The Love Wars (11 page)

“What the judge really needs to know is that the clause in the prenup—the one that says if Stewart does a substantial amount of work on behalf of a joint business, that business will be joint property—doesn’t apply to the cats.”

“But I’ve told you fifty times. We didn’t include that clause for the cats. That clause was for the Internet matchmaking that Stewart wanted to do.”

I put my head in my hands for a moment before responding. “I know that, Liesel. We should win this, but we have to be strategic about it. It doesn’t make sense to fill the papers with a bunch of extraneous information about whether you nagged Stewart to take care of the cats or whether he took his own initiative. The judge won’t care.”

“Molly, how old are you?”

“What? How is that relevant?”

“No, you’re so hell-bent on telling me what to do. You need to answer my questions too. It’s quid pro quo here.”

Pause.

“Or maybe I should tell Lillian that you’re not able to handle my case.” She waits for that to sink in before repeating the question. “How old are you?”

“I’m twenty-nine, Liesel.”

“Well, I’m forty. You might have done a few more motions than I have, but I have eleven years on you. You don’t really know about life. Trust me. We need to talk about the cat care. We need to tell the judge that Stewart never remembered on his own. It says a lot about his character.”

I feel my blood start to simmer. I’ve been containing my anger at Liesel since our conversation a few weeks ago and the dam is breaking; I twitch a little, my knee bouncing quickly as I nibble at a jagged nail on my index finger. But I can’t tell off Liesel. What if she complains to Lillian about it? “Okay, Liesel. We’ll think about it. Let’s move on.”

____

S
omehow, Liesel and I cobble together the motion by the return date. I get her to accept most of my revisions by pretending that they were Lillian’s ideas. But she still calls me daily—and often for over an hour—to discuss whether Stewart’s papers are in, what do I think they will say, have I reviewed her other documents, why am I so slow, why am I being so passive, why am I so polite to Stewart’s lawyer, have I ever meditated, it might help me loosen up and gain wisdom, and she has a great guru, his name is River, I should try him.

Perhaps I will call River. I wonder if he needs a Xanax after an hour with Liesel.

Here’s the thing about Liesel: if she displayed evidence of even a shred of humanity, she would be a real role model. The youngest (and first female) managing director ever at Constitution Bank, she helped guide it through an initial public offering, resulting in her being worth nearly nine figures by the time she was thirty-eight. Rather than rest on her laurels, she immediately started her own private equity fund. She works incredibly hard, and I’m pretty sure she’s fought for every achievement. (I am basing this on Lillian’s initial consult notes in the file on which she had written “SELF-MADE” in capital letters on the top of the page, circled three times, underlined six.)

Alas, Liesel has yet to display a shred of humanity.

I’ve managed not to scream at her so far, but I’m losing it. For about a week, I didn’t return her phone calls so promptly in the hopes of lowering her expectations about how responsive I could be. “Client Obedience-Training Basics,” Rachel called it. “Just like a new puppy.”

Liesel was clearly no new puppy. She responded by sending an e-mail to Lillian, CC’ing me, the gist of which was that she needed to talk and, for some reason, was having a lot of trouble reaching me. She hoped it wasn’t a pattern and that everything was okay.

I called her back within minutes.

Rachel and Liz both assure me that this is just part of the deal. Some clients are bullies, and some drive you crazy. Liesel is the whole enchilada—a crazy-making bully. My job, as I keep reminding myself, is to suck it up and take it.

I check my e-mail. Of course, there’s a message from Liesel to Lillian asking that I call ASAP. I pick up the phone.

“Hi, Liesel. It’s Molly.”

“Did we get the papers yet?”

“No, Liesel. We’re not supposed to get them until the fifth, remember? We spoke about this yesterday.”

“Hey. A little sensitivity. My husband is trying to steal my cats.”

“I am well aware of that, Liesel.”

“Watch your tone. You know, client management is a big part of your job.”

I take a deep breath and force my voice to be even, calm. “I promise I will tell you as soon as we get the papers.”

“Oh, and also you need to call Stewart’s lawyers. I’ve decided I’m not making this month’s support payment as long as this motion is going on.”

I swallow hard. “Liesel, you can’t just not pay support. Wait one month and I’m sure you’ll be awarded counsel fees for this motion.”

“God, why do you always take his side? If he’s making this stupid motion, he doesn’t deserve any support.”

“I understand, but it helps our case if you haven’t defaulted on the terms of the agreement.”

“Molly. You know what lawyers are supposed to do?”

“Give their clients good advice?”

“No, Molly. You, as my lawyer, are supposed to zea-lous-ly ad-voc-ate for me.” She draws out the syllables as though I’m a toddler. “That means if something is important to me, it should be important to you. It’s funny. I used to not understand why people in finance were better compensated than lawyers. I mean, we all go to the same colleges and consider the same career paths. Now, though, I don’t know. Having worked in finance and going through this experience, I feel like, if anything, lawyers are overrated. People in finance have a head for business, you know? Lawyers just seem—a little…slow. Anyway, call Stewart’s lawyers and then call me right back.”

I close my eyes and inhale deeply. Then I walk down the hall to Lillian’s office, going quickly so that I get there before I lose my nerve.

__________

L
illian is behind her desk, animatedly talking to Rachel and Liz. They’re perched on the couch, listening silently, identical wide impressed smiles on their faces.

“…And I told him that even if I represent the governor, it doesn’t mean that I get a tax break, so he should definitely take that into account.”

Liz and Rachel laugh in simulcast.

“What did he say?” Liz says as Rachel simultaneously says, “That’s too funny.”

“Molly! I was just about to buzz you. Congressman Larson sent over some chocolate-covered strawberries.” She points to a box on the table in front of the couch. “Take, take. What do you
say, girls? Should we do a little impromptu tea right now? I have about twenty minutes.”

“Of course!” “Great!” “Definitely,” we all say at the same time.

Wearing only nude trouser socks on her feet, Lillian pads over to the chair opposite the couch. She grabs a strawberry and bites off the bottom.

“Did I ever tell you girls about the time I represented Ben Brick?”

“No.” “I don’t think so.” “You represented Ben Brick?” Liz, Rachel and I are like Greek chorus misfits, unable to achieve unison.

“Well, I thought of it today because he has a movie coming out so I keep seeing his name. Anyway, it’s a great lesson….” She launches into the story, something about Ben Brick not telling her that he had a gay lover on the side and that fact coming up at trial, resulting in a big fight between Lillian and Ben Brick, during which she called him an asshole and he cried. I would have loved the story a year ago, but my mind is still preoccupied with Liesel.

When Lillian stops talking, we all murmur approvingly.

“Speaking of difficult clients, I have one now.”

Lillian turns toward me. “Oh Molly, I’m sorry to hear that.”

She doesn’t really sound sorry. She sounds a little steely, actually. I plunge in. “Yeah. It’s really difficult, right? When clients make it almost impossible to do your job. Sometimes you think exploding at them would be the best way to get them to listen.”

Liz and Rachel are both looking at me with surprised expressions.

Lillian shakes her head. “Maybe you’re still new enough to need this lesson, Molly, but the job is the clients.”

Okay. What the hell does that mean?

She continues. “You’ll learn as you work here more, but it’s
very important to keep clients happy. It’s everything. If you don’t get your clients to like you, you’re not going to amount to much.”

There’s my answer: even though Lillian just told a story about yelling at an incredibly famous client, that privilege doesn’t extend to me.

I nod. “That makes sense,” I say, although it makes me feel sick. “That must be where the chocolate-covered strawberries come in, to ease the pain.” I grab a strawberry and sink back into the couch.

Lillian smiles broadly and pats her hips. “Tell me about it, Molly. There are years of chocolate-covered strawberries on here.”

Liz and Rachel laugh a little too long. I can feel their relief.

I force myself to stay until the party breaks up and then, without grabbing my coat, head immediately to the elevators.

It’s freezing when I leave, a blustery March day that’s way more lion than lamb. I walk around the block, hands in my pockets, leaning against the wind. I round the corner to the service entrance and of course, there’s Kim, standing right by the door, hunched over and hopping back and forth to keep warm, a cigarette between the thumb and finger of her right hand.

I stop and look at her. “How do you do it?”

She doesn’t miss a beat, clearly less surprised than I am at my question. “It’s a job.”

“Really? You can go home and put it away, just like that?”

She takes another puff. “Good pay, constant overtime, benefits. Could be a lot worse.”

I nod and start to walk back inside when she calls out, “Molly.”

I turn, realizing she’s never used my name before. Or maybe it’s just that she’s never spoken slowly enough for me to realize it.

“I didn’t start smoking until my fifth year working for Lillian.”

I nod in understanding. “The stress?”

She laughs. “No, it’s the only way I can get four seven-minute breaks during the day. Four glorious breaks. Take it however you can get it.”

__________

W
hen I get back to my office, I have two voice mail messages.

“Molly, it’s Liesel. Where are you? I’m canceling Stewart’s support payment later today. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll assume you agree that it’s the best course of action to take. Also, there’s an item in the ‘Nitty-Gritty City’ column that I know is about me.” She starts to read in a violent staccato. “
What downtown celebrity and her financier husband are rolling up their sleeves and gearing up to fling dirt in their upcoming divorce trial?
Remember? I warned you that this would happen. You need a press plan.”

I wag my head in disbelief. I can think of ten Bacon Payne clients who sound more like the description in the column than Liesel does.

The next message starts.

“Hey.” It’s Henry. “I’m in court today, but I wanted to let you know I got a message from Cathy Meyers. She has some conflict—I guess at one point her partner represented Robert Walker in one of the previous actions. Only for a millisecond, but it’s a no- go. But I have a few other people to call. We’ll find someone good for her, someone really dedicated—we’ll get her what she needs.”

I know what I’m supposed to do; I know my part. I’ve been trying to play it for months—be the obedient do-gooder, packaging up Fern for the next recipient. But the case keeps boomeranging back to me. Or maybe I keep reaching out to catch it.

When I took the job at Bacon Payne, I knew there would be expectations, a price exacted for the prestige and the high salary and the big bonus payment. “There’s no such thing as a free lunch on Wall Street,” a professor had told me jokingly before I
moved up here. But I didn’t want a free lunch. Hard work, giving one hundred percent, being on perpetual call—I was prepared for these things. The arrangement, I thought, was simple and fair.

But it doesn’t seem that way anymore. And for some reason this year—the one that should kick off my downhill coast to the finish line—I’m stuck. It’s as though right before the last leg, I find myself on the side of the road, sitting cross-legged in the mud, pondering cloud shapes, having a horribly timed existential crisis about why I even entered the race in the first place.

I squeeze my eyes shut as hard as I can and cover them with the tips of my fingers, hoping for some sort of sign to help me focus, to help me get back on track. All I see against the darkness is a flash of images: the desperate look in Fern’s eyes and Karen Block and Liesel and Lillian and all the Bacon Payne partners whose judgment I’ve substituted for my own over the past four years. And what have I done in the face of this? Nothing: nod politely and ineffectively, tiptoe around the firm. Were these the same terms that I agreed to four years ago, the ones that seemed so simple then? I don’t even know how to answer the question. All I know is that something has to change.

Someone dedicated, Henry had said.

I open my eyes and pick up the phone.

____

T
he veins in Henry’s hand pop as he squeezes a green stress ball with a Westlaw logo printed on it. I’ve never seen anyone actually use a stress ball in a time of stress, but he is pretty agitated. “Seriously, this is the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard.”

“I don’t think anyone will find out. Besides, it’s my ass on the line if anyone does.”

“Then why did you tell me? I don’t want to know if you’re going rogue.”

“Henry, calm down. Your temple is throbbing. Think of peace and light, peace and light.”

He glares at me.

I stand up. “Okay. I’m sorry. This conversation never happened.”

“Sit down. There’s nothing to figure out. You need to call Fern back and tell her that you can’t represent her. Tell her you misunderstood Lillian and give her the name of another lawyer. Otherwise, you’re done.” He is almost shouting. I’m glad I shut the door.