The Love Wars (7 page)

“It’s not a problem.”

“Oh, good. Did you get enough in the divorce settlement?”

“Um, a little under a million. I put most of it in the apartment,
but about two hundred thousand dollars is in a retirement account.”

I have no idea what Robert Walker is worth, but my guess is that to him a million dollars is chump change, just enough to cover landscaping of the manicured shrubbery around the infinity pool.

“So, nothing liquid? How would you pay counsel fees?”

“Oh, I’ve looked into it. I can break into my retirement and take out a home equity loan on the apartment. And I have a steady job managing the office of my friend Brian’s flower shop, Petal and Stem.”

“I know that place. And that provides you with enough income to finance legal fees?”

“Not really.”

I must have winced because she quickly adds, “If it comes to it, I could always borrow from some friends too.”

I sigh and rake my fingers through my hair, gathering it into a ponytail as I think. If Fern takes on this fight, she’ll have nothing left to live on.

“Don’t worry about the money. I will come up with it, I promise. I’ve never been late with paying a bill and I’m not going to start now.” She blinks quickly as if to stop from crying and stares at the wall for what seems like a minute. Then she touches my sleeve. “Please. I need help.”

I stammer something about needing to talk to Lillian before taking the case and I rattle off some names of other attorneys she should contact, but I know as soon as I hear it.

It’s the exact same plea. The exact same wounded, desperate look in her eyes.

I can feel a pressure in my chest—a heart squeeze—as I realize that I haven’t met Fern Walker before. She, or rather the wounded desperate look in her eyes, just reminds me of Karen Block.

And this time, I know better than to make any promises.

____

I
met Karen the summer before my third year of law school, while volunteering at my law school’s AIDS clinic. I was really excited about the work—no making outlines from pages of lecture notes, no cramming, no test taking, just assisting on some cases under the careful eye of a supervising instructor. There was only a handful of clients and they needed help with simple but necessary paperwork—things like disability payments and the occasional employment discrimination issue.

One afternoon, I went down to the offices at the scheduled time to assist Dorothy Golds, my professor, with an intake meeting for the upcoming semester. I had done a couple before, no big deal.

A young woman was standing just inside the doorway, shifting her weight from side to side.

“Are you here for the clinic?”

She nodded, head down, her long brown bangs momentarily obscuring her eyes.

There was no sign of Dorothy, so I introduced myself and escorted her to the interview room.

“Name?”

“Karen Block.”

“Age and birth date?”

“I’m twenty-three. Um, born April twenty-fifth.”

“And when were you diagnosed?”

“Diagnosed?”

“Yes, HIV positive or AIDS. When? It doesn’t really matter. I just need the date.”

“Um, not. I mean, I don’t. I don’t have HIV. That’s not why I’m here.”

“But this is an AIDS clinic. All of our clients have—”

“Listen, I don’t have AIDS—”

“But if you don’t—”

“Listen, shut up about freaking AIDS, all right? My husband is going to kill me.”

She’d gotten married three years ago. They had a volatile relationship, she’d said, and occasionally their arguments got physical. Last week, Tim found out she’d been cheating on him. It wasn’t a big thing—she had just hooked up with an ex-boyfriend a few times. He hadn’t hit her, hadn’t yelled, just looked her dead in the eye and told her he was going to kill her. And she believed him. She had been staying at her sister’s apartment, but he knew where she worked; he knew her friends; he could find her. And he would. She knew it.

Yes, she had gone to the cops. But she had no bruises, no evidence that he would follow through. They couldn’t help her. She thought maybe she needed a protection order or whatever they were called, not that it would help, but at least it would be something. Or just someone in her corner. Someone who could tell her what to do, where to run, how to hide, get a judge involved. She’d called a lawyer but they wanted one thousand dollars up front and she didn’t have that. She worked at the university—laundering the towels and uniforms of the university athletic teams—and her friend from work had told her to come here, to the law school.

I told her to wait right there. Dorothy was leaning against the receptionist desk, flipping through mail. When I burst out with
the story, she sighed, blinking her eyes with great effort—
not this tired scenario again
. With an air of resignation, she reached over to the file cabinet and grabbed a few papers stacked on the top, her button-down shirt coming untucked from her pants in the process. She stuffed the shirt ends back in sloppily with one hand as she led me into the interview room.

Karen sat, staring down at her cutoff jeans, as Dorothy thrust the list at her and explained, no, very sorry, we can’t get involved in criminal or domestic violence matters. No, that’s not what we do here. One of the organizations on this list should offer assistance or shelter or whatever you need. Yes, really, that’s all we can do.

Karen ignored the list, waved it away actually, and walked slowly to the door. I wished her good luck, in the same benign tone I would if someone had bought an ice cream maker at my parents’ store. But it was enough to make her turn and grab my arm.

“Please,” she said, not breaking eye contact for what seemed like minutes. I had never seen a look like that before—dark, haunted and broken. “Please. I really need help.”

“Try calling one of the people on the list.” My voice was still in salesperson mode as I pulled my arm away from Karen’s grasp, replacing it with the list of referrals. “I promise. It’s what they do.”

Karen accepted the list and resignedly folded it into quarters, the expression on her face shifting from a clear, focused terror to a closed-off blankness, like a computer monitor succumbing to a virus by blipping out into fathomless black.

Still, I was satisfied. All I wanted out of the moment was for everyone to play her part without a scene: Dorothy and I as the do-gooders, politely disseminating helpful information; Karen as the grateful recipient of our largesse, taking the list with an appreciative smile and going on her way.

__________

A
fter Fern leaves, I take a moment to collect myself. Then I surprise myself by going straight into Henry’s office.

He looks up and raises his eyebrows without smiling. “Molly. Again. What now?”

I turn around to leave. “Never mind.”

“No, no. Come on in. Sorry to be abrupt.”

“Okay.” I plop down in his guest chair. “Well, this one is truly over my head.” I recap my conversation with Fern. I don’t think that I can adequately convey her desperation, but by the end of my narration, his face, normally affectless, is grave.

“Shit. That sounds like textbook parental alienation.”

“I was wondering.” Alienation is when one parent pits a child against the other parent, force-feeding her horrible stories, and basically brainwashing the child against her father or mother. The courts consider it a type of child abuse. “Does she have a case?”

“Assuming she’s telling you the truth, yes. He could lose custody. Courts have been pretty clear on it.”

“What’s involved with proving a case?”

“A lot. It’s somewhat evident from the kids’ behavior, but you’ll need a forensic expert. And, of course, it’s really expensive and very involved. I’ll get you some names of files to pull that will give you a good idea of where to start.” He rolls his chair in front of the computer screen, starts typing and then stops. “Hey. Wait a second. Why did you have a consult alone? You’re like an infant, experience-wise.”

“Yeah. That’s the other thing. Lillian told me to get rid of the case because of Robert Walker. But don’t you think when she hears the story—”

“Oh no. Stop right there. To Lillian, sending you into the consult is tantamount to tossing the case in the trash.”

“Well, thanks.”

“I just mean that if Lillian wants the case even a little, you
can be sure she’ll take the consult and establish a relationship from the get-go.” He looks at me. “Don’t bring this up with Lillian. Kamikaze mission.”

“Okay, I won’t. It’s heartbreaking, though.”

“It sounds bad. What did you tell her?”

“I gave her a list of referrals.”

“Well, that’s all you can do. If she calls, you have to refer her elsewhere or”—he slices his finger across his throat—“professional suicide.”

____

A
s it turns out, Lillian’s “girls” are Liz, Rachel and Hope, the group with which I already spend most of my waking hours. We’ve never hung out at the bar at the Four Seasons, though. I love the Four Seasons. The extra-large windows are covered by dramatic curtains made of thousands of tiny pewter-colored beads that ripple like water. There’s a pool in the center of the room, and delicate trees placed around the borders of the dining room, decorated to sync with the season outside. It’s exactly what you imagine a fancy New York restaurant to be when you’re growing up in North Carolina.

After Lillian ordered a car—so we wouldn’t have to walk the three blocks from the office—we rode over and commandeered a table at the bar. It feels clubby and rich, with warm wooden walls and a dramatic stalactite chandelier dominating the ceiling.

As Lillian orders a round of Kir royales, I lean over to Rachel.

“Where’s Hope?”

She glances quickly at Lillian and whispers back, “Client drama. She’ll be late.”

“So, Lillian, how did the Linden four-way meeting go today?” Liz asks. Liz has an astonishing memory for Lillian’s schedule.

Lillian sips her drink. “Oh, it was fine. Suzie Linden kept her mouth shut, thank God. That woman is so annoying—she’s so concerned about holding on to her vacation home that she’s not
focusing on anything else. It drives me crazy: ‘the Vermont house, the Vermont house.’” She pitches her voice even higher, presumably to imitate Suzie. I wonder if Suzie is a helium addict.

Lillian looks at Rachel. “I told her to call you tomorrow to discuss it. We have to get her to realize she can’t afford the upkeep on the Vermont house and the Tribeca loft without dipping into the mutual fund that she’ll need for retirement, okay?”

Rachel nods. “I’ll work on her tomorrow.”

Lillian continues. “And Greg Hertslitz is a schmuck. That guy lawyers by brute force. I mean, Suzie is a stupid nag, but she’s nervous. And he came on like a tornado. Did I ever tell you guys about the time Greg and I got into a screaming match in the lobby of the First Department Appellate Division?” She tells a story that sounds familiar, except that when I had heard it before, maybe the screaming match was between Lillian and Bonnie Werther in the rotunda at Sixty Centre Street. Or maybe it was in the library with Colonel Mustard. The Kir royales are clearly starting to have an effect.

“All right. Enough work chat.” She turns to Rachel. “Where did you get those shoes? And your nail polish is cute. Hey, did you see what Svetlana did with my nails?” Lillian holds up her French manicure and wiggles her fingers. “We all have to go to her again.”

“Oh, is that the light pink on top of that glossy nude again? I love that combination. It looks great,” says Rachel.

Lillian beams thanks and turns to the rest of us. “So how’s everyone? Give me the update. Liz. What’s going on with you? How’s Adam?”

Liz has been living with Adam, an accountant, for the past three years. She barely sees him during the week, but their relationship appears stable and boring nonetheless. Lots of Chinese takeout and recorded television shows.

“Fine. Everything’s good. He’s working hard.”

“Is he coming tonight?”

“No, he has to work late.” Liz pouts but I know it’s an act. Earlier, she had told me that after his third Bacon Payne holiday party, Adam had sworn off attending any more.

Lillian nods. “Rachel? Did you and your mother make up?”

Rachel sighs. “Yes. I promised that I wouldn’t be late to Thanksgiving next year and she promised not to log in to my Facebook account as me. And I changed my password so she can’t even if she wants to. Balance is restored…for now.”

“Let’s talk about men! Any dating news?”

Rachel shakes her head and pumps her fists. “JDate reject!”

I laugh. Rachel and I have commiserated about the hopelessness of being single in the city and working around the clock.

Lillian tilts her glass toward me. “And Molly?” She squints her eyes. “I bet you’re a heartbreaker.”

I shake my head vigorously. “No broken hearts in my wake.”

Lillian leans toward me. “Oh, come on. What’s your most recent romantic conquest? Dish! We’re all family here.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Hope rushing toward the table. I say a silent prayer of thanks to be out of the hot seat as we all turn toward her.

“Sorry I’m late.” Hope’s eyes dart toward Lillian. “I finished the draft of the Statement of Proposed Disposition. We can submit it tomorrow.”

Lillian barely makes eye contact. “So glad you could join us.” I think she’s sneering.

Hope stands uncomfortably for a moment. Liz secures a chair from another table and pushes it next to hers, squeezing Hope’s shoulder. Hope looks at her gratefully, gives a half smile and sits down. I’ve never seen Hope so uncomfortable in her own skin.

Lillian peers at her phone. “Oh. I missed a call from Roger. We’re supposed to meet in the lobby now and go over to the Palace together. Anyone who wants to come in our car, let’s go.”

Rachel gets up and runs to catch up to Lillian, laughing as
she says something that I can’t hear. Liz and Hope stay at the table, Hope whispering and gesturing, Liz listening and nodding. Neither of them looks at me, so I walk down the stairs and catch up with Lillian, Roger and Rachel.