Jack With a Twist bm-2

by Brenda Janowitz

  “I can be objective for my client, Judge Martin,” Jack says. “I may be completely, madly—”

  “And desperately,” I add.

  “Yes, and desperately,” Jack says with a laugh, “in love with counsel, but we’re all professionals here, and I’m quite certain that we’d be able to keep work separate from our private life. In fact, we worked together for five years at Gilson, Hecht before Brooke left for SGR.”

  “Ha!” I say, “but when I was at Gilson, Hecht, you were totally in love with me.”

  “I seem to recall that you were totally in love with me,” Jack says, turning to face me.

  “Oh, please!” I say, “Your Honor, look at the man! He can’t even keep his eyes off of me! Jackie, you’re going to have to find another partner to litigate this case.”

  “Are you afraid of a little competition?” Jack whispers, eyes still glued to me.

  “Your Honor, look!” I say, pointing at Jack, “He’s flirting with me right here in your chambers!”

  “This is a unique situation we are in here,” Judge Martin says, rubbing his hand on his bald head.

  Unique, indeed. Most couples, when they argue, don’t actually have a United States District Court judge refereeing it for them.

  “Judge Martin, I’m ready to go forward with this case,” Jack says. “If Ms. Miller has a problem with it—”

  “It’s my case, Jackie,” I say through gritted teeth, “back off.”

  “Ms. Miller,” Judge Martin says, “if you’d like to make a motion, I’d be happy to entertain it right now.”

  The judge wants me to make a motion? Right now? When I’m not even prepared for the conference, much less an oral argument? No way. No way in hell. And he wants me to argue it against Jack? Now that Jack’s here, Judge Martin’s totally going to favor him, and not me! I can just see Judge Martin at our rehearsal dinner: Brooke certainly gave it the old college try, but she was just no match for our Jack. Beauty and brains, that’s our Jack.

  I don’t think so.

  “No, Your Honor,” I say. “I’m ready to go forward.”

  “Fine, then,” the judge says. “Are you familiar with the term Chinese Wall?”

  Miranda sits in her chair, furiously taking notes while Jack and I manage a little giggle. You see, when I was at Gilson, Hecht, Jack and I had a case where we had to construct a Chinese Wall. Now, a Chinese Wall is not a real wall—it’s a term of art used in law to describe a situation within a law firm where there may be a conflict between certain clients. It means that the attorneys working on conflicted cases must keep all privileged information private and cannot discuss the information amongst themselves.

  Four years ago, Jack and I represented Healthy Foods, one of the firm’s biggest clients, while our corporate department represented Organic Life, their competition, in a totally unrelated transaction. The two clients weren’t against each other in their respective matters, but since they were competitors in the market, the judge ordered the firm to construct a Chinese Wall within Gilson, Hecht so that we didn’t share privileged information.

  “Now, the judge has ordered us to construct a Chinese Wall within the firm so that we do not inadvertently share information about our clients,” the partner on the Healthy Foods case announced in a large associate meeting just after the firm was retained by Organic Life. “Remember, even the most seemingly innocuous information could turn out to be privileged. Does everyone understand? However, for our purposes here, since the term Chinese Wall is so unpolitically correct, we’re going to call it an Asian wall.”

  “Was that a joke?” Jack whispered to Vanessa and me.

  “I can’t believe we had to give up billable time for this meeting,” Vanessa said. I, myself, was always glad to have any excuse not to work.

  “Actually,” a fifth-year associate piped up, “only people are Asian. Objects are Oriental. Like an Oriental rug.”

  “Okay,” the partner said, “then I suppose we can call it an Oriental wall.” Danielle Lewis, the head of the corporate department furrowed her brow and whispered something to the head of litigation.

  “That’s way more offensive than Chinese Wall,” someone in the crowd called out.

  Vanessa raised her hand. “Maybe we should just call it a Swiss wall, since they’re neutral.”

  “Let’s just call it the Great Wall,” the partner offered and the other partners all shook their heads in agreement. “We will construct the Great Wall within Gilson, Hecht and I trust that all of the associates assigned to these matters will keep the details of their respective cases confidential.”

  Jack, Vanessa and I refused to use the term Great Wall and instead referred to it as “the wall formerly known as Chinese” for the duration of the litigation. For some reason, the entire time we were on the case, I always had a massive craving for eggrolls.

  “Yes, Judge, we are familiar with the concept,” Jack says to Judge Martin.

  “Ms. Miller?” the judge asks me.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” I say, but to be honest, I’m already beginning to think of the wok that I registered for at Crate and Barrel, hoping that someone buys it for me for my bridal shower.

  “Great. So, then, I’ll expect,” he says, jotting down notes as he speaks to us, “that you two will construct a Chinese Wall at home and have no discussions whatsoever about the case.”

  “Yes,” Jack and I say in unison. I’d never actually heard of a judge directing two lawyers to construct a Chinese Wall in their home, but it was giving me some great decorating ideas for our apartment. A silk screen in the living room would look totally fab.

  What? It’s not like I wasn’t taking the case seriously. It’s just that when you’re a big-time lawyer like me, you have to multitask and think about apartment design while you’re working! Geez.

  “I’m sure that the two of you have much more interesting things to discuss at home anyway,” the judge says. “I’d also like to fast-track this case. I understand from Ms. Miller’s papers that both parties are very well-known celebrities and they’d like to try to avoid unwanted media attention, so that’s why I’ve sealed all court records on the matter. I think it’s best to get this matter resolved as quickly as we possibly can. Am I correct?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Miranda and I say in unison, while, at the same time, Jack says, “Yes, Judge Martin.” Sort of like on Cheers when Norm comes in and everyone in the bar would say: “Norm!” but Diane would say: “Nor-man.” Although, “Your Honor” is actually more formal than calling a judge “Judge,” but you get the general point I’m trying to make.

  “So, then in that case, the discovery process will begin this week and I’ll see all of you in three months for our next status conference.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” we all say as we record the next status conference in our BlackBerries. I try to keep my cool even though the judge has set an incredibly tight discovery calendar. In my old firm, it would have been no problem, what with Gilson, Hecht’s enormous staff, but in my new firm, where I’m handling the case on my own, this has the potential to become a real nightmare. Although I must admit, I probably won’t have any trouble getting extensions on my deadlines since I’m sleeping with opposing counsel.

  What? The judge merely said we had to construct a Chinese Wall—he didn’t say that we had to stop sleeping with each other!

  I pull my hair out of its bun as soon as the door to chambers shuts and I walk down the hallway toward the elevators with Jack and Miranda.

  “This is no fair,” I say, as soon as we are halfway down the hall, safely out of earshot of Judge Martin and his chambers staff. “You never even ever wanted to be a lawyer!” My argument, though childish and whiny, is true. It’s a known fact that Jack only became a lawyer after his dream of becoming an actor fizzled. Thus, his predilection for courtroom theatrics.

  “My word,” Miranda says, “this is going to be some case, isn’t it?”

  I resist the urge to tell her to shut up and l
eave Jack and me alone. Jack asks Miranda to excuse us and this inexplicably causes her to put her hand on his forearm. There’s that hand again. I resist the urge to scream, “Get your man stealing hand off of my fiancé!”

  Not like I’m jealous or anything. This must be a litigation technique she’s trying to employ to throw me off. Trying to make me so jealous that I don’t concentrate on my case at all and focus all my energy into the wrong things. Oh, please. Amateur hour. As if I’d fall for that for one second! She’s going to have to try a lot harder to faze a tough no-nonsense adversary like me.

  And why would I ever get jealous? Jack and I have a strong relationship, and just because my last serious boyfriend cheated on me and left me for another woman, that doesn’t mean that Jack will do the same thing. Because Jack’s not him. And Jack is more than just another serious boyfriend. He’s my fiancé. Things are different with him. Better. More secure.

  Right? “Y’all have a lot to discuss,” Miranda says as the elevator doors open, “Jack, I’ll see you back at the office.” I can swear I see her press her documents tightly to her chest, which has the effect of pushing her breasts up to expose massive cleavage in her lace-trimmed camisole. My eyes dart to Jack’s to see if he’s noticed.

  “Thanks, Miranda,” Jack says, his eyes still on me, “why don’t you get started on discovery and we can talk it over this afternoon?” I can’t help but wonder whether or not she takes off her fitted jacket when she’s back at the office and attends meetings in only her lace-trimmed camisole.

  What a hussy.

  The elevator doors close and Jack and I stand face to face.

  “No fair?” Jack says, “Is that the sort of tough argument you’ll be presenting me with in court? Honestly, Brooke, I thought I taught you better than that.”

  “This isn’t funny,” I say (okay, I’m actually whining it, but give me a break, I’m under a lot of stress here!). “This is the first case I’ve ever taken the lead on and I want to do well.”

  “Well,” Jack says, leading me down the hallway to the other end, where no one is standing. “This is a high-profile client for the firm and I want to prove that I have what it takes to be a rainmaker. To pull in the big clients and keep them happy.”

  “Okay, my argument was, like, totally more compelling,” I say as we stop at the end of the hall.

  “Whatever happened to: ‘You’re going to get the case and be amazing. And I’ll be the loving, doting fiancée who is here to help you every step of the way.’ Remember saying that to me?”

  “Well, yes,” I say, “but that was before the biggest case of your career coincided with the biggest case of my career, silly.”

  “But I’m a partner,” Jack pleads, “so I need the big case more than you do at this stage.”

  “Totally flawed argument,” I say, “clearly I need the big cases more so that I can become a partner.”

  Jack runs his hand through his hair.

  “Since when do you care about taking the lead on a case? When we were at Gilson, Hecht together, you never cared about being on the big cases. In fact, you always tried to get on the smaller cases and the cases most likely to settle quickly,” Jack says, putting his case files down on the windowsill. “Let’s face it, Brooke, you don’t even like working that much. Why on earth would you want to take the lead on a case?”

  “Who likes working?” I say. I think, but don’t say: Duh! “But these Manolos don’t exactly buy themselves.”

  “I’ll let you buy all the Manolos you want,” Jack says, putting his arms around me, “you can even buy baby Manolos when we have a daughter.”

  “They don’t make baby Manolos,” I tell Jack with a pout, as he puts his finger under my chin and tilts my head up to face him.

  “If you wanted baby Manolos,” Jack says, leaning into me so that our faces are only mere inches away from each other, “I’d get you baby Manolos. I’d get you anything you ever wanted, you know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Can you tell what I want right now?”

  Jack smiles, his baby blues sparkling, and leans down to kiss me. Every time I kiss Jack, it feels like the first time. His soft lips touch mine and I just melt. I really do. It could be any time, any place, but when Jack kisses me, the rest of the world just floats away. I close my eyes and with Jack’s arms around me, I could be on some island in the Caribbean for all I know.

  Or a federal courthouse in Manhattan, as the case may be. “Ahem,” I hear a voice say from behind me. I turn and see Judge Martin standing in the hallway, right behind us. Jack doesn’t release me from his grip, but my arms fall down as if to say: Didn’t I tell you that this man is completely, desperately, madly in love with me? Case closed. I think I’ve proven my point. “Counselors, are we going to have a problem here?”

  And it was just as good a question as any to ask. Would it be a problem litigating my first major case against my fiancé while we’re planning our wedding together? Won’t thoughts of taffeta and floral arrangements distract me from being the tough, no-nonsense attorney who does not take “no” for an answer that I am?

  But, I am woman, hear me roar! I can do anything I set my mind to. I’ve faced much tougher obstacles in my day. After all, I am a woman who has endured going to three of my ex-boyfriend’s weddings and I managed to totally humiliate myself at only one of them! And, I’ve only been sanctioned by the court on one of my major litigations. All in all, a pretty darn good track record. All I have to do now is plan the wedding of my dreams (well, the wedding of my mother’s dreams, anyway) and win the big case!

  What could possibly go wrong?

  8

  In my next life, I’ve decided that I’d like to come back as Monique deVouvray. Not only is she beautiful and glamorous, but she is also the epitome of grace under fire. In the face of intense media scrutiny, she doesn’t cower. She’s not bothered at the line-up of paparazzi outside her home, nor is she concerned with gossip columnist after gossip columnist calling her to find out why her husband Jean Luc is registered as a long-term guest at the Lowell Hotel. She doesn’t care that her publicist gets called three to four times an hour to give a statement about the fact that her husband’s stay at the Lowell has become public and she doesn’t even appear fazed that this little tidbit of information seems to be the top story on Entertainment Tonight for four nights running. (Which I find especially impressive, considering she designed Mary Hart’s wedding dress for her back in 1989.) Monique didn’t even bat an eyelash at the fact that gossip blogger extraordinaire Perez Hilton himself flew into town from L.A. just to be blogging from a coffee shop that’s closer to the action.

  No, in the face of her world seemingly falling apart, Monique deVouvray is throwing a party. And I feel like I’ve walked into the pages of Mrs. Dalloway as I come to her townhouse to meet with her after my initial conference in court. People are scurrying about—florists, chefs, photographers and musicians—and there is a party planner standing in the eye of the storm, barking out order after order to prepare for what will be, no doubt, the party of the season: the renewal of the vows of Monique deVouvray and Jean Luc Renault. I walk through the entranceway of their Upper East Side townhouse, wide-eyed, just gazing at the spectacle before me.

  “Brooke,” Monique calls to me from the stairway across the main foyer, “come with me upstairs. I am ready for you.” I rush through the crowd to Monique and we walk up the stairs, arm in arm like little French schoolgirls. We go up to her studio, not her office, since she doesn’t want the press—or any of her party planners, for that matter—to find out that I’m actually her lawyer. Instead, today I am playing the part of Monique’s 3:00 p.m. bridal appointment.

  To make this ruse work, she’s insisted that I come to her townhouse carrying only my pocketbook, not a briefcase, and that I bring only a tote bag with high-heeled shoes and a strapless bra, no legal files. The plan seemed to work perfectly as I slipped by the paparazzi undetected, but let’s face it, it’s only a matter of t
ime before I appear in court and pull a strapless bra out of my work bag. Monique still has no idea how her husband’s stay at the Lowell got leaked to the press, but she seems certain that it wasn’t anyone at the Lowell. I get the distinct feeling when she tells me this that she is sure of this hunch based on past experience with Jean Luc staying at the Lowell (but I dare not ask her if I’m right). Instead, Monique guesses that it was one of her staff at the townhouse. Since she employs a staff of over twenty people at her townhouse, she can’t be too sure of where the leak came from, and to this end, she has insisted that we pretend that I am one of her brides and that she fit me for a gown each time I come to her to discuss the case.

  “We may have hit a tiny stumbling block on this case, but it’s nothing I want you to worry about,” I say, as Monique brings out the muslin I’ll be trying on for fit today. I can’t help but wonder if she’ll be pretending to fit me with one of her real brides’ muslins, or if she’s actually creating a new dress for me to make this ploy seem real.

  “So, then, why are you telling me?” Monique asks me, as we are interrupted by a florist coming in with a sample floral arrangement: white and baby-pink hydrangeas, white roses and fuchsia orchids. Absolutely breathtaking. And appropriate for the occasion—the white and pastel colors give that bridal feel you’d want for a ceremony celebrating a marriage, but then the fuchsia mixes things up enough to make you remember that this is a vow renewal, and not a first wedding. Monique looks at the flowers critically before nodding her head in approval, signaling the florist to scurry off.

  “Well,” I slowly say as Monique helps me slip into a decoy muslin, “it seems that your husband has hired my old law firm.” Monique slides the muslin onto my body and then helps me up onto a small round stand that’s set up right in front of the three-way mirror. It’s like a tiny stage for me and my wedding dress and I love it—the dress drapes over the stand, and the six inches that the stand lifts me off the ground makes me look tall and thin, as if I were wearing nine-inch heels. It is the perfect vantage point for me to stare at myself in my wedding dress.