The Love Wars

by Heller, L. Alison

  Risa sits motionless, staring into space, red coils of hair atop her head in a regal bun. Her eyes are narrowed—they might be closed entirely—and her lips move ever so slightly. I can’t tell what she’s saying—perhaps she’s visualizing a perfect cross-examination, perhaps remembering her grocery list, perhaps summoning the dark arts. Graham is standing up at the table, a flurry of activity, stacking and restacking files, bunching, grouping, clipping.

  After a few seconds of silent chanting, Risa stands up quickly, as if clapped awake by a hypnotist. She briskly wipes her hands together and tilts her head to the side.

  “Ms. Walker.”

  “Yes.” Fern’s shoulders bunch together as she slants her torso toward the microphone.

  “You testified yesterday you had postpartum depression.”

  “Yes, after Connor. Yes. It was rough.”

  “Postpartum can be serious. Usually suicidal thoughts accompany it.”

  “Objection,” I say.

  “Withdrawn.” Risa continues. “So, you were depressed, clinically depressed, for a period of over a year only two years ago?”

  “I had postpartum depression years ago.” There’s an edge to Fern’s voice.

  “And in the two years since then, have you ever been depressed?”

  “Depressed? No,” says Fern.

  “Humph. You’re sure?”

  Graham hands Risa a paper and she looks at it, nodding.

  “You’re saying you never e-mailed anyone in the last few months to say, quote—I don’t know how I can keep going—end quote?”

  “Objection.” Both Roland and I shout, standing, at the same time.

  Roland speaks first. “Your Honor, inadmissible on two grounds, no pretrial discovery under Rule Four Hundred and Eight, and it’s hearsay.”

  Risa stands there with a small smile. “I’m not admitting this into evidence, Your Honor. I’m just asking Ms. Walker whether she wrote a statement like that over the last few months.”

  Strand nods. “Okay, you can answer.”

  Fern looks nervously at me. “I don’t remember,” she says.

  “You don’t remember whether you made such a dramatic declaration?”

  “I might have, but I was probably talking about not seeing—”

  “Just yes or no. Is that a statement you could have made?”

  “Yes.”

  Risa keeps Fern for hours, interrogating her about one blind date she went on with a deadbeat dad; how Connor and Anna reacted to the first visit with her; the history of mental illness in her family. Risa asks each question in a tone designed to make Fern feel like a criminal. I want to scream.

  Strand lets us take a brief recess during the second hour and I stagger to the ladies’ room. Despite the grossness of the sink and the fact that I had applied mascara—not waterproof—this morning, I bend over the cracked porcelain sink, splashing cold water on my face until my fingertips are numb. I’m in the hallway, girding myself to walk back into the courtroom, when someone taps my arm and I turn.

  “Hey, Roland.”

  “That got a little crazy in there,” he says.

  “Indeed.” At this point, I know better than to try and talk shop with him.

  He waits for a few beats. “Thing is, it’s kind of like she’s fighting a different case than the one I’ve been on.”

  “A different case?”

  “Exactly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He tugs his ear. “Just an impression.”

  I notice it as soon as Risa resumes her questioning about the day Connor went to the emergency room—she’s still playing her own game, hammering away that Fern is an unfit parent. But things have changed, because we’ve made them change; Fern has proven herself over the course of the year. I’m not sure why Risa isn’t acknowledging this shift, but perhaps her rigidity is stagnation, not strength.

  I know exactly what I have to do with my cross-examination of Robert.

  __________

  Our team—me, Fern and Jenny—spends our lunch break at the diner across the street from the court. After picking at a turkey club, I leave the rest of the group to prepare for the afternoon. The hall outside Strand’s part is empty, so I grab my usual bench and start reviewing my notes.

  “Mols? Molly?”

  There, wearing a monochromatic black suit and turtleneck, is Liz.

  “Hi.” I quickly clamp shut my manila folder with Marie Washington Direct, Walker v. Walker typed across the top, and then, trying to look casual, open my bag and shove it in.

  “What are you doing here? I thought you were out sick.”

  I cough. “I am sick. I took a lot of meds.”

  “You don’t look sick. You look great, actually.”

  “Makeup. Lots of makeup.”

  “But what case do you have in Brooklyn?”

  “Oh, it’s a new one. I’m filing an Order to Show Cause.”

  “You get it signed already?”

  “I just have to pick it up at the clerk’s office. I’m early.”

  “What case?”

  “Walk—Walken.”

  “Like the actor?”

  “What?”

  “The actor, you know, Christopher Walken?”

  “Um. Yes, like him, but not him.”

  “Any relation?”

  “I don’t think so, no.”

  “Really? I’ve never heard the name anywhere else. And he is from New York, you know.”

  “No, I’m pretty sure. No relation.”

  “Well, I love him. You have to tell me if you get to meet him.”

  “Um, okay. Listen, Liz, I’m still kind of out of it. Don’t tell anyone you saw me, please. I don’t want them to think I can function. So why are you here?”

  She nods and rolls her eyes. “It’s new. The parties live in Brooklyn Heights and wanted us to file here. It should settle, but there’ve been some discovery issues, so I had to come down today and talk to the clerk. Pain in the ass.”

  “So inconvenient. What discovery issues?”

  Liz sits down and starts filling me in, just happy to commiserate on the ins and outs of work. She is probably five minutes away from offering to wait for me while I get my papers signed so that we can grab frozen yogurt together after court.

  And here I am, willing her to keep talking as I half listen, lying about everything from my health to my reasons for being here. All I want to do is lose her so I can go back to focusing on Walker v. Walker. I feel like an asshole, and for a split second, I am tempted to tell Liz what’s really going on. But I know I can’t—it’s too long of a story, she’d have too many questions and couldn’t just knowing what I’m doing get her in trouble?

  I glance at my watch. Fifteen minutes before our trial resumes, and while I am pretty sure Risa and Robert will waltz in late, Roland is consistently prompt. I want to avoid seeing him—he has taken to greeting me somewhat warmly—lest it inspire a new round of questions from Liz.

  I stand up quickly and Liz follows suit, using her palms to smooth the wrinkles out of her pants.

  “Let me walk you out on my way to the clerk’s office,” I say. “I want to check on the papers again. So, you were saying, Strand is appointing a discovery master? What’s he like anyway?”

  Liz smiles and continues her story as I lead her down the hall and toward the elevators.

  __________

  At five o’clock, Strand breaks for the day. Risa finally released Fern and we’ve started her redirect examination. As we file out, I notice a man on the benches outside, waiting for Strand, whose day apparently isn’t done. Perhaps judges do work harder than I realized, I think, taking in the guy’s scruffy beard, wire-rimmed glasses and long shaggy brown hair. Typical bewildered divorcé, I think, giving him a sympathetic smile. He smiles back.

  37

  ____

  seriously, what’s not to like?

  Looking at the new girl trapped in Everett’s office is so familiar it’s like watching an
old home movie. Her at-the-ready posture: legs crossed, leaning forward, pen in hand, legal pad on knee, stuck, as Everett yammers on about Atlantic beaches versus Pacific beaches or something equally relevant. Jane joined the matrimonial group at Bacon Payne a full week ago and I have yet to even invite her to lunch. But I can do one better. I lean my face in Everett’s doorway.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Hey, Molly. What’s up?” Everett swivels his chair around. “We were just talking about all of the Jewish holidays.”

  “Really?” I say. “For what case?”

  “It’s never too early to learn.” Jane nods her head solemnly. “Everett was explaining everything. I had no idea there were so many.” She gazes at him, her eyes pools of appreciation. Man, she’s good.

  “Yeah. Um, Everett? I could be wrong, but I think I heard Lillian on the phone talking about Goldburg or Greenburg?”

  “Goldburg?” He sits upright and grabs a pen. “Um, what was she—well, okay.” He turns to Jane. “Stay here. I’ll be back in fifteen.”

  I feel almost bad as he hurries out of the door but lean my head in farther and speak in a stage whisper. “Just go, you’re free.”

  Jane looks at me, brow furrowed. “But Everett said I should—”

  “It doesn’t matter. You’ll be fine—just go and hide. Thank me later.”

  “Oh, that’s okay. I’ll wait here.” She gives me a look that implies I am a crazy person.

  “You don’t need rescuing?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Everything’s going well?”

  Jane nods vigorously.

  “You like working with Everett?”

  She beams. “That’s the best part. I love Everett. He’s totally taken me under his wing. He is such a good teacher and so detail-oriented. No partner at my old firm ever spent this much time with me.”

  “Okay, then. Glad to hear you’re liking it so far.”

  Jane gives a simple, genuine nod, as if to say, Of course I do. What on earth would I not like about this place?

  Sure, I think, rolling my eyes as soon as my back is to her, what’s not to like about the matrimonial group at Bacon Payne?

  I walk by Henry’s office, avoiding looking in, of course, but hearing him on the phone, doing his job. I pass one of the conference rooms. Liz is in there, meeting with a client, gesturing wildly, her curls bobbing. No, really, I think again, with slightly less sarcasm. There’s a lot not to like, but what’s to be so bitter about?

  Henry, Liz and Rachel, and now Jane, are able to take it all in stride. Maybe the fact that I’ve struggled so much here—with the authority, the demands, the hours, the responsibility—says as much about me as it does about the firm. Sure, the bosses are crazy and phony, but let’s face it: these days, so am I.

  __________

  Five minutes later I’m back at my desk when Kim buzzes. “Linesevenforyou.”

  “Who is it?” I say, but she has already transferred the call.

  “Liesel Billings here.”

  Her tone makes my skin freeze. “Hi, Liesel.”

  “Listen, Stewart is at it again. He’s now claiming my art collection is marital property.” She laughs without any musicality, three staccato syllables: Ha. Ha. Ha. “Apparently he met some appraiser and realized how much everything is worth.”

  I am speechless, a state that Liesel unsurprisingly interprets as an invitation to keep talking.

  “I knew he was going to find every opportunity to drag me to court. Didn’t I tell you this is exactly what he would do? Anyway, I’m not calling to chat. I need you to e-mail the cat motion papers.”

  I find my voice. “Sure. You don’t have them?”

  “I have the hard copies, but my new lawyers—I’m not quite sure about whether everything is screwed on straight there—should use them as a template. You know, the papers were pretty well done.”

  I nearly fall off my chair. “That’s really nice to hear, Liesel. Thank you.”

  “It really was as much my doing as yours. And I will definitely need to change some of the things you put in, but they were a decent start.”

  “Right.”

  “Molly, one more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “I was thinking about you when I realized I needed these papers, and I wasn’t sure you knew how difficult things were for me during that first year.”

  “I had an idea.”

  “You’ll be heartened to know that I’m finally starting to realize I’m better off without him.”

  “I’m really glad to hear it.”

  “And,” says Liesel, her rat-a-tat cadence not slowing down, “I wish that you had gotten to see me at my best.”

  I nod, knowing that for Liesel, this is an apology. “I understand, Liesel.”

  In the weeks after the Cat Hearing, a sense of guilt had motivated me to track down Liesel and Stewart’s wedding announcement. I found it in that staple of newspapers everywhere, the section celebrating dewy-eyed newlyweds, neatly summarizing their lives in achievement-heavy blurbs. Especially heartbreaking was the photo of the two of them, their heads pressed eye to eye, shining with promises that I knew would be broken.

  But there’s a postscript to Liesel’s heartbreak—it takes strength to figure out the way to move beyond a broken promise, and it makes me wonder, why isn’t there a section devoted to those on the other side of the vows? “Betsy, teacher (42), who knew it was over when Mike forgot her birthday for the fifth consecutive year and hopes to keep the house,” or “Peter, a computer programmer (40), who never saw it coming and whose primary concern is that the kids be raised Jewish.” It will never happen—no one wants to linger on the sad truth that vows don’t last forever. But still, it would be something to acknowledge the courage and tenacity and flexibility of those ready to start over.

  38

  ____

  after the allman brothers

  By now, I have enough experience in Strand’s courtroom to know whether he’s paying attention when I’m examining a witness. He has not taken his eyes off forensic expert Gary Newkirk, PhD.

  This fascination, I’m sure, has to do more with Newkirk’s appearance than his testimony. The rest of the witnesses have been indistinguishable in their neutral suits and neat hair. Not Newkirk. From the neck down, he looks like a clerk at one of those office supply superstores: light blue button-down shirt tucked into precuffed generic khaki pants. From the neck up, however, it’s another story. I’m not sure if the clumps in his gray and white hair are technically dreadlocks, but if not, they have serious potential. And though his hair is pulled back in a ponytail, not much of his face is visible, thanks to his substantial beard and large-framed glasses. It’s as though Santa Claus became a huge fan of Phish and spent the off-season following them around the country, adopting the style of their fans.

  Thankfully, Newkirk’s appearance is the only surprising thing about him. Sure, his voice is a little surfer-inflected and he says “Mmmmm” too frequently in response to questions, confusing the record. His testimony, though, has been spot-on for Fern: this is a textbook case of alienation of affection caused by Robert Walker; Robert has not been acting in the children’s best interest; Fern should have sole custody. Check, check, check.

  When I rest, I look over at the defense table, although I already know what each one of them is doing. Graham hurriedly stacks and restacks papers; Risa, wrapped in some ridiculously heavy silvery fabric given the eighty-five-degree August day, channels her inner Wiccan; Robert scowls over his BlackBerry. Finally, Risa stands up quickly, as if poked by a pin.

  “Dr. Newkirk,” she says, her voice accenting his title just enough to indicate skepticism. Never mind that the guy’s CV was read into the transcript earlier today and included three Ivy League universities.

  “Mmmm.”

  “What did you do on the night of July fifteenth last year?”

  “Objection.” I stand up as Newkirk blinks and starts to scratch his beard. “I don’t
see how Dr. Newkirk’s evenings are relevant here, Your Honor.”

  Strand nods agreeably. “Yes, yes. Counselor, where are you going with this?”

  “Withdrawn, Your Honor. Dr. Newkirk. Please ignore that last question. On September sixteenth, you met with Robert Walker?”

  “Um, yes. On September sixteenth and also another time the following month, I think. Can I look at my calendar? Mmmmm. October.”

  “Yes, well, thank you for answering beyond my question,” says Risa, “but please stick to what I’ve asked you. What time did you meet with the father?”

  “Um, hmmm. It must have been midmorning. Ten, ten thirty, something like that.”

  “And, did you—well, excuse me for asking this, hopefully this won’t embarrass you and perhaps I’m wrong, hopefully I’m wrong—but did you partake in the use of any illegal substances on the evening of September fifteenth?”

  “Objection, Your Honor.” I stand as quickly as I can. “Dr. Newkirk should be advised to plead the Fifth.”

  Dr. Newkirk waves his hand. “It’s only a matter of time before they legalize it,” he says.

  Strand shrugs. “Continue.”

  Newkirk raises his shoulders. “Hmmmm. I don’t really remember.” Is he grinning under that beard? It’s hard to tell but Newkirk doesn’t sound embarrassed. He sounds nostalgic.

  “Let me help you out, Dr. Newkirk. On September fifteenth, you went to go see the Allman Brothers at the, um—” Risa pronounces it All-Man, as though she’s describing a Navy Seals unit or a Chippendales show.

  “At the Beacon. Go every year. But you’re right, because usually it’s in March, but not this year. I do remember that.” He is smiling under his beard.

  “Thank you, right. The Beacon Theatre, where you go to see the All-Man Brothers every year. And while at the All-Man Brothers concert, did you partake in using any illegal substances?”

  “Objection.” This time it’s Roland.

  Strand blinks. “I’ll allow this.”

  “I don’t really remember. That was many moons ago.” Dr. Newkirk starts to chuckle.

  “Is it possible?”