of her Crothers Dorm studying when the phone rang. She glanced idly at the ringing phone. She decided to let her machine pick up, the safest strategy to pursue in a hostile environment.

  She froze when Warner’s voice began speaking. Of course, he didn’t identify himself. He didn’t need to.

  “Elle, uh, I meant to call you earlier to see how things were going for you at law school. I’ve got to say I still can’t get over the fact that you’re here! Especially Stanford! As you probably know, Sarah, my fiancée, is in your section and from what she tells me, you’re still the same old Elle!”

  Elle glared at the machine. I’ll bet Sarah has plenty to say, she thought.

  “Anyway, I should have called before, but listen, Daniel’s coming to visit and I promised I’d show him our videotape from Vegas. If you can lend it to me, I can make a copy, or just borrow it. Okay, honey?”

  Elle warmed at his use of the word “honey.”

  There was a pause in Warner’s voice, which stiffened momentarily. “Thanks, Elle. 854-STUD.” He cracked up. “Really, that’s the number. I thought you’d prefer the acronym. Call me soon.”

  Elle collapsed into her pillow. “Oh, God, the Vegas tape!” She rolled over, laughing, and stared dreamily up at the ceiling.

  Unbeknownst to his upper-crust family, and probably to Sarah, Warner’s secret, persistent ambition was to direct films. He was an adulator of Martin Scorsese. For three years he had dragged Elle to film after film, and when he got a camcorder of his own, he began “directing documentaries” of their adventures.

  Warner was plagued with his East Coast conviction that the film industry was flaky, disreputable work. Elle encouraged Warner’s creative spirit, arguing that film was the art medium of their generation. Nonetheless, Warner never applied to film school or advanced beyond filming a few weekend sprees.

  The videotape he asked about was a hilarious, bumpy ride through the high-rolling weekend expedition of Elle, Warner, and Warner’s old prep-school friend, Daniel, on the streets and in the casinos of Las Vegas. With only Daniel and Elle in the picture most of the time, except when Warner turned the camera on himself, the eyewitness camera traveled from Siegfried & Roy’s white tigers prowling their Mirage jungle to a lost kid crying in front of the Treasure Island ship; from a zoom-in on the $100,000 minimum poker table, interrupted by an unidentified hand and some shuffling bodies, to a sorry pile of ignored porn leaflets littering the dirty street; from Elle, suggestively exposing her cleavage across the blackjack table in a Badgley Mischka dress, luminescent with Stoli and cash and the glow of winning after hitting on eighteen; to Daniel, arching one eyebrow, doubling down and betting smart.

  The video wrapped up with a panorama of the gamblers’ erstwhile home in the Imperial Palace, an inelegant “love suite” with tacky faux-shogun decor. The room was, in fact, creatively engineered. The grand bed with its counterfeit bamboo posts was raised on a tremendous platform off to the side of the room, graced overtop with a massive ceiling mirror. Adjoining the bed was a Jacuzzi, also up a step, surrounded by glass doors because, as an investigation of the bathroom revealed, the Jacuzzi was the room’s only shower. The camera traveled up to the shower nozzle installed in the bedroom wall, and finally to the mirror over the Jacuzzi, which reflected either the Jacuzzi or the bed, depending on your seat.

  The “documentary” ended with the Jacuzzi mirror reproducing upside down three wobbly revelers: Warner, his shirt undone, with the camcorder over his eye; Elle, leaning sleepily on Daniel; and Daniel, winking, supporting Elle’s drowsy blonde head on his shoulder.

  Elle picked up the phone, immediately reproached herself, and hung up. A smile reasserted itself across her face as she beat the urge to call Warner back. “I’ll make him wait awhile. I’ll make him wait until Daniel’s in town.”

  Instead, Elle returned the call from her new landlord. He’d left a message approving her request to move in immediately. The crazy old man didn’t seem to recognize her, though she had met with him in the past two days.

  “Mr. Hopson, Elle Woods. I’m moving into the unit…with the carpet…problem…today?”

  The only decent condominium development Elle could find that allowed pets was mysteriously named “the Mediterranean.” It had a vacancy because of some bizarre flying-carpet occurrence. Adjoining construction had interfered with water pressure to the Jacuzzi bath in the master bedroom, resulting in air jets that broke the carpet loose from its tacks and blew it, together with several pieces of furniture, in billowing surges across the room. Lacking better options for immediate occupancy, Elle took her chances with carpet surfing.

  “The jeweler?” the crackly old voice finally recognized Elle. She had thought it best to describe herself as a jewelry designer, since it was most proprietors’ unwritten policy not to rent to litigation-prone law students. A good policy, in general.

  “Right, right, sir, exactly. The jewelry designer. I just wanted to make sure you know I’m bringing my dog.”

  “Dog? You have to pay an extra deposit for pets!”

  “Yes, we discussed that before, Mr. Hopson. I wrote you a check.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes I did. Yesterday.”

  The voice on the other end grumbled. “When do you want to move in?”

  “Mr. Hopson, I picked up the key yesterday. You said you’d skip the repainting so I could move in today. I just wanted to tell you I’m coming this afternoon, so you can tell the man at the security gate.”

  “What? You’re coming today?”

  “Yes,” Elle repeated, frustrated. “Tell him to let in Elle Woods. W-o-o-d-s. Thank you.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Elle glanced around her dorm room at the clutter of her remaining possessions. She had packed most of her things the previous night. She had sent home boxes of china, glassware, and f
ramed paintings with the movers in September, when she discovered the shoebox size of the dorm room, but nevertheless, Elle never quite achieved minimalism.

  She sighed, exhausted at the prospect of heavy lifting, which she never would have had to do herself at chivalric USC, where sorority girls had fraternity boys who had pledges for just this sort of activity. Warner and his various pledge-serfs had carried his share of Elle’s furniture and boxes in the past.

  What an idea! Elle smiled and picked up the phone. She had absolutely nothing to lose and freedom from broken nails to gain. 854-STUD.

  She frowned when Sarah’s voice chirped a message on Warner’s behalf. “Answering-machine possessiveness,” Elle sighed, “the mark of a threatened woman.”

  “Warner, honey,” Elle cooed, drawing out her voice intentionally. “So darling of you to call. I have that videotape of us…in Las Vegas…right here with me at school. I think it’s your best documentary!”

  She shifted her tone to serious. “The problem, Warner, is that I’m moving, and all my things are packed in boxes; it’s in a box around here, I’m just not sure which one. I’ll try to get them moved soon enough to dig out the videotape for Daniel, but it takes so long…doing this by myself…” Elle thought quickly. “Maybe you could give me a hand, if you need the tape right away.

  “Anyway, sweetie, give me a call; you have my number already!”

  Elle opened her desk drawer and pulled out the videotape labeled “Vegas.” She held the tape cradled against her chest. This is my ticket. She began to pack the tape in a box within boxes, like the precious doll-within-dolls she was given as a child. “Nobody’ll find this box for a while.”

  Within the hour, Sarah’s white Volvo station wagon pulled into the Crothers parking lot next to Elle’s Range Rover, the back of which was overflowing with boxes and garment bags.

  Elle looked suspiciously at the Connecticut-tagged Volvo as she labored toward her car, balancing a lamp in one hand and a mirror in the other. She recognized flowery Sarah climbing out of the driver’s seat.

  “Come to help me move?” Elle said.

  Sarah crossed her arms, staring at Elle without speaking.

  “I’d invite you in, but I didn’t invite you over,” Elle said. “Besides, I’m busy moving.”

  “I heard a little message from you on Warner’s machine. What videotape are you talking about?”

  “Ah, how little you know about your fiancé.” Elle relished the jealousy that consumed Sarah’s serious face. She lifted a garment bag to make room for more belongings, ignoring Sarah, who paced impatiently behind her.

  With the mirror safely packed, Elle stepped away from the Range Rover and turned the palm of her hand out to check her fingernails for chips or smudges. “Moving can pose such a threat to your manicure,” Elle observed momentously, remembering the first day of class when she overheard Sarah call her a “talking Barbie.” Satisfied that her manicure was holding up, Elle sauntered back inside, pursued all the way to her room by a flustered, furious Sarah.

  Elle grinned. “Be a sport and grab a box on your way out, would ya, Sarah?”

  Sarah turned viciously. “No, I will not be…a sport! And I will not carry your boxes. Listen, I have just one thing to say to you, Elle Woods, and I’ll make it as painless as I can.”

  Elle flopped on her bed and pulled Underdog onto her lap. “Ooooh, Underdog, Sarah’s here to make a threat.” She pulled Underdog’s ears up like a bunny rabbit’s. “Listen up!” She and rabbit-eared Underdog looked expectantly at Sarah.

  Sarah reddened with anger, then proceeded in a low, snarling voice. “It is rather obvious, Elle, to anyone with half a brain at Stanford Law School, that you are having some trouble adjusting.” Elle gasped in mock amazement, parting Underdog’s jaws with her hands so the dog, too, peered at Sarah with openmouthed surprise.

  “We’re having trouble adjusting!” Elle said to her dog.

  “Basically, Elle, you’re the laughingstock of this school. I think there’s a betting pool already with odds out on whether you make it through finals. Considering you have no friends, and absolutely no chance of success as a law student, you might be looking for a shoulder to cry on right about now. So I came over to tell you one thing: Don’t let it be Warner’s.”

  It sounded to Elle like Sarah had rehearsed this speech on the drive over, more or less, and the smug look on her face revealed that it had come out sounding better than she had expected. She turned to exit grandly.

  “Don’t worry, Sarah. I’m not interested in Warner’s shoulder at all.”

  Sarah turned around tentatively. “You’re not?”

  “No, I’m not. Not at all.” Elle smiled and stood up from the bed with Underdog cradled in her arms. “Not one bit.” Then she slammed the door in Sarah’s face.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Warner hadn’t called back. Elle checked her watch. Criminal Law was dragging on. The professor had turned to the board, drawing another worthless map to illustrate federal court jurisdiction based on diversity of citizenship.

  Elle glanced around the room at the two or three hands raised already, in advance of a question. The twins in the class, Jeremy and Halley, were waving fitfully, as usual. These irrepressible class volunteers impressed and competed with each other by firing instant half-brained speeches before anyone could suggest a thoughtful answer, a practice they referred to as “clutch thinking.”

  “Miss Caldwell-Boulaine,” Professor Erie said. Elle looked up from her copy of Vanity Fair. She had read the cases for today’s class, but found them so boring that she had a whisper of hope that Claire, too, might be confused.

  “The corporation being sued does business in Arizona, which is where the plaintiff bought his car. But the car exploded in California, injuring only California residents. Since the subject matter of the lawsuit is a tort, how would the parties get into federal court?”

  “On diversity jurisdiction, Professor Erie,” Claire said with confidence. Claire was not only correct, she was chipper, and Elle didn’t know which she found more annoying.

  “Correct.” The professor smiled, turning again to the board. “In which state would the defendant be served with a subpoena?”

  Before Claire could answer, Fran interrupted.

  “Professor,” she said, waving, “I have an objection.”

  Her voice startled Elle. It was a hoarse whiskey voice that should have belonged to an elegant woman who chain-smoked with an ivory cigarette holder rather than to a frizzy-haired brunette feminist with unshaved legs, a scrawny body, a unibrow, and huge, rough hands.

  “An objection.” Professor Erie arched an eyebrow, playing along. “Okay, Counselor. Proceed.”

  Fran shifted uncomfortably in her seat and tugged nervously at her skirt, which looked like the “Indian” bedspreads sold at Pier 1. “It’s just that…I wish you’d stop using that word.”

  “What word is that, Miss Anthony?”

  “Mizzz,” Fran corrected, scowling. “The word sub-poena. It has no place in an emancipated society.”

  “I think she’s suffering from subpoena envy,” Aaron said as he elbowed Tim.

  Doug overheard Aaron’s comment and snorted with laughter. “She wishes she had a subpoena!” He poked Sidney, who gave him a high-five. The Trekkies were in an uproar, and Fran spun around angrily.

  “See?” Fran shrieked.

  Pointing at Doug, Fran accused, “That’s exactly the testosterone oppression that women have to fight! Look! He has pornographic materials in class!”

  Doug had a color printer in his dorm room and provided the Trekkies with erotic pictures he downloaded from the Internet. He shoved a “Starship Intercourse” file into his notebook, reddening like a beet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Doug sputtered. The Trekkies turned guilty stares to the floor.

  Professor Erie raised his voice with exasperation. He finally asked a question that Elle liked. “When does this nonsense stop?” It was getting to th
e point where men at Stanford couldn’t speak an unobjectionable word. “Class, enough! Mizzz Anthony,” he drew the word out with irony, “what would you prefer I call the subpoena? After all, that’s what the courts call it.”

  Fran shrugged. “Call it a writ. That’s what they call it in England, where they have some sensitivity about these things.”

  Leslie nodded vigorously.

  “Fine, Ms. Anthony. A writ.”

  He turned back to Claire, who seemed a little shaken by the commotion. She answered correctly that the “writ” should be served in Arizona, and Elle crossed the word “subpoena” out of her notes.

  Elle was hurrying out of class when a hand on her shoulder spun her around. Warner stood before her, out of breath, in a great show of the effort.

  “Elle, wait a minute! I tried to call you back last night, but I got your machine.”

  Elle looked doubtfully at him. He hadn’t left a message. “I was home most of the night,” she said, “packing.”

  “Okay, I didn’t leave a message,” he admitted.

  “Oh, yeah, I forgot.” Elle brightened. “I drove a couple of boxes over to my new condo. My mondo condo,” she laughed. “It’s cool. You should come see it.”

  “I’d like to,” Warner offered. “Have you moved your stuff completely in yet?”

  She had moved almost all of the boxes already.

  “No, no, I’ve got a lot left to move,” Elle lied. “I couldn’t lift the heavy boxes by myself and I’m sure you remember how heavy my trunks are. I’d love some help, Warner. If you can get away,” she added in a lower tone, checking behind her in case Sarah was nearby. She could bring some boxes back to the dorm this afternoon, while everyone was in class, she thought quickly to herself. That way he’d have a lot to carry.

  They started walking toward the front door of the building and Warner paused and cracked a smile. “Great. I’d be happy to help you,” he said.