I lower my voice. “‘Fighting for the triumph of the human spirit and the will to live.’ Isn’t that how they always end?”
He smiles briefly and then gets serious. “I’m on board to help. But I have to tell you, Molly. I don’t think it’s going to end well. Just promise me you’ll be prepared for that.”
“I promise.”
__________
The next morning, I track down Andy Smith, my former law school classmate and cofounder of Rappaport and Smith, LLP—for all your legal needs, with special expertise in family court, personal bankruptcy, corporate, employment and traffic law. Apparently, there isn’t much involved in hanging up my own shingle, as long as I go bare-bones.
I register my professional corporation with the state. I procure some professional liability insurance, along with a firm bank account, a corporate American Express card and accounts billable to my firm at a service that files documents, an express mail service and an office supply company. My billing and accounting will be easy, because I only have one case. Andy thinks I can just do everything with Excel or a calculator.
On my home computer, I cobble together some templates for generic letterhead and simple business cards and a retainer agreement. Fern and I discuss the terms of my engagement: she will pay all costs and disbursements up front. I will not ask for a retainer check, but will keep a running tab of the bill. In my mind, this is a pro bono case, although Henry tells me I’m crazy, that custody battles take up a lot of time. Whatever. I’ve gotten used to Henry telling me I’m crazy.
I lock down a firm e-mail address through a free provider and buy a cheap cell phone for my office line. Andy and his partner generously give me the passwords to their online accounts for legal research in exchange for the promise of a steady stream of drinks.
I briefly toy with the idea of using my home address as my office address. If I can convince my doormen to call me if I get any motion papers served on me, it should be okay. But then I picture what will happen if any papers come when Rocky, the morning doorman, is on duty. He’d spend ten minutes flirting or joking with the messenger. Then the papers would become a place mat for his greasy hero du jour, while he sauntered back to 1G for his afternoon toke break.
I reject that idea. For eighty dollars a month, I find a virtual office address at a suite in a building on the same block as Bacon Payne. Because the place is so close to work, I’ll be able to duck out to pick up my mail or papers without putting on my coat, which could arouse suspicion.
This will work, I tell myself as I sign the lease.
By Saturday, Molly Grant, PC, is open for business.
14
____
no sleep till brooklyn
The clerk has been thumbing through my papers without blinking, breathing loudly through his nose, for the past five minutes. I bite my cheek as he wordlessly picks up the six-inch-thick motion, tucks it under one arm and walks to the back of the room. He disappears behind a wall of filing cabinets, the tops of which are piled with stacks of uneven documents that look about to slide off and create a loose-leaf blizzard.
“Christ, you’ve gotta be kidding me. Today, people,” mutters the man on line behind me. “Whatcha got in there?” He stares at me accusingly.
Oh, nothing much. Only Fern Walker’s motion for sole custody against Robert Walker, King of Cable Media, I want to shout. Instead, I raise my shoulders to indicate that I don’t know what the clerk’s problem is, as I run through a checklist in my head: yes, I had included an Emergency Affidavit; yes, Fern’s Client Affidavit was notarized; yes, my Attorney Affirmation was signed.
So what’s the holdup?
I shift my weight nervously and note the irony. Now that I have the most understanding boss in the world—me—and a client who will not blame me if the papers get rejected, I care more than ever about getting these filed today. I mentally prepare myself to suck up to the clerk, trying to gauge if he’ll go for a clueless and sweet vibe. They usually do, but this one seems especially dour.
The clerk returns, expressionless. “Take it to Brooklyn,” he says.
“What? Oh, no. Really? Judge Strand did the Judgment, so I thought for sure he’d be the proper recipient of the motion and both parties live in Manhattan—” I smile in what I hope is a winning, nonthreatening way.
“Yep. Judge Strand. Brooklyn.”
“But I just checked and—”
“Transfer.”
“But when?”
He sticks a finger in his ear. “Dunno.” He looks behind me, done with our conversation. “Next.”
I sigh. A schlep to Brooklyn means that I’ll be even later getting back to the office. I’ll have to reschedule my early-afternoon calls, including a dreaded appointment to speak with Liesel about something urgent involving her cat and the vet. I’m not sure how either one of those things is within the purview of her divorce lawyer, but bless Liesel, she will somehow make her cat’s health my problem.
Although maybe this is good news. Most of Bacon Payne’s practice is in Manhattan and on any given court visit, I am guaranteed to bump into several people I know, either adversaries or coworkers. I’ve only been to the Brooklyn Supreme Court once, back when I first started. I was getting an adjournment for Liz and I might as well have been in the Family Justice Services Branch of Saskatchewan, except of course that people were still rude and said “ya know” instead of “eh.”
I leave the courthouse and walk into the Brooklyn Bridge subway station. Bacon Payne associates travel only by town car, so hopping on the Number Four train in the middle of the workday is like being unleashed. I can tell that summer is nigh by the smell of the subway car: a mixture of garbage, body odor and heat—eau de city underground. There is a small, almost-person-sized space on the blue bench. I squeeze between a woman with sandals and huge gold U-shaped earrings and a teenage boy with scruffy spiky hair and a high collar. I sit back and feel their bodies retreat into their seat borders, reluctantly making room for me.
With my elbows pinned at my side by my seat companions, I flip through the motion papers once more. I’ve been through them fifty times already, but I can’t help myself. We ask that Fern be granted sole legal and physical custody of Anna and Connor, meaning that not only will she be the one making decisions for them; they’ll live with her too.
Given that this case has involved trauma for the kids and will continue to do so, we’ve asked for a phased-in custody transfer to be coordinated by a psychologist and for ongoing treatment for all the family members, to be paid for by Robert, of course.
We’ve also asked that Robert pay all court costs, attorney fees and child support.
The train screeches into the Borough Hall station, making me wonder for the gazillionth time how much damage I’m doing to my ears by living in New York City. I climb the stairs to the outside world, emerging steps from the Brooklyn Supreme Court.
The feel is very different from Manhattan Supreme Court’s grandeur—the massive Law and Order pillars and dramatic rotunda murals depicting justice via fair-skinned people in flowing robes. The Brooklyn building is a boxy gray concrete structure with rows of tiny square windows alternating with rows of even tinier square windows—the type of place that conjures red tape and clock-punching and humming fluorescent lights, but that’s okay. Brooklyn Supreme Court doesn’t have to look like the birthplace of justice as long as they know how to dole out some.
I yank open the door to the courthouse and flash my washed-out photo ID to an officer with a bored expression.
Crammed into a very crowded elevator, I bump up, local-style, floor by floor, until the doors finally open on ten. I push my way out of the doors, the weight of the motion heavy in my arms.
15
____
does anyone not like stars?
I’m back in Manhattan, emerging from the subway, when my phone rings. I assume it’s Liesel because it usually is, but it’s a Manhattan number, unrecognizable. I clear my throat to sound as official
as possible before picking up.
“Molly Grant.”
“Uh, hey.”
I recognize him immediately, but pretend not to. “Who is this?”
“Caleb.”
“Oh, hey.”
“So, it was good to talk to you the other day.”
Here’s how it had happened: I had called Duck’s cell phone two days ago and she had answered and said hello. Nothing out of the ordinary, until I heard a male voice in the background.
“You talking to Grant?” it demanded.
“Uh-huh,” said Duck.
“Where are you?” I had asked her, suddenly light-headed.
She sighed, second-guessing her decision to pick up my call. “Caleb’s new office space, taking measurements.”
I heard his voice. “Tell her we have an extra ticket to the Klezmaniacs, if she wants to come.” It was a private joke, referencing an interminable klezmer concert, a requirement for his Ensemble Melodies of Religion class, that we had driven to in Rutland, Vermont, my junior year.
“Only if he promises to lead the audience in a scarf dance, like usual.”
Duck repeated this and Caleb chuckled. “Only if she wears a—”
“Here,” said Duck, flatly, “tell her yourself.”
“Hey.” Caleb’s voice was closer in my ear. “Your friend seems rather touchy.”
“Well, she gets focused when she’s working.”
“Where are you?”
“Trying to work, although now, thanks to you, my head will be filled with the magical strains of flute meets violin—”
“Meets drum block, meets cymbal, meets crazy hook. Sorry about that.”
“You should be.”
“Hey.” Pause. “Can I call you sometime?”
“Sure.” I gave him my number, trying to push away the image of Duck, who I knew was still within earshot, probably shaking her head over her measuring tape.
Since the call, I had replayed our conversation several times, but now, I try to sound like I haven’t. “Good to talk to you too.”
“So, you up for grabbing some grub, catching up sometime?”
“Sure. When?”
“Um.” Long pause. “The fourteenth?”
“Let me just check my schedule.” I wait a couple beats. “Yep, the fourteenth works.”
“Well, all right, then. See you around nine.”
“Wait, where?”
“I’ll e-mail a place.”
Even though I’m due back at Bacon Payne, I can’t help myself. I stop in my tracks right there on Forty-eighth Street, lean against the side of a building and do an Internet search, something—I realize with pride—that I haven’t done since last month. No new photos, but there is one mention on a random society Web site: Mr. Caleb Frank and Ms. Anastasia Peppercorn, still apparently in cahoots, are jointly listed as Angel Benefactors of the Aristotle Foundation’s Annual Benefit.
__________
If my preliminary research hadn’t tipped me off to the fact that my dinner with Caleb is not a date, the location would have. We are at the Burger Joint at Le Parker Meridien, a tiny little hole-in-the-wall. Great burgers, good fries, yes, but to get them, we had to stand in line for forty-five minutes, making awkward conversation about New York restaurants and mutual friends from college.
Now we’re crammed next to each other on one side of a tiny table for four. Mike, one of the guys sharing the other side of the table with us, is a blond, red-faced beefy man. He and his dining companion, Chip, work in management at Kroger’s corporate offices in Cleveland, really enjoyed The Lion King and are both divorced. I learned all of this after Mike spilled his beer on me and, by way of atonement, filled me in on the details of his life.
“So,” I say.
“So.” Caleb lazily dips a fry in some ketchup.
We look at each other.
“You’re at Bacon Payne?”
I nod.
“That’s, like, a strong firm. You know Dominic Pizaro in corporate?”
“Of course,” I say, as though Dominic and I hashed out corporate structure maps together plenty of times.
“Yeah, worked with the guy a little bit. He was pretty sharp.”
I play dumb as Caleb explains his illustrious career. In business school, he and his buddy would spend all this time on their asses, playing video games and blowing off class. Well, his buddy loved tooling around with computers and one day had this great idea for a new kind of joystick for the Xbox. So, Caleb said, we should totally do our business plan about that, because they had to do one anyway as an assignment for school. The professor contacted a friend who was a venture capitalist, and the next thing they knew, they had a company, Da Styck, Inc., which they then sold to a megaconglomerate, making a gazillion lucky investments with the proceeds. Enter Dominic Pizaro.
“So what are you doing now?” I say.
“We’re looking at other opportunities, working some stuff up.”
“Sounds good.”
“So, you’re not married yet, huh?”
“No,” I say, laughing. Does he honestly think I’d be here with him at ten fifteen on a weeknight if I were married?
“You dating mostly serious types? Lawyers and bankers?”
I do a vague head move that’s neither nod nor shake. I’m not about to say that my current type is fictional. “My hours are pretty long, so at this point it’s kind of all about the job. What about you?”
“My hours aren’t that bad. Sometimes travel, but pretty humane.”
“No, I mean, are you married?” Even though I know the answer, it’s not as ridiculous a question for Caleb. Somehow, I can picture him meeting an ex-girlfriend for dinner while his wife stays home with leftovers.
“Married? Uh, no.” He looks at Mike and Chip out of the corner of his eye, and then leans across the table, his hands gripping the side. “So, Mol.” He lowers his voice and I lean my head closer, tilting my ear toward him without losing eye contact. “Is this the most awkward conversation you’ve ever had?”
I laugh. “It’s up there.”
“Can I level with you?”
“Level away.”
“I’ve been wanting to call since last fall. Seeing you brought back some memories.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Complications.” He is straight-faced, as though this actually answers anything, and I can’t help myself. I snort. A flicker of annoyance crosses his face, bringing me right back to where we last left off, as though neither of us has evolved one iota since college. And I don’t want or need that feeling—what would be the point?—so I smile, waving my white flag.
“So what kind of memories did it bring back?”
He smiles too, almost shyly. “The good kind. Loon Mountain? You remember that?”
I nod. The truth is, although I know that we decided on a whim to drive to New Hampshire for the weekend, I have no recollection of the ski conditions, how we got along, whether our conversation was as awkward as tonight. My sole memory from the trip is this: for some reason the orange gate was skeptical of our E-ZPass and we got stuck at a tollbooth; it was late and dark and isolated. Without words, we looked at each other, unbuckled our seat belts and jumped into the backseat, fogging up the windows and ignoring the few headlights of other cars.
I am happy keeping this thought—and the full-body flush it triggers—to myself, but Caleb looks at me pointedly and presses his knee against mine under the table. He laughs and shakes his head. “It’s been, what? Ten years. Every time I go through a goddamn tollbooth…” He shakes his head.
“Am I really supposed to believe that you remember anything from college?”
“What would make you say that?” he says, his hazel eyes growing big with mock indignation.
“Certainly not the haze of smoke around your head back then. Nor the bags of magical fungus in your apartment.”
He chuckles. “Huh. Right. So, if my memory can’t be trusted, what do you think happened with us?”
My eyes wander off to Chip and Mike, who must be eavesdropping, based on how quickly they look down at their burger wrappings. “You really want to do the postmortem?”
“I do. I want to do the postmortem. You know why?”
“Because nothing is as much fun as a good postmortem?”
He treats my question like it was a serious one. “No. Not because it’s fun, but because you know what seeing you made me realize?” He shifts his knee away from mine, making my leg feel suddenly cold, even though it’s probably eighty degrees in the restaurant. Keeping his eyes locked on my face, he lightly covers my feet with the tips of his shoes. “I’ve really missed you. It’s not so easy to connect with people the way we connected.” He presses his feet down gently on my toes. “So, Ms. Grant. What were our college missteps?”
I decide against relaying the first fifty missteps, exclusively Caleb’s, that come to mind. “We weren’t…on the same page.”
“Not on the same page,” he says, drawing out each word. He laughs. “Is that your corporate-speak way of saying I was young and stupid?”
I didn’t start out as one of those girls in college, the kind that hangs up a neon sign proclaiming “Taken” at the first spark of interest in a guy. Initially, I assumed things with Caleb would be casual. But one night at three in the morning a few weeks after we met, I woke up to a soft scratching at the window. At first, I was freaked-out—I lived on the ground floor and wished I hadn’t laughed off the protective bars that my dad offered to install.
Duck was sleeping through the intrusion—I could tell from the way her body was lumped, immobile, under her comforter—so I sat up in bed and peered out the window. There was Caleb, his curls escaping out of a baseball cap that sat low on his head.
The Love Wars Page 10
