Inherit the Shoes

by E. J. Copperman

  Dunwoody was not so prudent in his response. He shook his head sadly. ‘This is all because your career has gone down the toilet, and mine is flying, so you think you can take ninety-eight percent of my money. I’d be happy to do it California style and split everything in half,’ he said. ‘So you’re just being greedy and not seeing how stupid that is. I wouldn’t have expected that of you. But of course, if the shoe fits …’

  Bach gave his client a sharp look, which Dunwoody noticed, but too late. There was something about the word ‘shoe’ that apparently struck a nerve with Patsy, and she was already rising out of her chair. ‘If you think you can sit there and insult me, you limey bastard, you can forget that! I have your signature on a pre-nup that says I get ninety-eight percent of the marital assets, and I’m gonna get ninety-eight percent of the marital assets. Including Jimmy’s shoes!’

  Shoes? I rifled through the file again. What shoes? And who’s Jimmy?

  Dunwoody looked positively stricken – his eyes widened (the opposite of crinkling) and, from the outside, I thought his throat looked dry. Surely the choked noise he made led to that conclusion.

  ‘Jimmy’s … shoes?’ he gasped. ‘You wouldn’t.’

  Patsy’s smile was positively evil. She wasn’t just enjoying the fact that she was controlling the situation. She liked inflicting pain, especially on Dunwoody. The more he struggled to speak, the wider her smile became.

  The pure emotion in the room almost made me forget my fatigue. I experienced a moment of complete alertness and total attention, but it faded.

  ‘Sure I would. And I will,’ Patsy answered. ‘I’ll take Jimmy’s shoes, Patrick. And then maybe I’ll sell them. Or maybe I’ll just throw them away in the trash. Or burn them.’ I couldn’t find a reference to shoes, or anyone named James, Jim, Jimmy, Jamie, or Jimbo in my file (not that I looked very hard for Jimbo), and there was no mention of shoes of any kind. Could these be shoes of a tiny child who had died, or … no, wait, they’d only been married sixteen months. They couldn’t have a child old enough to wear shoes, not if they’d known each other only a short time before the Las Vegas wedding. There were no dependents listed in the file, but …

  ‘You bitch!’ Dunwoody shot out of his chair and headed for his wife with a fury I couldn’t have imagined as little as fifteen seconds ago. ‘You can’t do that! You never even cared about Jimmy’s shoes!’

  Bach broke his client’s resolve with a single ‘Patrick!’ that spoke volumes about Bach’s influence and Dunwoody’s respect for him. I was stunned by the power of his simple rebuke, and the silence that followed. Dunwoody walked back to his seat and took it, never breaking his livid stare at Patsy, who was trying to decide whether to continue the petrified look of terror she thought would buy her sympathy, or to go back to her triumphant, smug, horrible grin.

  She went with the grin.

  ‘We are not here to argue over individual items,’ Bach continued as if nothing had happened. ‘We contend that there is no reason to consider, let alone honor, the pre-nuptial agreement, and we believe a judge will find in our favor. So if we are to be’ – and here he did indulge in an upper-class smile aimed at Patsy – ‘reasonable, we should begin with discarding the pre-nuptial agreement and move on to a divorce settlement that can be agreeable to both parties.’

  ‘Forget reasonable!’ Patsy screamed. ‘I don’t have to be reasonable! I’m a star!’

  ‘You were,’ Dunwoody sneered without looking at her. ‘Now you’re someone who needs to be reasonable.’

  Patsy’s lawyer put a hand on her arm, and she rewarded him with the kind of look the shark gave Robert Shaw in Jaws. He removed his hand, and spoke to her quietly.

  ‘Patsy,’ he practically moaned. ‘You’re not helping your case. Try to sit down and let me negotiate for you. OK?’

  ‘I don’t hear you negotiating for me,’ Patsy sneered at him, but she sat down anyway. ‘You’re as quiet as she is – the one we all had to wait for.’ And she pointed at me.

  Unfortunately, that was the moment I lost my battle with fatigue and was in full-fledged yawn. I at least remembered to put my hand over my mouth, but that was small consolation; you could have fit a Volkswagen in my mouth at the time. Every face in the room turned toward me.

  I felt my face burning. The voice in my head echoed Holiday’s words, ‘sit there and don’t say anything unless you have to.’ Well, didn’t I have to? Especially now, with Patrick Dunwoody’s crinkling eyes staring into my face, looking for help and some sense of pride? Didn’t I have to prove I’d been listening?

  ‘It seems to me that all this talk about the pre-nuptial agreement is silly,’ I said. Bach turned to warn me, but I was using my best professional voice. ‘The pre-nup was drafted before Mr Dunwoody began earning considerably more than Ms DeNunzio. And from what I can tell, it was executed in a very short period of time before they were married. And it was executed without Mr Dunwoody being represented by counsel, which, given the terms, would cause the document to be thrown out of court in a nanosecond. Thus, the pre-nup is absolutely meaningless.’

  Dunwoody broke into an appreciative smile that threatened to melt all my undergarments. And Patsy looked like she might actually chew on the water glass from which she was drinking when I spoke. But there was a problem – Patsy’s attorney showed a tiny smile of recognition. He hadn’t thought of that, and now he’d be able to defend against it. Uh-oh. I was afraid – physically afraid – to look at Junius Bach.

  When I summoned the courage to do so, I caught an expression of such calm I thought I must have misread the situation. But behind Bach’s eyes, when one looked more closely, was a contained rage that would probably rival Mt. St. Helens in its ability to erupt.

  Mentally, I began packing my belongings for the long trip back to New Jersey.

  Patsy’s attorney stood and he began packing up – he put his files back into his briefcase. ‘I think this conference is unlikely to yield any serious progress,’ he said. ‘Junius, we will see you in court.’

  ‘I’m sorry you see it that way,’ Bach said, standing. ‘I think we could work out an equitable solution here and now, if we would all be …’ He left the word unsaid. The proceedings had gone so far beyond reason that even mentioning it would have seemed comical.

  Patsy, taking her attorney’s lead for once, stood and started for the door, her legal entourage in tow. As she passed her husband’s seat, she said quietly, ‘It’s supposed to be chilly tonight. Maybe I’ll have a nice fire.’

  Dunwoody’s eyes threatened to spring across the room. He began growling, but ended up shouting. ‘You touch so much as a shoelace, you cheap whore, and I will personally see to it that it’s the last thing you touch. I’ll see you dead before I let you have those shoes. You understand, Patsy? I’ll kill you!’

  ‘You don’t have to let me have Jimmy’s shoes, Patrick,’ Patsy all but cooed. ‘I already have them.’ Without making eye contact with anyone, she left the room, sweeping her legal team in her wake.

  There was an uncomfortable (although, in my case, welcome) silence for a long moment after the conference room door closed. Then, just as Bach was about to stand up and fire me – I could see his fist closing as he stood – Dunwoody leapt out of his chair and turned to me, grinning from ear to ear.

  ‘That was brilliant!’ he shouted. ‘You really saved the day there, Ms Moss! Didn’t she, Junius? Didn’t she just save the day?’

  Bach, stupefied by the glee of his (extremely well-paying) client, opened and closed his mouth once or twice.

  I suddenly felt the need to commit professional hara-kiri, so I looked at Dunwoody and said, ‘Thank you, but no, I didn’t save the day. So, unless I’m reading the situation incorrectly, Mr Dunwoody, you’ll be dealing with a different associate in this firm, because Mr Bach is quite justifiably going to fire me.’

  I glanced at Bach, who seemed to agree with everything I said, especially the last part. But before he could open his mouth, his client spun
on his heels and faced Bach with an expression of utter amazement.

  ‘Fire her? You’re not going to do that, are you, Junius?’ Dunwoody’s apparent astonishment took Bach by surprise. As his eyes did their best not to spin in their sockets, Bach stopped, assessing the situation.

  ‘Ah … no! No, of course not, Patrick,’ Bach said. ‘It’s Ms Moss’s first day at the firm. She obviously doesn’t know all the ins and outs yet.’ (Like just shutting up and listening when you’re told to.) ‘I don’t see any need to fire her.’

  ‘Great!’ Dunwoody shouted. ‘Because I want her on my side through every step of this divorce. She’s the only one who showed any spark, any juice, any passion in here – besides me and Patsy, of course.’ He chuckled privately to himself. The eye crinkle was there, but it wasn’t as obvious now. He was good, very good, I noted. Dangerous.

  Bach, however, was seeing a different kind of danger – the kind that happens when you tie yourself to an incompetent and hope to maintain your dignity. ‘I’m surely as impressed as you are, Patrick, with Ms Moss,’ he said, though he did not mention whether his impression was a favorable one or not. ‘But don’t you think a more experienced divorce attorney …’

  Dunwoody cut him off at the knees. ‘Nonsense, Junius. Ms Moss – may I call you Sandra, Ms Moss?’

  ‘Sandy.’ It was someone else’s voice. Someone else’s brain at work, too. I probably wasn’t even here. I was back in central New Jersey, getting ready to prosecute a drug dealer on the grounds that he could have had the eighty-seven bags of marijuana on him for his own personal use. Sure, it was possible.

  ‘Sandy. Great!’ That was Dunwoody’s voice. I recognized it. This was certainly a vivid dream. ‘No, Junius, Sandy here is the only one who, in my view, really cares about the case. She’ll help, or I’ll move to another firm. And I’ll recommend they hire her out from under you.’

  Junius Bach looked like someone had told him that Dr Pepper really was better than Cristal, and his entire existence was no longer verifiable. But his voice was strong and confident. ‘Of course, Patrick. Of course. Ms Moss – Sandy – will be with us every step of the way.’

  ‘Good.’ Clearly Dunwoody felt the issue was settled. But I shook my head in disbelief. I looked my client – no, Bach’s client – straight in the face and tried once again to convince him I was a drooling incompetent.

  ‘Mr Dunwoody, please.’ Dunwoody tried to interrupt me, but I persisted. ‘You have to understand. I’ve been a criminal attorney for the past eight years. I’ve never been involved in a family law case, let alone a divorce case. Mr Bach has so much more experience than me that it’s amazing I’m allowed in the same room with him. Believe me, you’re in the best hands with him. I’d be lucky to sit and listen, which is what I should have done today. Don’t let your emotions get the best of your judgment.’

  Dunwoody stopped and looked at me thoughtfully. ‘Sandy,’ he said quietly, as if to a child, ‘you are the most loyal, thoughtful employee I have ever seen. Mr Bach is lucky to have you, and he knows it. And I am glad you’ve never been in a divorce court before, because I want someone who’s going to have fresh, new ideas. Someone who will think …’(Don’t say it! I thought) ‘outside the box.’ (He said it!) ‘But there’s just one thing, and you must remember this as long as we are together, all right? It’s terribly, terribly important, and could cause us to have an awful falling out. Are you listening?’

  I nodded, absolutely transfixed by his calm, patient manner.

  ‘Don’t ever call me “Dunwoody” again as long as you live!’ His eyes crinkled, and I could see he meant for me to be amused. But I had no idea what he was talking about.

  ‘You want me to call you “Pat?”’ I asked.

  ‘Well, that’s OK, but I don’t ever want you to refer to me by the name “Dunwoody.” It’s Patrick McNabb now and always. All right?’

  ‘Sure. No problem.’ I knew better than to ask why, and at the same time, I knew I’d heard that name before. Why was it coming to me in Angie’s voice?

  ‘All right, then,’ Dunwoody, er, McNabb said. He turned to Bach. ‘Junius, don’t disappoint me. I want to see that face’ – and he pointed at me – ‘every time I walk into this office or a court of law. Understand? A courtroom is no place for conventional thinking.’

  Bach nodded, but I stood absolutely still. That was where I’d heard of Patrick McNabb. That was why Angie’s voice was reminding me.

  ‘You’re on that TV show,’ I said aloud. ‘Legality. You’re Patrick McNabb.’

  McNabb looked at me, deciding whether to be offended or amused. The crinkled eyes said he’d decided on amused. ‘Yes I am,’ he said. ‘I’m glad we’ve determined who I am. And you, Sandy Moss. You are now someone else, too.’

  ‘I am?’

  ‘Yes. You’re my attorney.’

  THREE

  Seaton Taylor (as the firm was known to its closer friends) was a large enough concern to have its own cafeteria, despite the fact that there were many lunch places on the same block as the high-rise in which the firm’s offices were located. This was a good thing for me, because I could sit by myself, stare at a chicken salad sandwich I had no intention of eating, and wonder why I was such a bad lawyer.

  What was passing for rye bread on the sandwich was something I’d normally use to mop up a spill, and the potato chips I might ordinarily get back home were replaced by whole-grain ‘snackers,’ which appeared to be either a subtle laxative or some form of punishment, or both. I wasn’t thinking about the food anyway. My mind couldn’t let me off the hook.

  Why had I spoken up at the meeting when I knew I shouldn’t? Why couldn’t I just sit there and be the kind of set decoration Bach had clearly expected me to be? Why couldn’t I just once be content to sit by and watch? Why, why, why?

  I was trying as hard as I could to go back to the moment I’d allowed the impulse to overcome me, and ask for a do-over. Was that too much to expect, really? One little mulligan in the course of a whole life? Why hadn’t anyone invented a time travel machine when you really needed one?

  This self-pity festival might have gone on for hours (I hadn’t been assigned any other cases after the McNabb fiasco), but a man, perhaps thirty years old (on his oldest day), with eyes so green they must have been contact lenses, and hair so black it was … black, stood across the table from me, tray in hands.

  ‘Is this seat taken?’ he asked in a musical voice. Shaken from my stupor by his question, I looked up. Dark, sober-looking, serious, extremely well groomed.

  Just my type.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I mean, no. I mean, sit down, please.’ I gestured at the chair, as if we were in my living room (not my real living room, where books and cartons were strewn wall-to-wall, but the living room in my head, where I had furniture and stuff, all where they were supposed to be) and I was the hostess.

  ‘Thanks,’ said the man, not smiling in the least. He put down his tray (Caesar salad, dressing on the side, and vitamin water) and sat down. ‘I’m Evan D’Arbanville. Are you Sandra Moss?’

  I looked up. ‘Yes! How’d you know that?’

  ‘Well,’ Evan said, ‘you’d be the new one here, and besides, everybody heard about the meeting this morning. You’re a celebrity around the office.’

  I put my forehead down on the table, narrowly missing contact with my sandwich. Luckily, I was wearing my hair back in a bun, or I’d have smelled like mayonnaise the rest of the day. ‘Great. I’m here half a day and everybody knows I’m a screw-up. I’m doomed.’ I looked at Evan, suddenly, in wonder. ‘Why are you sitting near me? Don’t you need to be in with the cool kids?’

  He smiled a little. ‘You are the cool kid. All the lawyers here think you’re a hero because you got Patrick McNabb to threaten to leave if the Old Man fired you. We who work in the trenches are impressed.’

  Evan dug into his salad, which was what I should have ordered. He didn’t even need to lose any weight, I noted with both appreciation and en
vy. He probably just ate salads because he enjoyed them. Typical Californian. Nobody enjoyed salads in New Jersey. They ate them as a form of penance.

  ‘You’re a lawyer here?’ I asked him.

  Evan wiped a tiny spot of dressing from the side of his mouth. ‘No, I’m a paralegal,’ he said. ‘But I’m going to law school, and I’m hoping they’ll hire me as an associate when I finish.’

  ‘How much longer?’ I asked.

  ‘Another year. I’m working full-time and going to school at night. It’s a little time-consuming.’

  Angie’s voice has a habit of talking to me in my head when I’m under stress. Since I’m almost always under stress, this has become pretty typical for me. I mean, I know it’s just my own mind telling me what Angie would say, but it’s become almost reflexive, and I don’t much think about it any more. Except when, as now, the imaginary Angie was screaming in my ear: He’s a starving law student. Ask him out! Take him to dinner! Not only had I never asked a man out in my life, but this didn’t seem like my luckiest day so far. And it was only eleven thirty.

  ‘Would you like to go out to dinner?’ I’d been rehearsing the line so many times in my head that it took me a moment to realize it was coming from Evan’s mouth. I stared at him a moment, and seeing my look, he added, ‘You don’t have to if you don’t want to.’

  ‘No, I’d love to,’ I managed to answer. ‘But don’t you have to go to law school at night and work here during the day? When do you have time to socialize?’

  Evan smiled with the left side of his mouth. My God, I thought, I’d probably sleep with this guy on the first date! ‘I get one night off a week,’ he said. ‘It happens to be tonight. Besides, I have to eat sometime. Would you like to join me? I can’t afford much, but I can make you dinner.’