The Love Wars

by Heller, L. Alison

  “Grovel maybe? That didn’t work for Hope, but…” She trails off. “You do have some time because, you know, she’s out for bugville all next week.”

  “Oh, bugville, right.” I had totally forgotten. Lillian is joining Roger in Australia this week for some sort of association-of- stick-insect bonanza. She made a big deal about how, for once, this trip she would just be Mrs. Fields. She was going to book tons of appointments at some posh spa and overload on their hibiscus facials. Or aromatherapy massages. Or something.

  “You forgot about her vacation?” Rachel looks like I have just asked her whether you need fault grounds to get divorced in New York. “You really are in your own world.”

  “I know. I’m a mess.”

  __________

  I say good-bye to Rachel and go find Kim to ask for Lillian’s travel plans. She makes fleeting eye contact with me, which is not a good sign of my shelf life. She pauses—the first time I’ve seen Kim do that—before answering in slow, measured tones that Lillian’s flight doesn’t leave until very late tonight, but it might not be the best idea for me to call right now.

  I had been ready to throw in the towel a few hours ago, but now that I’m here, there’s a tiny, idiotic ember of hope in my belly. I’m so close. Just three weeks until my fifth anniversary. Three more weeks in which I should be able to draw things out and put up with whatever Lillian throws at me. I have to give it a shot.

  Lillian picks up on the second ring, obviously thinking it’s Kim. “So, can she do Tuesday instead?” She’s eating something, based on the smacks and crunches from her end of the phone.

  “Lillian, it’s Molly,” I say quickly.

  Silence. The chewing noises stop as abruptly as if she’s spit out her fat-free bagel chips.

  “Listen, I heard you were looking for me and I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I wasn’t here and I just wanted to apologize. Is there anything I can do?”

  Silence.

  “I know I let you down. I promise to keep Kim in the loop in the future.”

  Silence.

  I know that she’s waiting for an explanation. I wish I had the balls to blithely hang up, but I don’t. “Yeah, I, um, I had a personal matter and I was actually down at court for it, and I’m so sorry. I know it was very unprofessional of me—”

  “A. Personal. Matter?” She spits the words as if I had just told her I had spent the day down at the Hustler Club, snorting blow and catcalling at the strippers.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Enough. You have interrupted enough of my vacation time. I will deal with this inanity when I get back. In the meantime, organize your office. It’s an embarrassment.”

  She hangs up the phone. I need one of those arctic sleeping bags to recover from the chill of her voice. I know I just made things terribly worse.

  40

  ____

  robert walker’s very bad week

  It’s five days after my phone call with Lillian, and when I don’t have court appearances, I’m hiding at home, where I am now.

  My Molly Grant, PC, cell phone buzzes for the second time with a number that I don’t recognize. It’s eight thirty at night—too late for the court, so I let it go to voice mail, pacing around the room until a message notification appears.

  “Hi, Molly Grant. Ari Stern from the Independent. I’d love to chat again. We’re running an article about Robert Walker’s recent troubles, mostly the custody issues. Anyway, I’d love to talk to you again, get some quotes, see where you think things are headed. Give me a call, 347-555-2121, or I’ll try again. Ciao.”

  His tone is breezy and familiar, as if he is confident that we’ve met before, which we haven’t, because I’d remember it. Unless I met him the day of Lillian’s anniversary party. I don’t remember whole chunks of that day.

  I play it a few more times.

  Around the sixth time I hear the “Ciao,” his voice registers and it clicks. Ari is scruffy man from the hall. Who apparently is not a downtrodden potential client but the reporter. And according to him, Robert Walker has “troubles,” as in more than one.

  I turn on my computer. Wall Street Journal, Crain’s, The Deal, the New York Times business section, the Financial Times—they all have an article about some sort of coup at Options Communications. I take the shortcut and pick up the phone to call the one person who I know will be up on the issue. Like any good corporate lackey, he picks up halfway through the first ring even though it’s almost nine o’clock.

  “Kevin, what’s happening with Robert Walker and Options?”

  “How do you not know this? It’s the biggest deal.”

  “So I gather.”

  “And why aren’t you in the office?”

  “I’m working from home.”

  “Wow, matrimonial is cushy.”

  “So, the Robert Walker thing?”

  “Total bloodbath,” Kevin says with relish.

  “Why?”

  His voice shifts to an imitation of a nasal-sounding professor. “Classic activist shareholder coup. Classic.”

  I laugh, which is nice, because I haven’t done so in days. Kevin and I have a running joke that the names of corporate subterfuge maneuvers sound like titles of spy novels. I infuse my voice with mock suspense. “Was the corporate veil pierced? Was there a poison pill? Does he at least have a golden parachute?”

  “Oh, he’ll be okay. He has a big golden parachute—he’ll get oodles of millions when they oust him.”

  “Oh, thank goodness,” I say in mock relief.

  Kevin explains the situation like a sportscaster giving a play-by-play. Apparently, a rogue group of Options shareholders bonded together to overthrow the board of directors. They succeeded two weeks ago and elected a new board of directors. The new board is having an emergency meeting, the result of which will likely be the ouster of our own Robert Walker. Although Robert didn’t do anything wrong, Kevin explains, apparently there has been a lot of speculation that his ridiculously high compensation just doesn’t look right amid record low third-quarter numbers. Kevin is in the middle of describing Robert’s eight-figure departure package when his other line buzzes. I shout thanks as he clicks over without a good-bye.

  This explains Robert’s distracted behavior. Today after every break, he rushed back into the courtroom seconds before Strand appeared back at the bench, like this annoying little trial we all insisted on having was keeping him from the important things in his life.

  And Fern told me that he didn’t even register a reaction to my cross-examination of Claire, not even when I brought out the society page photos. (We had copied and indexed 150 photos of Claire from different events and were amazed to discover that she donned entirely different outfits, but the same open-lipped smile and slight head tilt to the right in each of them.) Looking at Strand, I had asked Claire, in light of her long list of charitable engagements, did she want to reassess her earlier testimony that she rarely missed a meal with Anna and Connor? She shifted uncomfortably in her seat and reassessed. It was a good moment for Team Fern.

  Tomorrow Robert will take the stand. My cross-examination is ready, although now that I know he’s losing his job, perhaps I should change tacks. I imagine strutting up to the witness stand and starting my testimony. “Mr. Walker, I understand you’re having some trouble at Options?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your new board is having an emergency meeting this week, the result of which will be that you’re out of a job.”

  He hangs his head in shame. “Yes.”

  I lean in close for the kill. “Well, if you’re free on Wednesday, want to meet up for an unemployed support group at the library? I know we’ve had our differences, but it’s résumé workshopping day.”

  Then Robert and I could join hands and sing “Bobby McGee”: “Freedom’s just another word for nothin’ left to lose.” Or maybe Robert would prefer a Jimmy Buffett tune, like, say, “Wasting away again in Margaritaville.” I’d let him choose.

  One winter eve
ning during my junior year, Duck and I were at a karaoke bar and “Bobby McGee” came on. We cracked ourselves up exaggerating those la-la-la-la-la-la-las. I mean come on, already. So over the top. Tonight, though, I recognize it as the truest song ever. I must hear it, and soon my laptop speakers are blaring Janis Joplin. Midway through the second verse, I realize it’s been an hour since I checked my Bacon Payne voice mail. There is a certain irony to having my new anthem blare in the background as I scramble to check in with Big Brother.

  “Freedom’s just another word for—,” I half shout with Janis as the Bacon Payne voice mail narrator intones, “You have three new messages.”

  I stop singing. New voice mail messages are rarely good.

  Janis ignores the voice mail and keeps going. “—nothing left to lose,” continues Janis. “Nothing, I mean nothing, honey, if it ain’t free—”

  “Liesel Billings here. I received the papers that you sent me over e-mail. Something is wrong with the margins—they’re very wide, and I need you to fix them and resend. ASAP because my papers are due next week.”

  I stare dumbly at the phone.

  Beep.

  “Hi, this message is for Molly Grant. Molly, my name is Ari Stern. We might have already met. I’m wondering if you’re the same Molly representing Fern Walker in the custody dispute with her husband. I can’t find a picture of you on the Web site, but it would be a weird coincidence if there are two matrimonial lawyers around the same vintage, both named Molly Grant, one at Bacon Payne, one out on her own. Right? Ha, ha, ha. Anyway, call me soon or I’ll try back. Ciao.”

  Crap.

  Beep. “Molly, It’s Kim.” Uh-oh. She’s talking slowly. “So, um, Lillian is back on Thursday morning and she wants to see you in her office. First thing. If I were you, I’d get there around eight thirty. Definitely no later than nine. Okay?” Her voice quiets to a whisper. “Sorry about this.”

  “Nothing, nothing, nothing YAAAAA,” screams Janis, failing to read the moment.

  Oh shut up, Janis.

  41

  ____

  the heart over the i

  I have to think of Robert Walker as subhuman, incapable of vulnerability, as he stares through me from twenty feet away. No matter that this morning’s Independent had a blurry picture of him frowning and pacing under the headline WORST WEEK EVER. He’s still an arrogant bully. I hadn’t had time to read the article, but Duck had texted me U r in the paper! Her enthusiasm indicates that she still does not get the gravity of my situation.

  I leave my notes on the table and walk over to the witness stand, trying to keep my tone light, conversational. “Mr. Walker, you think that you are a better parent than Ms. Walker?”

  He exhales loudly. “Yes.”

  “You think that Ms. Walker is dangerous?”

  He nods slowly, as though I’m an idiot. “Yes, I think she needs help.”

  “Do you think that Anna and Connor’s spending time with their mother is in their best interest?”

  “Not currently, no.”

  “You think your children would be better off if they didn’t see Ms. Walker at all?”

  “Yes.”

  “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  Robert Walker looks a little surprised and there’s a moment of silence in the courtroom, during which Strand wears a happy, blank smile. He finally blinks, nods and looks at Roland. “Your witness, counselor.”

  About two hours later, the defense rests.

  Before letting us go, Strand reminds us that he needs posttrial briefs in a week and that he’ll decide on our counsel fee motion then as well. And with that, we’re done with the Walker trial with more of a whimper than a bang.

  I am helping Jenny pack up the remaining Bankers Boxes when Roland approaches, his hand outstretched. “Pleasure doing business with you, Ms. Grant.”

  “You too, Mr. Williams. Thanks for your examinations.”

  He salutes. “Just trying to do right by my clients. You know, you’re much more savvy than you look.”

  “Um, thanks?”

  “Good move on the cross-examination, using the defendant’s own words to prove your case. Efficient, smart and, most important, got us out of here early. Thanks for that.”

  “Anytime.”

  I gesture at Fern to signal I’m ready to go when Risa approaches with a wide smile, her arm outstretched. Stunned, I take it and am treated to a vigorous shake. Graham is at her shoulder, and when she drops my shocked-into-bonelessness hand, he grabs it and pumps.

  “Great case, Molly. Pleasure trying it against you. Hope we bump into each other again soon,” says Risa during Graham’s shake. “If you’re ever upstate, swing by. We can go hiking, or out to this little coffee shop on the river. It’s beautiful up there. You’d love it.” Graham finally releases me, nods and then, apparently unable to bear the loss of physical contact, pats my arm.

  “Sure, sounds great,” I manage to stammer as they walk away.

  I turn to Fern. “Was her whole thing an act?”

  She pats her temple with her index finger in mock rumination. “Maybe she has an evil twin.”

  As soon as the elevator opens in the lobby, I hear the noise, the low hum of a crowd. I can’t locate the source until the revolving door spits me outside onto the courthouse steps and I see it: flashbulbs, people, microphones, cameras. Obviously someone newsworthy is in the courthouse today and I wonder—illogically and with a slice of fear—if it’s one of Lillian’s celebrity clients.

  Then someone shouts, “Any comments, Ms. Grant?”

  I look behind me for Fern and grab her arm as the flashbulbs continue to pop.

  “No comment,” I say, realizing that Liesel was correct—I am a rube when it comes to press strategy. I keep repeating “No comment” as Fern and I push through the crowd and somehow we duck to the side of the building, under some scaffolding.

  Fern peeks around the other side. “I guess they’re still waiting for Robert.”

  “Thank God. I didn’t think to order a car. Can you imagine if they tried to follow us on the train?”

  We walk around to the back of the municipal building and cross the street to a farther station, not opening our mouths again until we’re safely through the turnstiles.

  “Come out with us tonight,” says Fern. “Brian, Jenny and I are going for something indulgent.”

  “How about we celebrate next week?” I say, not adding that I should be plenty free then.

  “Deal.”

  As Fern’s train pulls into the station, she throws her arms around me in a tight embrace. “Molly, thank you. You’ve changed…everything.”

  “Let’s wait until we get a decision before claiming that.”

  “No, you have. You really have.” She holds up her phone in a flash like she’s showing me her ID, and I guess the picture on her home screen is a hallmark of her transformation. It shows Fern with her arms around Connor’s and Anna’s shoulders as they lean against her legs on the steps of the Natural History Museum; Fern’s looking down at Connor, saying something, and Connor smile-grimaces into the camera in the mugging way of preschoolers. Anna, flashing a peace sign, has her eyebrows raised and is sucking in her cheeks, pretending to be a model or maybe a fish. The whole scene is remarkable for its ordinariness, referencing the casualness and simple comfort—the family—that the three of them have forged over the past year.

  Fern gets on the train, yelling through the closing doors, “Tally your bills and let me know what it is.”

  I nod, hold up my bag and point. “They’re all in here.” Fern’s been asking me for the bills for weeks and I’m just humoring her. The total would take a huge chunk out of her savings and it just doesn’t seem right to demand that, even if I do actually need the money now. The only way I’m getting paid for this case is if Strand orders Robert Walker to cover Fern’s attorney fees, and I have no sense that that is going to happen.

  “Okay. Good.” She waves and blows a kiss as she steps onto the tra
in, grinning.

  __________

  I wind up at an Irish pub around the block from my building. It’s dark and quiet, no surprise given that it’s five o’clock on a Wednesday. I grab a corner table and spread out my time sheets, punching the calculator, adding and scribbling. Later, I will have to type it up all nicely and neatly and deliver it to the court along with my posttrial motion, but now, tonight, this is just for me.

  It’s probably just an obnoxious lawyer quirk—especially because I don’t expect to see a dime—but I feel the need to quantify the time I spent on this case. Walker v. Walker went beyond seeping into my personal life; it caused irreversible tectonic shifts and I am curious—how many hours did it ultimately take to get to where I am now? And while where I am now—almost jobless, on the verge of losing my bonus and lovesick—is not anything I’d volunteer for my alumni magazine’s class notes, somehow it feels like an improvement from where I was.

  It takes me four hours to total my time—apparently law firms have administrative support for a good reason. But finally, there it is, all my effort boiled down to one number. I have spent 630 hours of my time on Walker v. Walker. Which calculates to $315,000 in legal fees.

  I would do it all again, given the choice.

  __________

  As I walk into my apartment building, Marco gives me a big nod from behind the desk. “There she is,” he says, singing out enthusiastically. He gives me a subtle wink.

  “What?” I come home almost every night, but have never received such a reception from Marco.

  “You have a guest. I’ve seen him before, so I let him go upstairs.”

  Class A security. I search my brain to remember whom Marco has seen before: certainly Caleb.

  Marco shakes his head, it dawning on him that granting access to my apartment might have been a lapse in judgment. “I shoulda remembered his name, but I didn’t. I’m sorry. He did ask me to give you this, though.” He reaches down behind the desk and pulls up a white bag with a big bow on it. I peek inside. There are two Twinkies at the bottom.