Jack With a Twist bm-2

by Brenda Janowitz

  “We love the Pierre,” Joan says softly. I look at my mother and she is trying to maintain a gracious smile with her mouth frozen in place and teeth gritted together.

  “Jackie?” I say.

  “We like the Pierre, too,” Jack says, looking up from his plate, “remember, we went to that charity event there this summer?”

  “I forget,” I say. Jack regales the table with a story about how we couldn’t find a cab after the charity event and ended up taking a horse-drawn carriage at 1:00 a.m. all the way down Fifth Avenue from 59th Street to 23rd. I take the cocktail napkin that has been underneath my wineglass since we came from the salon to the dining room out from under my wineglass. It’s an ivory napkin with a large S embossed on the front. I tear it into two pieces. And then into four.

  “But, Edward,” my mother says, smile still firmly in place as she places her hand gently on Jack’s father’s arm, “two Jewish kids getting married. Wouldn’t it be lovely to celebrate such a mitzvah in a temple?”

  “Joan and I would be glad to contribute to costs,” Edward says quietly to my mother. And then louder, to the whole table: “In fact, it would be an honor, wouldn’t it dear?”

  “An honor,” Joan parrots back. I tear my napkin into eighths.

  “Absolutely not,” my father bellows, his Brooklyn accent even more prominent than usual. “BB’s our only daughter. We’ve been waiting our whole life for this day. The wedding’s on Mimi and me. We’ll do whatever our BB wants. Do you want a hotel wedding, BB?”

  “Well,” I start to say, beginning to take my father’s defense, “I did always dream of—”

  “Then it’s settled,” my father says, still a little too loudly, “we’ll start looking at hotels next week.”

  I suppose that in my heart of hearts, I knew that this was how it would go down. Why on earth would I have thought that our parents would get along? Jack’s father is a Circuit Court judge and his mother is active in charity work, while my father is a kosher butcher and my mother is active in her mah-jongg game.

  Is it too late to elope?

  Column Five

  Just asking…

  WHICH fashion designer is about to bid her businessman husband adieu? Her friends, family and investors think things are très magnifique, but a hotel bill at the Lowell says otherwise….

  6

  Back at work. Thank God. I may not have a wedding dress, and the first meeting of the parents may have gotten off to a bit of a rocky start, but at least work is the one thing I understand, the one thing that’s under my control. The one area where I know that nothing will go wrong. Especially since today is the initial conference on Monique’s case—the first case ever where I get the chance to take the lead. Luckily for me, the case is pretty open and shut, so I barely need to prepare for this morning’s court date. Granted, I seem to have hit a tiny stumbling block on this case—a pesky little countersuit by Monique’s husband filed this morning right before I left to go to court—but the case is still pretty straightforward and I should have things squared away with the judge in no time at all. And before the New York Post can blow up this morning’s “blind item” about Monique into a full-fledged article. Hopefully, while I’m at federal court dealing with the dissolution of partnership case, all of the reporters will be over at family court, poking around for the divorce case that doesn’t exist. Yet. I should have this thing settled before they even realize that they’re in the wrong courthouse.

  It’s refreshing to be doing something this morning that I have power over. Especially since last night, after we got back from dinner at his parents’s house, I had to calmly explain to Jack—who under normal circumstances is an absolutely perfect fiancé—that he needs to take my side whenever there is a disagreement amongst the families. But it’s not like we got into a fight about it or anything. We are not one of those couples who ever fight. Which is surprising since we’re both lawyers, but it’s true. We never fight. Not at all adversarial. We’re just not one of those couples you see who compete with one another. In fact, if we were a Hollywood couple, it wouldn’t matter at all who won an Oscar first or who made more money per picture—we wouldn’t get a divorce over it or even have a cross word over it—because we are simply not competitive with each other in the slightest bit and we most certainly never fight.

  “How dare you not take my side in front of your parents!” I said last night, the second we walked back in the door to our apartment after dinner at Jack’s parents’ house. Okay, so I may have been screaming it at the time, but you get where I was going with that one. That was the most calm as I could muster, given the circumstances.

  “Sides?” my perfect fiancé said. “It’s not about sides, sweetie. It’s about our families coming together.”

  “You’re right, honey,” I said, “it’s not about sides.” And Jack was so right. It is so not about sides at all. It’s about our families merging into one. Even if his family does outnumber mine by an alarming ratio of four to one. “Right, Jack. I just meant that you need to agree with everything I say in front of your parents.”

  My perfect fiancé looked back at me and furrowed his brow.

  But, today in court, I will be in control. After all, I am a tough, no-nonsense attorney who does not take “no” for an answer. I am confident, intelligent and self-possessed. I am woman, hear me roar. See, with my can-do attitude, there is no way that I can lose in court today. Especially since it’s only an initial conference where we just cover administrative matters, so there’s actually no winning or losing to be had. And this isn’t the sort of case that ever goes to trial for actual winning or losing. It’s more of a transactional thing. Also, the judge assigned to my case is an old law school buddy of Jack’s dad.

  But, I’ll still roar if need be.

  As I enter the judge’s courtroom, I take a peek at the docket and notice something very odd. When I got notice of the countersuit, Monique’s husband had checked off the box to indicate that he’d be handling the matter pro se, meaning that he’d be his own attorney. It made sense to me at the time since a dissolution of partnership is so routine, but today he has a law firm representing him.

  My old law firm.

  “This must be a typo,” I say to the court deputy sitting at a long table in the front of the courtroom. When I say this to him, a tiny voice inside me realizes that it must be true, that my old law firm will, in fact, be opposing me in my first big case that I take the lead on. Which would also be the reason why Monique didn’t hire Vanessa. She knew that her husband would be using Gilson, Hecht. Still, I think that it can’t hurt to ask the deputy, maybe even flirt a bit, and earn myself a few brownie points with the judge’s staff.

  “No typo,” he says, without even looking up from his coffee, donut and New York Law Journal.

  “I’m representing Monique deVouvray and her husband is opposing the action pro se.”

  “Pro se?” he says, looking very annoyed that I’ve distracted him from his breakfast. This is probably not the way to earn brownie points. I lean over his desk so as to show some cleavage, but it doesn’t really work since I’m wearing a turtleneck sweater. Maybe he’ll applaud the effort, anyway, though.

  “You know what?” I say, not wanting to piss off the man who controls the court’s calendar—and my fate on this case for the next couple of months. “Don’t even worry about it. I’ll just figure it out when you call me.”

  “You must be Brooke,” a thick Southern drawl from behind me says. I turn around to see Miranda Foxley, an associate at Gilson, Hecht. I’ve never met her before, but her reputation precedes her. Word on the street—or at the Park Avenue law firms, as the case may be—is that she left her last law firm because she slept with a married partner. Happy as I am to see that the case is staffed only with a junior associate, and not a partner, it dawns on me that the whole flirt-with-the-staff-of-chambers strategy isn’t really going to work if Miranda Foxley is my opposing counsel.

  Standing five foot ten, Mir
anda looks more like a model than an actual lawyer. Her blazing red hair flows loosely around her shoulders, down her back and it makes my hand instinctively fly up to my own locks since it reminds me that I chopped my own long hair off just a few months ago. Which doesn’t really matter today anyway, since I have it back in a bun to look professional for court, but still. And she’s unbelievably—annoyingly—thin. I could never understand how Southern women could ever be thin with all of that delicious comfort food they grow up with in the South, but Miranda is. I guess that she is able to ignore a buttered biscuit and fried chicken in a way that I never could.

  Today she’s got on a fitted salmon-colored Nanette Lepore suit with a little silk camisole underneath that’s bordered with lace. I’m in my most conservative charcoal-gray suit with a black turtleneck sweater, black opaque stockings and black pumps. The contrast is striking—she’s Susan Dey in LA Law and I’m Marcia Clark before the makeover. I bet Miranda’s even got garters on under that pastel-colored number.

  Thank God I still have an in with the judge by way of my future father-in-law.

  “Jack told me all about you,” she coos. I hate that she knows my fiancé. Visions of them cavorting naked in conference rooms while working on a “document production” fill my mind.

  “He did?” I say, smoothing back my hair with the back of my hand, wishing I’d worn it down today.

  “See? No typo,” the deputy informs me. “You’re appearing against Gilson, Hecht today.”

  “Yes,” I say, “thank you.” And then, under my breath, “I can see that.”

  Our case is called at 11:00 a.m. and Miranda and I make our way into chambers. Judge Martin sits behind a massive mahogany desk with case files piled high on either side. The bank of windows is right behind his shiny bald head and I almost have to squint as I sit down in my chair. He looks much older than Jack’s father does and I wonder if that’s because he was ahead of Jack’s dad in law school or if that’s because of his huge pot belly and the two hundred and fifty pounds he’s carrying around.

  Note to self: Must start wedding diet, stat.

  “First,” Judge Martin begins, “at the outset, I’d like to tell you, Ms. Foxley, that although I do not personally know Ms. Miller, I do know her future father-in-law and, as such, I will be attending her wedding to his son. I don’t think that this should present a problem, but, before we go any further, we should discuss right now whether or not you’ll be making a motion for me to recuse myself from this matter.”

  “I have no objections, Your Honor,” Miranda says with her thick Southern accent. I’m certain that she’s putting the accent on even thicker for the judge’s benefit. “I know that you and Judge Solomon were both Harvard Law, class of 1962.” Why didn’t I think to do a Westlaw background search on Judge Martin?

  Or, had she done one on Jack’s father?

  “Ms. Miller, I assume that you don’t have a problem with me being on this case?”

  “Of course not,” I say, glowing at the mention of my wedding. Surely, by my wedding day, I will have won this case by a landslide and by spring, Judge Martin will be at my rehearsal dinner giving a toast: Beauty and brains, the total package, that’s our Brooke.

  If I were Miranda, I might have considered a motion to recuse Judge Martin from the case. It is so clear that I already have an advantage here. It’s obvious that the man already thinks of me as his surrogate daughter. And, I’m litigating against an associate who is junior to me. This case is going to be so easy that it’s almost unfair. But far be it from me to point that out.

  Judge Martin glances over the court papers. “So, we seem to have a little bit of a disagreement here.”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Miranda pipes in, sitting up straighter in her chair. “My client is countersuing. He helped build his wife’s business and he is not going to allow her to cut him off from its future profits. It was his personal savings that first—”

  “I wasn’t aware that we’d be arguing our cases today, Your Honor,” I say with an innocent smile, cutting Miranda off. Normally, I wouldn’t be so bold as to say something like that, but on a case that I had with Jack three years ago, a similar situation arose where opposing counsel began posturing on his client’s behalf before the case even began and that was what Jack said to shut him down immediately. It worked like a charm in that initial conference—simultaneously shutting up opposing counsel and currying favor with the judge—and I was hoping for a similar result.

  I wish Jack was here with me right now. If he were here, he’d put the fear of God into this little Southern belle and we could probably force a settlement right now. Since leaving Gilson, Hecht, the one thing I miss most is working on all of my cases with Jack. Not only is he an amazing attorney, but he also used to give me something nice to stare at when I was bored to tears at these things.

  “Ms. Miller is correct, Ms. Foxley,” Judge Martin says, “this is just to set up our court calendar. I won’t have you posturing on your client’s behalf. Unless you’re ready to talk settlement already?”

  “No, sir,” Miranda says, looking down at her papers and straightening them out.

  “We are ready to talk settlement whenever you are, Your Honor,” I say. “In fact, we really were expecting a very basic dissolution of partnership. Totally by the books. We weren’t at all expecting a contentious litigation.”

  Wow, didn’t that sound, like, totally dramatic? I’ll have to remember to tell Jack about that little zinger later.

  “Counselor?” Judge Martin says, looking at Miranda for a response.

  “Sorry, Your Honor. My client is firm. He wants to proceed with litigation.”

  “So, then let’s set up a calendar for the discovery process,” Judge Martin says, taking out his calendar, a huge red leather book that he places on his desk with a big slam.

  “Would it be all right to take a very brief recess?” Miranda asks. This is highly unusual. An initial court conference is generally so brief that there’s no time to take a break.

  I give a disapproving glance in Judge Martin’s direction, indicating that I do not want to take a break and that I’m ready to continue with the conference. He already took my side when Miranda started posturing and I just know that he won’t allow a recess if I indicate to him that I don’t want one. The control I’m already exerting over this case is embarrassing. I’ve got this guy eating out of the palm of my hand. But, it’s okay, since I’ll only be using my superpowers of litigation for good.

  “I’ll allow it,” Judge Martin says. “Let’s take five minutes.” He must have misconstrued my disapproving glance as saying: I really need to go to the ladies’ room.

  Anyway, a five-minute recess will give me enough time to call Jack and get some tips on how to deal with Miranda. You’re not allowed to bring cell phones into a federal courthouse, but Jack showed me a tiny trick that’s hardly even that illegal to sneak your phone in to court—you just turn your phone off as you go through security and hide it in an inside pocket.

  Granted, I’m still not allowed to tell him that Monique is my client, but I can ask him about litigation strategy without revealing anything about the case. After all, asking him for tips on how to deal with an annoying adversary (with a totally put-on Southern accent) is not a breach of my ethical duties to my client.

  I dial the number and hear the familiar ring tone for Jack’s cell phone. It’s the song “Hello, I Love You” by the Doors. I have the same one on mine. As I hear it ringing, I can hear the actual phone coming down the hallway.

  “What are you doing here?” I say, as Jack rounds the corner, practically walking into me in his effort to covertly answer his phone while avoiding the glare of any federal marshals lurking in the hallway who might confiscate it.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks right back, talking into the phone. “You didn’t tell me you were coming to court today.”

  “You’re supposed to turn the phone off when you pass through security,” I remind him, taki
ng my own phone away from my ear.

  “I taught you that trick, sweetie,” he says, shutting his phone and grabbing me for a little kiss. “Are you here on a case?”

  “Super-secret client,” I stage whisper. “I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.” I try to say this last bit all flirty and sweet, just like Calista Flockhart on Ally McBeal. I love that I’m still flirting with Jack even though we’re already engaged. I hope that I still feel that way when we’re old and gray. Well, okay, I’ll probably never be old and gray. I’ll be old with a totally kick-ass natural-looking dye job, but you know what I mean.

  “Super-secret client?” he laughs, running a hand through his shaggy brown hair. “Me, too. What judge are you assigned to?”

  But I don’t need to tell him what judge I’m assigned to because we both figure it out at the exact same time.

  Miranda rounds the corner and calls out to Jack: “Oh, there you are! We’ve been waiting for you! I’ve been stalling all morning, just like you taught me to! Brooke, I don’t know what I would’ve done in that conference if your fella hadn’t coached me on it last night.” She walks over to us and stands between Jack and me. Then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, she rests her hand on his shoulder and sighs audibly, sort of the way Scarlett O’Hara did to Rhett when he came to rescue her from a besieged Atlanta.

  Jack looks at me and I look at him. Neither of us say a word. We don’t need to. Turns out that there is a Gilson, Hecht partner on the case, after all.

  My fiancé.

  7

  “Your Honor, you can’t possibly let him litigate this case against me. I mean, how can he be objective for his client? It’s so obvious that he is completely, madly, desperately in love with me!”

  What I fail to mention to the judge here—and the real reason why I’m so adamant to get Jack thrown off this case—is that Jack’s also a much more experienced lawyer than me, and during our five years together at Gilson, Hecht, he really did teach me everything I know. How on earth am I going to use all of the litigation tricks I know on the person who taught them to me in the first place?