Hope starts to look through her bookshelf. “I don’t know. He’s a guy. And she relies on his finance expertise. I think it’s different.”
Rachel stands up “Well, I, for one, adore your dress. What was with the fashion motif in that rant? She must have nothing else on you.”
“I love you for trying, Rach, but it’s a little soon for me to laugh about my induction into the Starling roadkill hall of fame.”
Rachel looks around and grabs the silver cup that held Hope’s lead pencils. She lifts it up and points it in Hope’s direction. “To Knight, Weston. May there be fewer psychopaths and an abundance of early nights.”
“Hear, hear,” I say.
Hope grabs another tissue and blows her nose.
11
____
the finer points of a cat motion
Lillian is out of the office a lot in the month after her explosion. Aside from Hope’s absence—which goes unmentioned—everything falls back into the usual rhythm of life on the thirty-seventh floor. I’m so caught up in work that it’s easy to keep my head down.
Everett has faded into the background. My only interaction with him this week was when I asked him about his trip to Phoenix for a seminar. (“Crazy awesome” was the response.) I am focused and busy, but every now and then I remember Hope’s hallway shaming and feel a coil of uneasiness in the pit of my stomach.
As always, by mid-February, Manhattan has retreated from the cozy white-lighted holiday crispness of the early winter months into abject dreariness. The city has been hit by a series of blizzards and my walk to work across Forty-ninth Street is treacherous. The snow is piled up on the sidewalks at each intersection: mini dirt mounds the color of chocolate milk block the corner sidewalk. I feel like I’m in one of those documentaries about Shackleton each time I cross the street, scaling the mountains by trudging through the slush-filled footprints of the traveler who went before me, wind whipping in my hair as I try to leap across the big murky puddles on the other side.
My boots are not working for me: I left my building with fleecy toasty feet and I arrive in the office with frozen and wet toes and damp socks that I remove and place on the on the radiator. Someone, most likely Kim, has dumped the Billings file in the seat of my chair. I shudder at the memory of moving day—the sticky notes, the sniveling—and play my messages on speakerphone.
“Liesel Billings here. Lillian said you’ll file my cat motion by the end of the day. I don’t see why she can’t just do it, but according to her, you’re capable enough. Get back to me immediately. I’ve called twice already this morning and listening to your annoyingly cheerful outgoing message is getting old.”
Although I have tried to forget her, my day with Liesel and the sticky notes looms large in my memory. I lean forward, the sheer rudeness of the message almost distracting me from the fact that I have no idea what a cat motion is, let alone how to file one by the end of the day.
I listen to the next message.
“Um, hi, Molly. This is Fern Walker. I’m not sure if you remember me. We met late last year. Anyway, so sorry to bother you, but I have a question about some of the names on the list of lawyers you gave me. Could you call me when you have a chance? Thank you so much.”
My stomach sinks; Fern should have hired someone weeks ago.
I pick up the phone to call her, but then I think of Hope, splotchy, red-eyed and packing her boxes. Liesel would probably love complaining to Lillian about me, but it’s the last thing I need. As I dial her number, I remind myself how much more experience and confidence I have than when I first met Liesel. I am telling myself that I can manage her when Liesel barks her name into the phone.
“Hi, Liesel. It’s Molly Grant from Bacon Payne, returning your call from earlier.”
“Molly, wow—nice to finally hear from you. You sure do get a late start around there. Nice to know my hundred-thousand-dollar retainer allows you the life of leisure.”
It’s eight forty-five in the morning. “I’m here.”
“Have you read the papers in my case?”
“No, not yet.”
“Well, that’s just great. What have you all been doing? You don’t know me but—”
“Actually, we met last year. I helped you—”
“Don’t cut me off. I hate it when people cut me off. As I was saying, you don’t know me, but I have no patience for bullshit.”
“I’m sure. Why don’t you tell me a little about your thoughts on the motion? I’ll review the papers as soon as we get off the phone.”
“I know the law as well as any newborn associate. My idiot husband has no basis for the suit. We have an ironclad prenup, and the cats are mine. I’ve already done my reply, so it really shouldn’t involve much work for you.”
“The cats? From the cat room?”
“Of course the cats from the cat room. What other cats would we be talking about?” Perhaps cat rooms are common among the wealthy; Liesel’s voice betrays no surprise that I, to her mind a complete stranger, know about the cat room.
“Can you tell me a little about the cats?”
There is a long pause and no hint of humor in her response. “They have four legs and fur.”
“Is there anything about the cats that Stewart specifically mentions?”
“He says that because the cats offer income stream—we don’t show them, but they have lineage—and he did a lot of caretaking for them, they’re joint property and he’s entitled to them. But he’s not entitled.”
“How many are there?”
“Three. I can’t believe I have to explain this all to you again. I’m so sick of talking about it.”
“Just a few more questions, I promise. Did you get the cats after the marriage?”
“Oh. My. God,” she says in the tone of voice of someone about to slam her head against a wall. “One cat during the marriage, two before. But they’re mine. They’re all in my name and it’s on page seven on the prenup: all of my separate property remains mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. The cats are mine.”
I switch topics, hoping to elicit a response that sounds less like the spoiled blueberry gum girl from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. “When are the papers due?”
“In a few weeks. Your job is to just sign it and copy the exhibits.”
“I think we should set up a time to meet. I can interview you, get the pertinent information for your affidavit—”
“You won’t have to interview me.”
“It might just be a good—”
“Enough of this. It’s all in there. We can talk in a few hours after you finish everything. And there’s one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“My idiot ex-husband has a connection to this miserable scab of a reporter. Ari Stern from—”
“Oh, I know his column, from the Independent?”
“Don’t cut me off, but yes. He writes those miserable little ‘Nitty-Gritty City’ pieces. Stewart will try to play this out in the press, so be prepared for an ugly PR battle. Do you think you can handle that?”
“It doesn’t hurt to be prepared, but he probably won’t get much leverage from press. Usually that’s more of a factor with public figures.”
“What are you saying? That I’m not a public figure?”
That is exactly what I’m saying, but I hedge. “If you were up for reelection or needed to maintain an image so people would buy tickets for your movies, it might be more of an issue.”
This mollifies her. “Tell me the game plan.”
“The plan?”
“You are a rube, aren’t you? What’s the game plan for dealing with the press?”
“We don’t comment to the press.”
Liesel pauses. “You’re not great at thinking on your feet, which, frankly, could be a problem. I’ll give you some time. Formulate a plan and we’ll go over it later.”
__________
By the time I call Fern back, I’ve experienced so many flashes of anger that my feet have thawed to a norm
al temperature.
“Oh, thank you for returning my call so soon.”
“You’re welcome. What happened?”
“Well, I retained Phil Klotstein right after we met, but he hasn’t exactly started yet.”
“Why?”
“He’s not really great at returning my calls. I just wanted to see what’s normal to expect in that realm.”
“People get pretty busy. How long does he take to get back to you?”
Pause. “I’ve called him a total of fifteen times in the past month and he hasn’t gotten back to me. And I haven’t had a lot of luck with the other names on the list.”
“That’s a little extreme. Has he done anything on the case?”
“He sent a letter to Robert’s attorney. That was it.”
“Who’s Robert’s attorney?”
“Risa McDunn.”
“Don’t know her.”
“I think she’s based somewhere upstate. Well, I was wondering and hoping, and I have to ask—is there any way you’d be able to take this case? I felt a real connection with you when we met.”
“I’d love to represent you,” I say, meaning it. “But I can’t. Let me talk to some of my colleagues, though, and get some more names for you. Are things better at all?”
Fern pauses. “They’re worse. I haven’t seen or talked to my kids since last fall. When I call, I can hear Connor screaming in the background that he won’t talk to me.”
I hang up the phone after promising to see what I can do.
__________
Having decamped to the dining room to avoid Liesel’s barrage of calls, I sit over grilled cheese and tomato and review her motion. According to the affidavit of Liesel’s idiot husband—aka Stewart—the cats (Pepe LeMew, Pickles von Ketchup and Princess Fifi) are not Liesel’s separate property, but a source of marital income. Further, given that Stewart’s job during the marriage was—he claims—full-time groomer, caretaker and coordinator of all things cat, his effort has been sufficient to transmute the cats into marital property.
In response, Liesel, who does seem to grasp the basic point/counterpoint required by motion papers if not the basic civility of them, explains that their prenuptial agreement explicitly states that all property in Liesel’s name remains her separate property. Because under New York law, the cats are property and titled in Liesel’s name, the cats are hers. Further, even though the cats are fine feline specimens, they have never been entered in any goddamn shows, ever, because of the “unnecessary stresses of show life” on the cats, so what on earth is Stewart’s freaking problem anyway?
I am wondering how to artfully rephrase the part of the motion where Liesel calls Stewart a “money-grubbing sociopath” when someone asks me something about joining a group. I look up and Henry is at my table, holding a tray with an omelet and some coffee.
“You’re joining the early lunch group?” he repeats.
“I didn’t know there was a group. Who’s in it?”
“Me. Them,” he says, gesturing with his chin to the only other people in the room, two women at a table talking quietly over a muffin. “And, of course, Marc.” He nods in the direction of the cashier.
“Huh,” I say, looking around at them. “Yes, you guys seem very tight-knit. Is it hard to crack the inner circle?”
“We do a small ceremony.” He gives a one-shouldered shrug. “You know, a sworn oath, some blood brother stuff.”
“I want in. Is this when you eat?”
“It is.” He shrugs again and smiles in a way that’s almost bashful. “It’s quiet.”
“It’s nice.” The dining room at eleven o’clock offers a mood of tranquillity that is rare for Bacon Payne. “Care to join me?” I push out a chair with my legs.
“Sure.” He sits down and looks at my paper. “What’s that?”
“Oh, it’s a motion a client wrote and wants me to submit. I’m just supposed to proofread it, basically.”
“Well, that sounds like an excellent idea.”
I laugh. “I know. I’m spending more time trying to figure out how to manage her. Anyway.”
“You can’t make someone like that happy.”
“I know that on an intellectual level. It’s just…I’ve concluded that you have to be on your best behavior here. Not much room for mistakes.”
He looks at me. “You mean the thing with Hope?”
I am surprised. Henry usually seems so above the loop. The Hope scene was fairly seismic, though.
I nod. “Did Lillian ever treat you like that?”
“Well, Lillian’s not the easiest to work for. She was pretty demanding the first few years. And I definitely jumped in response.”
“But it got better?”
“Yeah, it got better. Or maybe my tolerance got higher. And over the years, I’ve tried to keep a low profile.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed.” I smile, looking around the room. “You eat lunch at eleven so you can avoid us all. Why are you sticking it out? Oh, wait. It’s the allure of the Miró, isn’t it?”
He shakes his head and laughs. “You got me. I came for the food and stayed for the art collection.”
“No, really. Why?”
“I’m up for partner this year. I’ve put in eight years of hard work here for that very specific reason.” He smiles and raises his eyebrows as though in jest, but his eyes are serious.
“Ambitious.” Most senior associates act much more casual about their beliefs in the inevitably of partnership; the odds are too slim to admit to caring. “Oh, hey—I have a question. You know that parental alienation case we talked about?”
“Yeah, Robert Walker.”
“Well, she hired Phil Klotstein on my recommendation and he’s not returning her calls. Who should I send her to?”
“I’ll call Cathy Meyers to see if she’s available. She owes me one.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it. You know Risa McDunn? She’s representing Robert Walker.”
“That’s an interesting choice. She’s a little mysterious, actually. She used to be a big partner at Thatch Howard, but about ten years ago, she chucked it all and moved upstate to start her own practice in Orange County. Or Rockland? I’m not sure. Anyway, she gets some huge cases but only takes one or two a year in the city.”
His BlackBerry starts to ring and he peers down, absorbed. “I have to deal with this, but I’ll let you know what Cathy says.”
__________
“No! No! No!” Liesel shouts. “The paragraph after that. What you should do is list exactly how many times I had to nag Stewart to do things for the cats. He wouldn’t even remember to clip their nails if I didn’t tell him to.”
It’s Sunday. I’ve spent much of my weekend on the phone with Liesel, going over my changes to her draft. We have a little routine: I suggest something; she rejects it; I try to explain my reasons; she insults me.
“But, Liesel, again, we shouldn’t spend much time saying that Stewart was bad with the cats. Our best argument is that the cats are property and covered by the prenup and—”
“We should spend as much time on it as I want. I’m the one who worked to afford the cats and maintain their lifestyle. If it were up to him to support them, they’d be living in a box right outside the Bryant Park subway, asking for food on a cardboard sign. I am the doer; he is the lazy scrub on the couch. That’s what I want the judge to know.”
“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 na
gged 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.”
12
____
the health benefits of smoking
Somehow, 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.)
The Love Wars Page 8