The Love Wars

by Heller, L. Alison

“Objection.” I try again.

  Risa presses her hands together and brings them to her lips. “Your Honor. It’s entirely relevant to determine what kind of mind-set Dr. Newkirk was in….”

  “Let’s just…see where this goes.” Strand looks intrigued, like a kid who just discovered a stash of Playboys in the attic and isn’t ready to put them back under the mattress. Apparently the Allman Brothers never play Mayberry.

  “Is it possible, Dr. Newkirk, that you used an illegal substance on September fifteenth?”

  He nods. “It’s pretty likely.”

  “And which substance was that?”

  “Not sure entirely. Probably just a little marijuana.”

  “Okay, so within twenty-four hours of your meeting with Robert Walker, you used marijuana?”

  “Hmmmm. Well, to be fair, I’d say I probably used marijuana.”

  “Okay. Let me rephrase. Within hours of a crucial interview with Robert Walker, you ‘probably used marijuana’?”

  “Hmmmm.” Dr. Newkirk nods his head slowly. “I can agree with that.”

  “Is it possible you were still feeling the effects of those illegal substances during your meetings with Robert Walker?”

  Finally, at this, Newkirk’s mellow is harshed; he appears to be frowning, based on the creases that appear in his forehead. “Oh, no way. There’s no way.”

  Risa arranges her features exaggeratedly, skepticism radiating off her raised eyebrows and twisted mouth. “Of course not,” she says, all mock innocence. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  I glance over expecting to see Robert looking smug as the proverbial canary-swallowing cat. Instead, his head is down and his jaw is clenched. And his forearms are moving almost imperceptibly, which any law firm associate would recognize as the mark of clandestine BlackBerry typing. Fern looks at me uncertainly and I try for a reassuring smile.

  We both glance down at my feet, distracted, as we hear the barely perceptible buzz of my BlackBerry in the bottom of my bag, which I’ve stashed under the table.

  She leans in. “It was buzzing like crazy during your questions.”

  I reach into my bag without looking down and feel around until I’ve pressed the off button.

  Strand nods at Roland. “Your witness, Mr. Williams.”

  Roland walks over to a spot directly in front of the witness stand. “Dr. Newkirk. I must remind you again that you are free to plead the Fifth to any of these questions I’m about to ask you.”

  Dr. Newkirk looks at his fingers and nods.

  “Were you high or under the influence of any drugs or substances when you met with Robert Walker?”

  “No way.”

  “Were you high or under the influence when you met with Fern Walker?”

  “Nope.”

  “Were you high or under the influence when you met with Anna or Connor Walker?”

  “Nope.”

  “Were you high or under the influence when you wrote your report for this case?”

  “No, for sure no.”

  “Okay. Thank you for clearing that up. Now I have a few questions about the parental alienation study that you were citing, the McLarnen report. What year was that done?”

  Newkirk clears his throat and launches into a cogent explanation of how the study is applicable to the Walker case. I breathe a sigh of relief.

  A little later, when Strand releases Newkirk and dismisses us for the day, Robert bolts up and out of the courtroom, his BlackBerry pressed to his ear. Claire says something to Risa and hurries after him.

  I look at Fern. “Any clue what’s going on there?”

  She looks hopeful. “Maybe he’s interviewing new lawyers.”

  I grimace. “At this point, even Risa would be preferable to starting fresh.”

  Fern looks like she can’t imagine that would be true. “Should I worry about Newkirk’s testimony?”

  “I don’t think so. Even our president has admitted to drug use. Just more lawyering by sensationalism.”

  “So, you still think we’ll be done by next week?”

  “I do.” Strand has us booked for two days next week and Claire and Robert are the only witnesses left.

  As I hold open the heavy courtroom door for Fern, I spot the same scruffy man who was there a few months ago. He’s leaning against the wall and holding on to the strap of his courier bag. It’s four thirty-five, but he’s got a big smile, like he doesn’t know what’s about to hit him. I once again feel a surge of pity for this poor unrepresented soul.

  “Hi again,” he says.

  “Hello.”

  “I’m Ari.”

  “Nice to meet you, Ari.” I gesture back into the courtroom. “He’s all yours.”

  He grins—wide and a little goofy—his eyes locking into mine. “You’re a lawyer?”

  “I am.”

  “What’s your name?”

  Fern pats my arm. “This is Molly Grant. She’s WON-der-ful.” She drags out the word, emphasizing each syllable and sounding like a Disney princess.

  “Grant,” he says. “Can you spell that?”

  “G-R-A-N-T, like it sounds,” says Fern.

  “And you do custody trials?”

  “Of course,” says Fern. “She’s doing one right now.”

  “Do you have a card?”

  “No, sorry. Not on me, but good luck, Ari.”

  “Hi,” he says to Fern, extending a hand. “I’m Ari.”

  “Yes, I heard.” She smiles. “I’m Fern.”

  “See you later, Ari,” I say, grabbing Fern’s arm and pulling her past as Ari, apparently the friendliest divorce litigant in the world, stands and waves at us, still smiling.

  “You should really have given him a card,” she says. “He could be a potential client. Practice-building 101.”

  “Thanks, Fern. I appreciate the good word, but let me get my employment situation straight before I start adding clients.”

  “Oh, right.”

  She reaches into her bag and pulls out her phone. As always, watching another person check her messages makes me itchy to check my own phone, which starts ringing as I turn it on. It’s Henry, calling me for the first time in months. I have no idea how to even talk to him anymore, so I press Ignore, at which point I see I have seventeen texts waiting in the wings. Seventeen texts!

  I scroll through quickly. A few from Duck, a handful from Rachel and Liz. All of them are variations on call me and where r u?

  Fern has her phone pressed to her ear, so she and I mime good-byes to each other as I dial Duck.

  She picks up on the first ring. “Well, hello, wayyyy too yellow, and wayyyyy too clunky.”

  “Huh?”

  “Oh, sorry. Checking out an end table. So, apparently there is big workplace drama round your parts.”

  “What? Wait, why are you the one telling me this?”

  “Henry called me because he was having trouble reaching you. Are you guys talking again?”

  “No.”

  “Well, here. Wait a sec. I took notes because I knew I wouldn’t remember. Okay, so apparently Lillian was looking for you and had a mini-meltdown at the office.”

  “Oh, God. What did she do?”

  “I don’t really know details. There was something about her going into your office and yelling, slamming doors.” She pauses as if actually imagining the scene. “I’m sorry. That sounds like a total tantrum. What will you do?”

  “I don’t know.” I bite the side of my thumbnail. “Any thoughts?”

  “Well, maybe it will all blow over by the time you’re back. Oh, and there’s something else—I’m supposed to read you a blurb from that ‘Nitty Gritty City’ column.” She clears her throat dramatically. “‘Robert Walker, reclusive head of Options Communications, has been battling it out in custody court with his ex. Word is things are getting nasty.’” She trills the last word to make it singsongy. “Okay, that’s it.”

  “Oh, that’s it? What a relief.” I raise my voice. “Are you kidding
me? What else could there be?”

  “Eggplant meets violet. What is that, purple? No, the purple. Where did you find it?”

  “Focus, Duck. Jesus.”

  “Sorry, Rico again. No, nothing else. This is your mystery case, I assume?”

  “Yep.”

  “I wouldn’t really worry about it. I’ve never heard of the guy and you’re not even mentioned. And it’s clearly a slow news day. The top blurb is about how some reality star was spotted at Home Depot in the faucet aisle. I mean, how desperate can you be? B&B Italia is blocks away.” Duck snorts. “But you should call Henry. He sounded very shaken up—or is it shook up—shaken up? Anyway, he sounded very unsettled on your behalf.”

  “Okay, I’ll let him know you got me,” I say, knowing I’ll do no such thing; I can’t stomach pity from Henry right now. “Well, thanks. Really. So wonderful to hear that my career is in such dire straits.”

  “That place sucks. Getting fired would be the best thing to happen to you, I promise.”

  “So, you’ll get your rich husband to pay off my student loans?”

  Duck laughs as though I am joking. “Always keep that sense of humor, girl.” She hangs up the phone.

  I stand uncertainly for a moment in the hall of the courtroom with no momentum to go anywhere. For a split second, I contemplate just camping out here, in the Brooklyn courthouse. I wonder how long I could stay. After several moments, I force myself outside to one of the empty benches lining the plaza. It’s a calm, beautiful summer day, the kind that would otherwise make me feel carefree and hopeful: sun, a warm breeze, happy little bird chirps.

  Outside, people lazily circle the white tents of a farmers’ market, canvas bags slung over their shoulders. I watch a man in army pants examining apricots like it’s the most important thing in his world—pick up, discard, pick up, discard—and feel a stab of envy for the apparent simplicity of his life.

  I press the third speed-dial button on my phone and pray that one of the boppy college kids doesn’t answer. I can’t handle making small talk about their fall break trip to New York.

  “Cheddar and Better. How can we tantalize you?”

  Ugh. They have to change that greeting. “Hi, Dad.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing, why?”

  “Oh, thank God. It’s the middle of a workday, so I thought—”

  “Well, actually. Something did sort of happen.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No.”

  He exhales. “Okay.” His tone is gentle as he waits a few seconds. “Can you help me out a little here?”

  “No.”

  “Okay.”

  I hear the muffling of his hand on the mouthpiece and his whisper to someone named Bryce that he should handle something involving a delivery of heirloom ketchup.

  Neither of us says anything for what feels like several minutes.

  “Okay, so, the thing is I might need to come home, Dad.”

  He speaks quickly. “That’s okay, Molly. Of course that’s okay. Come on home.”

  “And I might need a job.”

  “That’s fine, kid. We have jobs.”

  Pause.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He makes his tone light, which must take a lot of effort. “Whatever happened, it’s okay.”

  I scrunch my eyes shut, trying to cauterize the path of the warm tears I feel swarming my eyes. It’s not okay. I have failed. I have gravely miscalculated, ignoring the pull of obligation that has defined me for as long as I can remember. And now everything is broken.

  Worse, I know from my dad’s light tone that he doesn’t quite understand. So even though I’m not supposed to mention it out loud, I need him to know. Right now. “The thing is, I might not ever—” I swallow. “I might be somewhat of a lost investment for you guys. I might never help pay you back.”

  There is a long silence, during which I picture him examining his pride, seeing if he can suture together what I’ve just filleted. When he speaks, though, he doesn’t sound embarrassed in the least. “Oh, don’t worry about that.”

  My mom, who at some point must have picked up the extension in the storeroom, repeats the sentiment. “Not your job, Molly. You understand? That has never been your job.” And then, softly apologetic, she says, “We should’ve told her that, Bill. We should’ve made sure to tell her that.”

  We sit in still silence, me on my bench, the two of them in different rooms, both having stopped the constant motion—the packing and unpacking, the greeting, the ordering, the filing—to talk to me. When Bryce’s voice interrupts again, my dad tells him to shush and there’s some whispered conversation about coffee bean grinders.

  “Thanks. I’ll call you guys later tonight.”

  I hang up and imagine moving back to Hillsborough until I’m debt free: twenty years of eating cheese straws and yogurt-covered pretzels. Snap out of the self-pity party, Molly. I clap and shrug my shoulders a few times. The little kid on the adjacent bench giggles and imitates me, sending his snack pack of Cheerios flying. “Jacksonnn, what are you doing?” says his nanny. “Stop that, Jackson. Naught-ee!”

  The move kind of works, though. I find the energy to get up and take the few steps toward the subway.

  39

  ____

  surrender, molly

  It’s not as bad as it could be, I tell myself when I see my computer. The screen is black except for the familiar prompt for my log-in and password, meaning—thank frigging God—I logged off the computer early this morning before leaving for court. Meaning that Lillian was not privy to my personal e-mails.

  Once I celebrate this little gift, though, it’s hard to stay upbeat. Looking around, I can picture—as if in one of those shaky camera dramatizations—Lillian yanking open the file folders that had been neatly piled on my desk, toppling papers like a spread deck of cards. She’s left some of my desk drawers open and overturned my Bacon Payne Summer Swing Cruise coffee mug so that there are gel pens and highlighters sprawled all over the desk. Several random sticky notes are on the floor, curled up defensively.

  It feels no less invasive than that time in fourth grade when my mom and I came home from my softball game on a Saturday afternoon and found out we’d been robbed: broken window, drawers emptied of clothing, books strewn on the floor. I know part of the point behind Lillian’s tirade, though, is that my office is her office; my case files are her case files.

  Liz’s office is empty; so is Henry’s. Against my better judgment, I walk in to leave a note for him. Searching for a pad of paper on his desk, I see it, a yellow note stuck to his keyboard with the message “Julie called.” There’s a little heart over the i.

  Great, true love for Henry.

  I retreat quickly.

  Jane is in her office. She looks up when she sees me walk by. “Oh, hi,” she says, her voice bright, “good to see you! How are things?”

  I want whatever that girl is on.

  Rachel’s door is closed, so I knock tentatively. She’s on the phone, but when she sees me, she waves me in, motioning for me to shut the door. She wraps up her phone call with a series of brisk “Yeps,” holding up her finger in the gesture for Don’t move. Finally off the phone, she shakes her head slowly and looks at me with an exaggeratedly stunned expression on her face. “Where the hell have you been?” she whispers like she’s talking to a fugitive, which I guess she is, in a sense.

  “Down at court. In Brooklyn.”

  She inhales deeply and nods. “Oh, okay. I knew it. I told Liz you weren’t dumb enough to just go AWOL like that. I can’t believe Kim spaced a court date. Scary.”

  “Actually, it wasn’t Kim’s screwup.”

  She squints. “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s not one of the firm’s cases.”

  Quick headshake. “Still don’t understand.”

  “The case is mine. It’s a very long story. No one knew.”

  “You’ve been secretively doing your own case on the
side? Since when?”

  “About a year and a half ago. I didn’t tell because I thought I’d incriminate you.”

  Rachel rolls her eyes, visibly ticked. “Ummmm. O-kay. What is this, Langley? Is your client Jason Bourne?”

  I half laugh.

  “No, really, who’s your client?”

  I feel my face get red and I tell her the whole story.

  __________

  When I’m done, she whistles. “Wow, what Lillian did today was mild compared to what she’d do if she knew that. She’d probably stroke out.”

  “Was it awful today?” I say.

  “Um, a little intense. Liz and I were able to piece most of it together. Lillian was in one of those bored moods where she just wanted to play. She kept pacing the halls, buzzing us to come in, having little tea parties. She asked for you a couple times and then, at some point, she started to get angry about it. Kim said you had court all day and Lillian wanted to know which case. Kim didn’t remember and looked on the calendar and they had a whole big thing in the hall.” Rachel grimaces. “Anyway, then Lillian went into your office.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Ah, well, you can imagine. Just where were you and this wasn’t the type of shit any decent associate would do. And how you’ve been kind of absent lately, you’re not a team player, you only care about yourself. Um, you know…. Just that kind of stuff.” From her rushed tone, I can tell that this is a whitewashed version of events.

  “And?”

  Rachel’s cheeks color a little. “She said some mumbo jumbo about you coming from nothing and not being able to hack it in the real world.”

  “Oh.” For some reason—inexplicable, given my disdain for Lillian—this cuts to the gut.

  “Then there was screaming, door slamming, the whole thing. Did you have anything incriminating in your office?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Good, because she was in there for a while.”

  “Yeah, I just saw it. Total tornado. I half expected to see ‘Surrender, Dorothy’ written on the ceiling.”

  We laugh, weakly and briefly.

  “So, how long do you think I have?” We both know what I mean.

  “Not sure.”

  “What should I do?”