The Love Wars (34 page)

“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 evening 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.

____

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 train, 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.

__________

A
s 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.

I run into the elevator where there’s a Twinkie resting on the railing, and I put it in the bag with the others. When the elevator opens on my floor, there’s a median line of Twinkies leading to my apartment like the world’s tastiest highway passing zone indicator. Henry sits on the floor, leaning against my door, his briefcase beside him.

“I won the contest?” I say, grinning, bending down to pick them up.

“Congratulations,” he says, getting up and patting his bag.
He leans against the wall while I twist my key in the lock. Then we’re inside my apartment and we stare at each other for a second. “Well—,” I say at the same time he says, “Molly.”

“Let me start,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be, Henry.”

He gives me a skeptical look. “Yes I do. I’ve been awful.” He looks embarrassed. “I’ve been trying to call you about the article.”

“The article?”

He sighs, opens the flap of his messenger bag and takes out a folded-up copy of the
Independent
, but I shake my head. I don’t want to talk about the newspaper right now.

“I know you’ve been busy, but why haven’t you returned my calls?” Henry stares right at me. “Are you that mad?”

“No.”

He scrunches his eyebrows together. “No?”

I pick at a loose thread on the chair’s upholstery. “Not mad, no. It’s a little more complicated than that.”

I have barely spoken the words and he’s in front of me, grabbing my hand, pulling me down next to him so that we’re sitting next to each other, eye level on the rug.

“Complicated?”