I shake my head. “We won’t agree to anything other than custody returned to the mother.”
Justice Strand sighs. “Well, then, I can’t really decide anything until we have a hearing on the best interests of the children.”
“Your Honor, that’s ridiculous. There’s enough to dismiss this motion prima facie,” Risa says.
“No, there’s not, Ms. McDunn. There’s a request to change custody and an accusation of parental alienation. And you know I can’t just dismiss it. So, you need to get some dates from my court clerk out front. And I’ll need you to stipulate to a law guardian and forensic. Can you do that or do I need to select one for you?”
I nod. “Yes, Your Honor. I’m sure we can stipulate to that. What about establishing some counseling or visitation now for the mother and the children? She hasn’t been able to see the kids since last fall.”
Justice Strand raises an eyebrow at Risa.
“Absolutely not.” She steps backward, as though she can’t even be in the same room as that suggestion. “It’s a basic safety issue. For the kids.”
Justice Strand looks thoughtful. “I’m concerned about the violence. What about the knives? You know, let’s just continue supervised visitation until the hearing, just to be sure. You’ll get your hearing soon enough.”
“We need a neutral therapist to supervise, not Mr. Walker’s nanny, which is what’s been happening.” I hand over a list to Risa and Mike that has five names of psychologists specializing in children of divorce. “None of these has any connection to Ms. Walker.”
Risa crumples up the list without looking at it. “The father is not going to agree to have some therapist he’s never heard of talking to his children. Why would he agree to that?”
“That’s why there are five names on there. I’m sure we can agree that at least one of them is sufficiently qualified to clean up the mess he’s made.”
Justice Strand slumps down in his chair. He looks up wearily. “Ms. McDunn, I suggest you try to persuade your client to at least look at the list or come up with some names of his own. And as far as cost goes, it’s going to be an uphill battle for him to claim that he’s not the moneyed party here.”
I am heartened by this, the first sign Strand has given that his thoughts are independent from Risa’s.
Risa shakes her head vehemently. “But their separation agreement says that the party in breach of the agreement will be responsible for costs, and Mrs. Walker’s in breach.”
Justice Strand stares off in the distance, mourning his hopes for a nice breezy settlement conference. Dude, I think, you are in the wrong business. “I’m not inclined to rule on counsel fees until after the hearing.” He shoos us away. “Go find some common ground.”
Risa ignores the order to compromise and leads Graham—who is glaring and huffing at me like a ninth-grade drama student in a production of The Crucible—to a bench on the far side of the hall where Robert and Claire wait. I join Fern and recount Risa’s arguments for her.
“I have to know,” I say, “where on earth did you meet that guy?”
“CBS. I was his assistant.”
I try not to gag. “Great, so he’s guilty of sexual harassment too?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Yeah. I know my parents would be just thrilled if I told them that my new boyfriend was their age and also my boss.”
“Don’t forget married,” Fern says, biting her lip.
“Oh. Fern.”
Fern nods. “To Vicki, his second wife. But they had problems before we started anything.”
“I’m sure they did.”
“He doesn’t seem like an obvious choice at this moment, but I swear, he can be incredibly charming. You probably won’t see that side of him, though.”
“Probably not.”
“And he’s super smart and sharp, completely in his element at work. Everyone had a crush on him.”
“If you say so.”
Fern sighs. “Trust me, I understand your skepticism, but he’s really not a monster. He just gets very defensive and paranoid and likes to be in control.”
I tilt my head to the side. “Isn’t that what Mussolini’s wife kept telling everyone about him?”
Fern jabs me in the ribs with her elbow, but she’s smiling.
Eventually, Mike emerges from the courtroom’s double doors and calls us all back in. Justice Strand sits at his bench, looking reinvigorated and in command as he introduces himself to Fern and Robert, although his smile dims when he hears that we have not reached consensus. Ready for us to leave his courtroom, he rattles off a series of orders: someone named Roland Williams will be the attorney representing the interests of Anna and Connor, and a Dr. Gary Newkirk, a forensic psychologist, will assist Strand in his determination of what’s best for the kids; Emily Freed (after much back and forth from Risa) will be the therapist who supervises Fern’s visits with the kids.
We get some dates for our hearing, and then it’s over. We’ve been here for almost five hours without eating or drinking anything. My head throbs from dehydration and lack of nourishment.
Robert Walker and Risa confer, huddled close together. Claire stands behind Robert, rubbing his back. It must gall him to spend the entire morning at court, waiting. And there is more to come: random deadlines; court appearances where he’s forced to show up but will not be asked to say a word; enough bureaucracy to make anyone feel small, powerless and frustrated. Robert Walker probably hasn’t been in touch with any of those emotions in a while.
Fern has, however. She and I share a satisfied smile, our subtle substitute for a high five. We have a hearing date and that is a victory.
18
____
godzilla vs. mothra
Lillian has blocked out the entire day to prepare for what we’re all now calling the Cat Hearing, which is three days away. I don’t know how one small conference room will contain both Lillian’s and Liesel’s sizable alpha egos. It’s a matchup of headliners—my personal Godzilla vs. my personal Mothra—and I anticipate being curled up in the fetal position by midmorning.
After Kim buzzes me, I knock lightly on Lillian’s door to let her know that Liesel is waiting in the conference room. Lillian stalls, making a few brief phone calls and sorting her papers with the kind of noisy fruitlessness that indicates she’s not even looking at them. Finally, after ten minutes, she grabs the outline for Liesel’s testimony that I left on her desk last night and, grumbling, gets out of her chair.
“I really don’t have time for this,” she says.
“I know.”
“And you did a great job on the discovery. I don’t need to be involved.”
“Thank you.”
She shifts, straightening her jacket. “Talk about divas. I had to move my entire schedule around to do this hand-holding.”
“I know,” I say again, even though I am pretty sure, aside from the Cat Hearing, Lillian has nothing other than the usual: a few luncheons, a manicure and several initial consults. It is rare for Lillian to return to a case after she’s cast it off, but upon hearing that I would be arguing her motion solo, Liesel pitched a fit, sending a torrent of e-mails, letters and phone calls, declaring that if Lillian didn’t do the argument, Liesel would retain new counsel. (“Molly,” she had said, “you are not cutting your teeth on my cats.” And as distracted as I was by how disgustingly furry that sounded, the irony was still not lost on me: I had already taken on Robert Walker, but could not be trusted with the fate of Pickles von Ketchup.)
Lillian had fought back. She tried to pawn off Liesel on Everett, Liz, even Henry, but Liesel wouldn’t budge. Not wanting to lose Liesel’s steady monthly receivables, Lillian eventually capitulated. And to my surprise, today she is rolling up her sleeves for some pure, old-fashioned work.
Liesel steps out of her conference room chair and walks over to Lillian. As always, I am struck by how normal she appears: round brown eyes, boring red sweater set, messy bun—the type of perso
n who could be counted on to bring consistently reliable homemade brownies to her book club meeting.
Beaming, Liesel puts a fluttering hand to her chest. “Lillian. It is such an honor. Thank you so much for making the time. It means everything.”
In a flash, Lillian’s expression changes from put-upon to charmed. “Of course,” she says. “And don’t you worry about this jackass and his lawsuit. He’s toast. We’re going to take care of you.”
“I know you will. I have such faith in the team here.” Liesel turns to me and holds out both hands. “Molly,” she says as though we’re long-lost pen pals. “Always wonderful to see you.”
It’s as surreal as if, instead of burning villages, Mothra and Godzilla had joined forces to coordinate a canned-food drive. “No, really, Mothra, let me design the flyers. I insist.” Liesel engulfs me in an awkwardly brittle hug. I manage to blurt out something pleasant sounding before Lillian adjusts her glasses, opens the outline and begins asking Liesel questions. After about thirty minutes, Liesel raises her hand.
“Feel free to jump in with any questions, Liesel,” says Lillian as though she’s granting Liesel three special wishes.
“It’s very important to me to be able to discuss all the things I did for the cats and especially how I had to constantly remind Stewart to help out. He never had their best interest in mind. Pickles had a fatty tumor once and I asked him to take her to the vet. Seventeen times I asked him. I know it was seventeen because I counted, but he absolutely refu—”
Lillian holds both hands up. I almost duck my head anticipating the explosion from this interruption, but Liesel stops, tilts her head and smiles politely. “Yes?”
“Is a fatty tumor harmful?”
“No, but that’s not the point of the story.”
Lillian smiles kindly. “And isn’t that good news, dear? That Pickles is in good health? But we don’t want to include too much information about how much you had to remind Stewart to take care of the cats, because it’s off topic. Perhaps we’ll get in a quick mention, but really, we want to make sure to emphasize the right things.”
Liesel nods thoughtfully.
We resume the preparation without incident and in fact need to stop only twice more: once to advise Liesel to use a gentle tone with Stew’s lawyer during cross-examination (“Think of him as your boss’s slightly slow third-grade son—even when he gets obnoxious, you have to be polite”) and once more, to tell her what to wear (“professionally tasteful, but not too severe”).
__________
It goes so well that three days later, on the date of the hearing, I am optimistic, right up until I spot Liesel waiting outside the courtroom for us. She looks professional, but has skewed a little severe—black suit and slicked-back hair.
“Hi, Liesel.” I smile and step forward. “Sorry we’re a couple minutes late. We had trouble getting a—”
She taps her foot repeatedly, frowns and looks at her watch. “I guess when it’s your life, it’s important enough to show up on time.”
Lillian’s eyes flash and she says nothing as she walks ahead quickly and pushes open the courtroom doors.
Justice Love, a maternal-looking woman with gray hair, is at the bench, presiding over another matter. Lillian darts off to say hello to Ethan Crosby, who is crammed into one of the spectator benches next to Stew. His associate Erika, whom I haven’t seen since moving day, is behind them. I head over to Linda, the court clerk, to say hello and tell her we’re here.
Within minutes, the other parties wrap up their business and Linda calls out for the parties on Billings. Justice Love addresses both Lillian and Ethan in a clipped, professional tone that makes me almost forget that Justice and Mr. Love were guests at Lillian and Roger’s Hamptons home last summer.
During direct testimony, Ethan tries as hard as he can, pacing across the courtroom on his tree-trunk legs, furrowing his white brow in concern as Stew testifies about how much Pepe LeMew, Pickles von Ketchup and Princess Fifi mean to him.
Stew trots out the arguments from his motion papers—that he and Liesel always intended to make the cats into a profitable showing and breeding business and that, as such, they are joint property. I’m getting whiplash from his testimony: during some points, he gets very emotional about the cats, referring to them as his “everything”; at other points, it’s like he’s talking about bars of gold. Lillian, her glasses on, scribbles notes on the legal pad that I had set up beside her. When Ethan finishes, she doesn’t even bother to glance at what she’s written, walking right up to Stew.
“Hello, Mr. Billings.” Her tone is friendly, sincere.
“Hello,” Stewart says, blinking rapidly.
“You testified about Article One, Provision Four, of Exhibit One, the Prenuptial Agreement?”
“Yes.” Stewart swallows.
Lillian hands the court officer the agreement, who presents it to Stewart. “Could you read that for me, please?”
“‘In regards to any joint venture started after the date of the marriage, and to which joint venture both parties contribute in any way, including but not limited to contributions of monies, time and/or effort, same joint venture shall be and remain joint property.’” Stewart’s voice gains confidence as he reads and when done, he looks up triumphantly.
“You started a joint business during the year after your marriage?”
“Yes.”
“It was called Game, Set, Match Up?”
“Yes.”
“It was a matchmaking service?”
“Yes, matchmaking through tennis lessons.”
Lillian pauses and I imagine all of us in the courtroom, save Stewart and Liesel, are contemplating the mechanics of combining these two services. “And does it still exist?”
“No, it folded about eighteen months after we started it.”
“And when you started the venture, did you file with the State of New York?”
“Yes.”
“You incorporated?”
“Yes.”
“And did the corporation issue stock?”
“Yes.”
“And who owned the company’s stock?”
“My wife and I did.”
“Both of you, jointly?”
“Yes.”
“And did you file a corporate tax return for each year you operated?”
“Yes.”
And it goes on like that. Politely, cleanly, effectively, Lillian first makes clear the legitimacy of Game, Set, Match Up and Stewart’s expectation of income from it, however frustrated. Then she walks Stewart through the acquisition process and the cats’ lack of show experience. There’s no dramatic moment—nothing like in A Few Good Men, when Jack Nicholson roars that Tom Cruise can’t handle the truth—but Lillian meticulously picks away at Stewart’s testimony. By the time she’s finished, it’s impossible to imagine that Stewart and Liesel ever had plans for the cats beyond scratching behind their ears and occasionally waving around a laser pointer for them to chase.
After Stewart’s turn on the stand, Liesel is sworn in. Her delivery is slightly hostile and defensive, but she credibly establishes that the cats were purchased—in her name—to be pets. Lillian completes her questions and Ethan eases up from his seat with considerable effort. When, after about fifteen minutes, he asks Liesel who was responsible for grooming the cats, Liesel’s lips purse.
Seeing her expression, Ethan moves closer. “You didn’t like the way Stewart groomed the cats?”
“Objection,” says Lillian. “Out of the scope of direct testimony.”
“Ms. Billings testified that she spent time on the day-to-day care of them. I’m just exploring that, Your Honor,” says Ethan.
Judge Love nods. “I’ll allow it.”
“What I didn’t like,” says Liesel, leaning back conversationally, “was how he’d say he’d groom the cats and never did.”
“He didn’t follow through?”
“That’s putting it delicately. He is a complete loaf of a human b
eing. I would have to ask him fifteen times to do anything. I mean, I was working all day, paying for everything, and he couldn’t even take care of the cats. It was too much for him. So yes, the day-to-day care and distribution of jobs was a source of tension.”
“Fifteen times? That sounds like a lot.”
Liesel snorts. “Please, if anything, that’s a lowball estimate. Once”—she shakes her head at the memory—“Pickles had a fatty tumor, so I asked Stewart to take her to the vet.”
It takes some effort to stop from repeatedly banging my forehead against the defense table.
“Pickles had a tumor?”
“Objection,” says Lillian, “way off course.”
Liesel rolls her eyes and holds up her hands at Lillian. Judge Love, who has been scribbling on a pad in front of her, slowly turns her head toward Liesel in stupefied disbelief. Ethan’s sizable mouth drops open. Oblivious, Liesel continues, leaning forward in the witness seat. “It was a fatty tumor, not harmful, but unsightly. They protrude and continue to grow until they become a real problem. How many times do you think I asked Stewart to take Pickles in? How many times? Seventeen. I know because I made a spreadsheet of each time I asked him.” Liesel spits and fumes like a Joan Crawford impersonator. “Finally, I had to hire someone else to take the cat to the vet. Can you imagine that? He”—Liesel points to Stewart—“has no job and I still have to arrange to outsource a vet appointment. And he claims to love these cats?” She stares down Ethan Crosby as though he’s personally responsible for Pickles’s tumor; apparently she doesn’t give a crap about sucking up to her boss’s third-grader.
Lillian stares at Liesel through narrowed eyes, her fists gripping her pen so tightly that her knuckles are white.
Ethan nods as though he completely feels Liesel’s pain. “So if it wasn’t a dangerous tumor, why was it so important?”
“Because Pickles is an F1 Savannah pedigreed purebred. She was bred from a long line of show cats, including three Grand Champions and five National Winners, and cost me twenty thousand dollars. If she had a tumor hanging off her goddamned gut, she’d be worth nothing, a complete and utter waste of decades of work.”
The Love Wars Page 13
