The Love Wars

by Heller, L. Alison

  I stopped myself from flipping off the screen as the doors opened on the thirty-seventh floor. A female attorney stepped in, looking so crisp: showered, clean and downright elegant.

  “I still can’t believe that,” she said to her companion, an older woman in a proper pink suit whom I took to be a client. “He claimed ignorance to every question: how much he made, what his credit bills totaled, the purchase price of the ski house. I’ve never taken a deposition like that.”

  “I told you he was slimy and evasive,” said the client. “Will this hurt us?”

  “Not at all, Joyce.” Crisp lawyer’s voice rang with confidence as she looked sternly at the client, her voice ringing with confidence. “We’re right where we want to be.”

  I was stunned. My own days were filled with nebulous orders barked down a chain of command from partner to senior associate to midlevel associate to me. It was like the childhood game of telephone with the punch line being that billions of dollars were at stake. Meanwhile, this lawyer, this clean and well-groomed junior associate who looked not much older than I, had been advising actual human beings and taking depositions—something I’d only seen on television.

  I had always sort of thought of the matrimonial group with a touch of distaste, like distant relatives whom you had to invite to Christmas dinner, but inevitably got a little too drunk and messed up the Heritage Village arrangement. But maybe I had gotten it all wrong. Maybe it was the place to be, the most exciting department at Bacon Payne.

  Lillian Starling led the group and her name was constantly in the gossip magazines because of her high-profile cases. I was thrilled each time I spotted one of her rich and famous clients in person. We all were: every so often, one of the other associates would rush down the hall, stick his head in one of our offices and whisper, for example, when the star of that TV show Night Wings was there, “Dana Carter, in reception on thirty-three, now.” This year alone, I had pretended to nonchalantly walk by the reception area to see a Brazilian pop star (great skin), a two-time Oscar winner (much shorter in person than in his films) and one of New York’s senators (flagrant nose-picker), all waiting for Lillian Starling.

  So, I embarked on “Operation Transfer” (Kevin, a firm believer in nicknames, also deserved naming credit for that one). I hounded Lionel Baird, the corporate group’s assigning partner, for work involving the matrimonial group. He had looked a little concerned, as though he was missing something—most corporate associates were not eager to do divorce work, which at Bacon Payne had all the cachet of ambulance chasing—but a few weeks later, he knocked on my door with an assignment: Rick Roth had retained Lillian Starling for his divorce. One of Mr. Roth’s big problems was his wife’s claims that Rick’s company, Little Miss Fancy—a girls’ clothing company based, Lionel had said, on the “puked-up tutu aesthetic”—was marital property. Lillian, in order to understand the worth of Little Miss Fancy, needed a corporate associate to cull through the company’s financial records.

  I culled. And after I spent an entire month of eighteen-hour days sorting and organizing and sorting some more, one of Lillian’s associates, a first-year named Denise, quit, and I was invited to take her spot.

  I had to reassure Lionel Baird that no, I had not been hit on the head, nor was I under duress; I did genuinely want to transfer to the matrimonial group and yes, it would mean the world to me if he could advise Dominic Pizaro, the head of corporate, to sign off on the move. (Dominic himself would not have an opinion about this; to Dominic, junior associates were as indistinguishable as one ridged potato chip from the rest of its bag mates—just another snack that might break on its way to being eaten.)

  And so, I felt a warped joy upon hearing Liz reprimand her client about his escort fees: it meant I was finally on the right track.

  __________

  A few hours later, I sat at one of the booths in the Bacon Payne dining room with Liz and Rachel Stanton, another matrimonial associate.

  “So tell us,” said Rachel, sinking in the seat across from me. “How it went down.”

  I summarized my role on the Little Miss Fancy assignment and Liz swallowed a forkful of penne. “You must have done one heck of a job with that due diligence.”

  “I also sort of made a personal appeal to Lillian about how much I wanted to be in this group.”

  Early one evening during my third week of work on the Roth case, I was bracing myself to open yet another one of the forty boxes, wondering whether my daily headaches indicated the return of my caffeine addiction when Lillian Starling breezed in.

  “This is Little Miss Fancy?” Her sharp brown eyes darted around the room, taking in the stacks of boxes and barely glancing at me. I jumped up from my chair with astonishing torque considering the cushy depth of the leather seat.

  This was the closest I had been to Lillian. I towered over her even with the lift that her voluminous brown hair gave her—the side effect of the extra inches offered by her hair was a dwarfing of her face, which looked disproportionately tiny, like a Monchhichi doll. And that hair! Expertly layered and blown out, it had every shade of brown I could imagine: highlights of caramel, copper, ash brown, chocolate, chestnut, fawn and russet. I could tell that had I read Vogue with the zeal that I reserved for People, I would have been able to quickly identify the designers responsible for her expensive nubby black and oatmeal suit and and heels.

  “Hi, Ms. Starling. I’m Molly Grant, the corporate associate assigned to the case. Can I help you find anything?”

  “Yes, we have a financial statement due to the court this week and we need some of the tax returns and registers….” Her back was to me and she started impatiently lifting the lids off the boxes without looking at their contents, “Oh, God. Is this in any kind of order at all?”

  “Here, let me show you.” I quickly lifted two of the boxes, plunked them down on the table and handed her a manila folder from the side of one. “Copies of the tax returns and financial reports from the years prior to and immediately after the marriage, as well as the date of commencement of the action. And this memo summarizes all of the numbers. The backup documentation is in here.”

  Lillian glanced at the folder, her face impassive. And right then, at that exact moment, my parents called, the conference room’s ordinary soundtrack—layers of sterile HVAC system white noise—suddenly pierced by the loud and twangy string chords that kick off Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama.” Lillian’s head jerked up from the memo. I intoned seven I’m sorrys in a meditative chant and rushed to turn off the phone, honestly believing in that moment that getting a personal call at seven o’clock at night indicated severe perversions in my character.

  Lillian gave a shave of a nod—dipping her eyelids, not her chin—but it was, I knew, a miniature stamp of approval. “I like that song,” she said distractedly, and I could not determine which had won her over: my snap to attention or my taste in Southern rock.

  Her eyes returned to the memo and she said, “Helpful,” confirming it by opening the flap on her Birkin bag and sliding in the document. Emboldened, I started talking. “Actually, Ms. Starling, I’ve sorted almost everything, so let me know if you need anything else. Also, I just wanted to say—thanks for the opportunity. This is really interesting work and I’m actually a big fan of yours. I would love to work on more matrimonial cases with you if you ever need me.” The words had poured out in an obvious and desperate attempt to force a connection between us.

  At the memory of this, I smiled sheepishly across the table at Liz and Rachel. “Did I say appeal? To be honest, it was a flat-out genuflect.”

  “Now I get it.” Liz grinned and pointed at me with her fork. “You’re the perfect hire. You fed her ego, plus she gets to stick it to corporate.”

  “What, like an East Coast/West Coast thing? The gang warfare of Bacon Payne?”

  Rachel laughed. “More like a one-sided inferiority complex thing. You know how corporate deals are constantly paraded in front of hires, clients, summer as
sociates? Well, Lillian hates being a little fish in a big pond. A chance to steal an associate from corporate is vindication.”

  I thought of Kevin’s words from earlier that morning. “I can’t believe you’re actually going to become a divorce lawyer,” he had said as I gently placed my ill-fated ficus in the Bankers Box. “Have you no ambition?”

  “Plus the timing was right because Denise had just given notice,” I said. “Why did she leave, by the way?”

  Rachel dropped her head, suddenly focused on locating the remaining chickpeas in her salad, and Liz squinted and twisted her mouth. “She and Lillian had some differences. Lillian didn’t really think she was”—she paused, searching for the right word—“committed to the practice and the clients.”

  “Any advice for how I can appear committed?” Even as I asked, I wasn’t really concerned. I had already proven myself, literally doubling my workload as a sign of my interest.

  “Just be available to her,” said Liz. “You’ll figure it out.”

  “I’m still trying to figure it out,” Rachel half laughed. “Hey,” she said to a woman approaching our table.

  It was the lawyer from the elevator; my memory had not exaggerated her crispness. She was one of those glossy and elegant women native to Manhattan but rare in a law firm: shiny chestnut-colored hair, clear blemish-free skin, groomed eyebrows and nails. Her body was narrow and lean without being bony and I was sure all her clothing looked perfectly put together, with no wrinkles, sweater pills or pet hair to be found.

  Women like her had been making me feel rumpled and sweaty since I had moved to New York, like they had the answer to some question I didn’t even know how to ask. Usually these insecurities were subterranean, of the low-grade, nagging variety, but that day in the elevator, seeing her had pushed them center stage, under a spotlight.

  I looked down at my nails—they were shapeless but clean. I probably wasn’t sweating, given that there wasn’t a partner in sight and, as always, all thirteen floors of Bacon Payne were set to a freezing sixty-eight degrees.

  “Uh-oh. Are you scaring the new kid?” Crisp lawyer glided into the booth and smiled at me. “Don’t get caught up in any of this drama. But definitely let us know if you have any questions along the way. I’m Hope,” she said, extending her hand.

  “Hi. Molly.”

  Liz raised one eyebrow and sipped at the straw of her soda. “And that’s your advice? So too-cool-for-school. Hey, listen. I need to brainstorm with you guys about the Landing case. Did you get my e-mail? How much support would you offer if the husband has made one million eight for the last two years but is on track for two million three this year? The wife has a medical degree but quit to raise the kids—”

  “Which really means supervise the nanny.” Hope directed this to me.

  “Hey, there’s a lot of coordination involved in supervising a nanny,” Rachel said, and they all nodded seriously for a minute before bursting into laughter.

  “Anyway,” said Liz, “the kids are ten and thirteen….”

  And then they were off, heatedly discussing alimony scenarios for the rest of lunch as I tried to follow along.

  __________

  I was back in my office, reading a support motion, marveling at the numerous expenses required to maintain the Husband’s bonsai garden, when my phone rang.

  “Hi.” I picked up on the first ring.

  “Molly,” my dad whispered. “We just wanted to say good luck.”

  “Thanks.” I lowered my voice to match his. “Are you whispering because you’re finally going to tell me where you buried the gold?”

  There was a pause that I correctly interpreted as my mom pulling the phone away from him.

  “Sorry if we’re interrupting, but we waited until lunchtime so we wouldn’t get you in trouble by calling.” No dramatic whispering from her; her voice was standard “business brisk,” as it always was when she was at their shop.

  “I won’t get in trouble for talking on the phone, Mom. Lawyers are supposed to talk on the phone.”

  “So, how’s day one?”

  “Great.” From years of receiving that same answer to this question, my parents thought Bacon Payne was the Best! Place! To Work! Ever! Such were the implicit terms of our family arrangement: my parents had gone above and beyond to provide me with opportunity beyond their means, and in exchange, I did not squander, eschew or complain (to them) about same opportunity. Today, though, I felt a little more honest than I usually did.

  “Can’t wait to hear about it. Oh, honey, I have to go. There’s a scramble with the register tape.”

  “Can’t the cashier fix it?”

  “Frank’s on the register today.” She said this as though it meant something to me.

  “What’s wrong with Frank?”

  “Nothing. It’s just his second day. Here, talk to your father. Oh, wait, no, he’s disappeared. Frank?” She raised her voice thirty decibels. “Don’t touch that. No, just. No, Frank, just leave it alone. I’m coming. Oh, wait—”

  “I’ll call tonight.” As I replaced the receiver, my intercom buzzed, making me jump.

  “EverettBunchwantstoseeyou.Hisoffice.” Click.

  I had forgotten to ask Liz, Rachel and Hope about the other members of the group. Everett was a relatively recent partner in the matrimonial group and when I had researched him online, all I found was a note in the Cornell Law alumni magazine from several years ago about how Everett Bunch, New York alumnus, “was working and playing hard in the Big Apple,” and a PDF document from some time ago listing him as one of the members of a dangerous-sounding organization called “the Lawyers Basketball Pub Madness League.”

  I peeked into his office. He was on the phone, facing away from me and reclining in his chair, giving me a perfect view of his peach-fuzz crew cut that showed the exact breadth between each of his hair follicles. At my tentative knock, Everett did not turn around but waved his hand in a vague gesture that I assumed was an invitation to enter, so I did, perching on one of the black leather chairs opposite his desk in standard associate pose: pitched forward in my seat, legs crossed, legal pad poised on lap.

  From what I could tell from his side of the conversation, Everett was reminiscing about some evening, the highlights of which involved a “smoking” waitress named Eileen and an overindulgence of Absolut Vodka. The exhaustion of those topics eventually led to a work discussion, allowing me to conclude that I was not, despite my suspicions, bearing witness to a conversation about new pledge brothers.

  “So, dude, did you do the enhanced earnings analysis yet?” Everett said, still turned away from me. “Okay, so what’s the thumbnail sketch on the practice? Uh-huh. Yep.” He scribbled something on a piece of paper next to his phone. “Oh, she’s going to be pissed.” After several more minutes of lengthy good-byes and promises to “catch you later,” he hung up and looked at me.

  “Do you know who Noah Wasserman is?”

  I racked my brain, the anxiety rising. Was he a partner at the firm? A huge client? Who was Noah Wasserman? Who?

  “No,” I said slowly, after it became clear that Everett was not going to volunteer the answer.

  He narrowed his eyes until they were two little slits behind his glasses. “He is a forensic accountant. One of the best. He has valued assets of several clients for us. Learn his name if you want to work in this department.”

  “Okay.”

  “Another thing you should know if you want to work here is how things work. I am a partner.” He raised his eyebrows. “It’s your job to impress me. Not the other way around. You should have introduced yourself.”

  Was he kidding? I felt my cheeks flush. “I’m so sorry. I really didn’t mean to offend you. I just started and I have been unpacking and trying to figure things out….” I trailed off, uncertain.

  He stared me down for several seconds before responding. “We expect a lot of our associates here. Lillian and I both like things done a certain way. So, what cases have you been put
on?”

  Still stunned, I managed to recall the names of a few of the files on my desk.

  He nodded. “Okay. Nothing big-league. I’ll probably have something for you to do within the next week, so look out for my call.” He picked up his phone receiver. “You can go now.”

  I started to limp back to my office, but then I remembered that there was one more lawyer in the matrimonial group, Henry Something—still an associate, but senior enough that I didn’t want to risk having another conversation like the one I just had. I circled the hallways on the thirty-seventh floor until I found his nameplate, HENRY BENNETT.

  He was at his desk, head down, poring over financial statements.

  I knocked gently on his doorframe. He gave no sign of having heard me, so I knocked again a little louder. Nothing. I took a few small steps into his office. “Hi, Henry. I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m Molly Grant.”

  “Okay.” He didn’t look up.

  Was he already pissed? I spoke a little louder. “I just started today. I’m really looking forward to working with you.”

  Nothing. How much ass-kissing did this guy need? “It’s an honor.”

  He looked up from his documents. “It’s an honor?”

  I nodded uncertainly. “Yes, I’m really happy to be here.”

  “An honor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you,” he said in a genuine tone of voice. “Thank you for interrupting my workday with that proclamation.” He was straight-faced, but his eyes betrayed utter ridicule. “Will you be sharing such meaningful sentiments on a daily basis, or just when you’re moved to do so?”

  I did not answer, just slowly backed out of his office, hell-bent on retreating to mine.

  2

  ____

  the value of hard work

  I surreptitiously check my BlackBerry. Two new messages; one is from an anxious client. A wave of stress makes my stomach clench. I pick nervously at the bent cardboard corner of my legal pad.

  I try to remember the elements of false imprisonment from Criminal Law and wonder whether I have enough for a successful claim against Everett, who is lounged in his chair, making small talk on an interminable phone call with someone named Jim.