by Jon Reisfeld
Feldman frowned. “I hear you just got in. Don’t we have enough work to keep you busy?”
Santori bowed flamboyantly and deferentially before the older man. “Nice twofer, Dave." Then, to Martin: "He’s busting both our balls with that one.
“I’m impressed,” he added, turning back to Feldman. “It appears you’ve still got your mojo.”
“Damned right, I do.”
“Actually,” Santori said, “I told Marty to sleep in, today. I’m worried that if he doesn’t slow down a little, he might wind up looking like you in a few years.”
“Those would have to be some mighty rough years,” Feldman said, and they all laughed.
Santori took a seat facing the couch and turned in Martin’s direction. “What’s up? I hear you wanted to see me. Everything going OK with the Great Plains audit?”
“Oh, yeah. That’s shaping up well.”
“Good.”
“Nice billable hours on that job!” Feldman chirped.
“Yep. We should make out pretty well,” Martin said.
“Like bandits,” Feldman cooed.
An awkward silence followed before Martin finally blurted out his news. “Listen guys, Katie and I have separated. I’m living in a motel, and I spent the morning meeting with an attorney up in Olney. I just thought you two should know.”
Santori and Feldman exchanged quick, relieved glances.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Marty,” Santori began.
“A real shame,” Feldman added.
“Any chance the two of you might patch things up?” Santori asked.
“Not likely,” Martin said, privately feeling the sting of his words.
Santori leaned forward in his chair. “She wants custody of the kids, I presume?”
“Yeah. And fighting that is probably going to be an uphill battle, what with all the traveling I do. You know, the worst part of this is the effect the divorce will have on the kids. They don’t deserve it.”
“So, what happened?” Feldman asked, unable to leave Martin’s sudden vulnerability alone. “Did she catch you making out with the babysitter or something?”
Martin looked Feldman coldly in the eye and held his gaze until he finally saw the man’s Adam’s apple twitch. “I’m really not sure what’s behind it. We hit a bit of a rough patch, lately. But we were planning to see a marriage counselor and work things out.”
“At least, you were planning to—” Feldman sniped.
Santori glared at Feldman. “Knock it off, Dave! Can’t you see the guy’s in pain?” Then, turning back to Martin, he continued. “Do you think things might get ugly?”
Martin hesitated. “I really don’t know.”
“Well, let’s hope not. These matters can become pretty distracting and draining, if they get out of hand. That would not be good for you...or the firm.”
“I agree.”
“So, what can we do to help? Do you need to take some time off? Could you use extra staff on the Great Plains gig?”
“No, I’m all right. Really.”
Santori’s face lit up. “Say, what if I ask my nephew, Tony, to bone up on the Great Plains account. That way, he could work Chicago as your backup—just in case you need it.”
“No!” Martin snapped. “I’m fine. I don’t need any ‘back up.’ And if I did, I would decide whom to pick.”
“OK, OK. I was just trying to help.”
“Are you sure that’s all you were doing?”
Santori blinked. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know,” Martin said, “but you suddenly seem unusually free with the resources, especially considering the way our partner, Mr. Scrooge, over there, has been pinching pennies of late. This is also the first time you have ever suggested that I might need an understudy.”
Feldman cleared his throat. “For the record, I ‘pinch pennies,’ as you so crudely put it, to reduce costs and improve margins. And I would never ‘pinch’ to the point where it put our profits at risk.”
“I should hope not,” Martin said.
Santori raised a hand. “Let’s take things down a notch, shall we? First off, Marty, let me say that Dave and I have the utmost confidence in you and your abilities. You should know that by now. But for many reasons—Dave’s retirement being one—it’s critical that we proceed cautiously.
“I offered some extra manpower and suggested Tony as a possible backup, because the firm could face considerable exposure if, and only if, your divorce took a particularly ugly turn and it began to affect your work. As you know, we currently have an unusually large number of audits in the pipeline.
“I want to be supportive, that’s all—and to look after our common interests. Remember, I’ve been in your shoes before. I know what a shit storm divorce can be.”
“And yet, you voluntarily keep slipping those shoes back on,” Feldman jabbed, “which suggests you’ve learned nothing.” He flashed a deep, satisfied smile.
Santori waved him off and continued. “Would you take some advice, Marty, from a twice-divorced guy?”
“Sure.”
“Whatever happens, keep it amicable. And by that, I mean, first-and-foremost, keep it out of court. The only ones who make out in a contested divorce these days are the attorneys.”
“Actually, if memory serves,” Feldman interjected, “your first wife did quite well by ignoring that advice.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Santori said, looking vaguely annoyed. “She probably would have gotten the house, half the savings and half my retirement anyway, but we could have avoided all those costly attorneys’ fees—”
“Fees the judge made you pay.”
“Yeah. But it was a wash, really,” Santori explained, primarily for his younger colleague’s benefit. “Paying those court costs probably saved me from having to foot the bill for years of anger-management therapy for my ex.”
Feldman cupped his hands now, as if he was going to whisper a secret to Martin. Then, he shouted, “That’s because wife number one caught Joe getting a blow job from wife number two—just a few feet from where we are sitting now. Walked right in on them.”
“Is that so?” Martin said, trying to suppress a smile.
“She was my personal secretary,” Santori shrugged. “Back then, everyone had one. Now, we all have PCs and laptops.”
“Actually,” Feldman said, “it could be argued that she was your laptop.”
“That’s funny, Dave. Who are you paying for all this new material?”
“No need for professional help, Joe, not the way you keep setting me up.”
Martin decided this was a good time to leave. He stood up. “Well, I guess I should be getting back to work.”
Santori walked over to Martin and draped his arm around the younger, and shorter, man’s shoulders. “Despite Dave’s irreverent, hell, annoying demeanor this morning—”
“Thanks for that!” Feldman interjected.
“I want you to know that we appreciate you sharing this information with us. I’m sure it wasn’t easy. But it helps to know about any potential bumps in the road—particularly now, with everything that’s going on. The partner agreement may shield us financially, but, as you know, an ounce of prevention—”
“No problem,” Martin said.
They were now standing at the door. Santori gripped Martin’s arm above the elbow and searched his face. “I know some of what I said didn’t sit well with you, but please consider my offer of help to be genuine and open-ended. Whatever you need, we’ll provide it.”
“OK,” Martin said, somewhat dismissively.
“Marty, before you go, is there anything else we should know about? Anything regarding the divorce that you think could cause us trouble?”
“No,” Martin said, with a gulp. “As you said, I think this is my personal problem, not the firm’s.”
“I hope you’ll consider talking with Rick Wainwright at some point, if for no other reason than to get a second legal opinio
n. That’s why we pay him that fat retainer of his—and, of course, it would be free advice for you.”
“Let me sleep on that, Joe, OK?”
“Sure. Now, one last piece of advice, boychik: Make sure you tell your team about the divorce—preferably, today. Don’t make a big deal about it; but they have a right to know, and they should hear it from you. You’ve earned their trust; now, keep it. OK?
“Sure, Joe.”
“Good. Hang in there, pal.”
“I will.”
As the door shut behind Martin, Santori turned toward Feldman. “The poor bastard has no idea what he’s in for.”
“Yeah. Well, he’s real close to his kids.”
“Do me a favor, Dave.”
“What?”
“Call Wainwright. Marty’s so damn tight-lipped, I doubt he will. Ask Rick to find out what he can about the wife’s case: who is representing her and how they typically play. I don’t want our boy getting blindsided—especially now, with so many audits in the pipeline.”
“Now that you mention it,” Feldman said, suddenly straightening up in his seat, “neither do I.”
Chapter 7
The rest of the day passed slowly for Martin. He worked through lunch, finalizing the Great Plains Company audit strategy and then met briefly with his staff at two o’clock to tell them about his separation. Everyone seemed to take the news rather well, he thought. But, as the day wore on, he kept mulling over his meeting with Santori and Feldman. Each time he did, Martin grew more concerned. He now realized how wise he had been to keep most of the details about the divorce to himself.
Martin shuddered to think how Santori might have reacted had he known about the Temporary Restraining Order and the domestic violence charges. Instead of “suggesting” that his nephew, Tony Battaglia, serve as a backup audit team leader, Santori probably would have insisted on it—and not just for the Great Plains audit, either. He might have demanded that Martin start preparing understudies for all his big accounts. Feldman would have been all over him, too, if only for sport.
Both men clearly were worried about the firm’s bottom line, but for completely different reasons. Feldman wants the firm to achieve record-breaking profits—to assure him the highest-possible buyout. That’s obvious. But what has gotten Santori all stirred up?
He doubted that Santori had only just now realized that the firm’s most profitable work—its audits—was under the control of a single person. Then again, there was no mistaking the look of relief he saw the two men exchange when they realized he had come to discuss his pending divorce—and nothing more.
What had they expected? Did they think I was going to 'hold them up?’ Were they afraid another firm had made me a better offer?
Santori had seemed uncharacteristically anxious. What was that about? Was he worried that Feldman’s departure would leave too big of a management void?
While it was true that Feldman had single-handedly run the firm’s day-to-day operations for years, he had been carefully grooming Nancy Spellman and Ed Rosenzweig to share his responsibilities. For the past six months, the two junior partners had been doing most of Feldman’s work, without so much as a hiccup. (Eventually, the senior partners figured, the stronger candidate would emerge to become the firm’s next managing partner.)
So, if Feldman’s departure isn’t making Santori anxious, what is?
Then, it hit him. Perhaps, in dealing with Feldman’s retirement, Santori, who was next in line to step down, had become aware of the financial risks associated with the firm’s most glaring management shortcoming: its lack of effective succession planning and leadership training.
That could explain a lot.
Unfortunately, none of this made Martin feel any better about his current situation. Instead, it made him keenly aware of just how potentially damaging Katie’s actions might be. If he wasn’t careful, she might not only destroy their marriage; she could end up derailing his career as well.
Whatever hesitancy Martin initially had felt toward the underground group was now completely gone. It began to disappear the moment the Sheriff’s deputies had served him with that Temporary Restraining Order and had kicked him out of his home. Everything that had happened since then had only served to confirm just how precarious his life had become.
Martin longed to take the offensive. He desperately wanted to turn the tables on Katie, and he wanted to do it as soon as possible. But if that were to happen, he was going to need far more help than he could expect from Chester Swindell. The underground group was beginning to look like his only real option, but he hadn't heard a peep out of it since the man on the subway first made contact with him almost twenty-four hours earlier.
With his mind made up to accept their help, Martin entered into a constant state of readiness. He saw underground operatives everywhere. When the phone rang, he jumped. He studied every new face he encountered and looked for hidden meaning behind every harmless gesture or casual remark.
His overreaching efforts caused him to give every new person he encountered the third degree. Even the deli delivery boy appeared rattled when he left Martin’s corner office at lunchtime. “What’s with that guy?” he had asked a member of Martin’s support team. “He asked me all kinds of questions, and he seemed overly interested in everything about me. It was creepy. I thought he might have been coming on to me or something.”
“No, I assure you,” she said. “He just hasn’t been himself lately.”
“Well,” the delivery boy said, “until he is himself again, I’m going to leave his lunch orders with you, OK?”
For Martin, the day proved to be an excruciating awakening of sorts. As word of his pending divorce spread through the firm, sympathetic associates began coming out of the woodwork. More than half a dozen colleagues approached him and shared their own intense, deeply personal divorce stories. Previously, the most information he had exchanged with many of them had been mutual grunts of recognition on the elevator, at the water cooler or in the hallways. But now, they were suddenly bound together by tragedy.
At 5:00 p.m., when he folded his coat over his arm and headed for the elevator, Martin knew that he had been living in a bubble most of his married life. Divorce and divorce-related horror stories appeared to be everywhere, and yet he hadn’t had a clue. Martin wondered whether he had been unusually oblivious or if divorce was just one of those deeply personal disasters that victims prefer to talk about strictly among themselves. He finally decided that, in his case, at least, it was a little of both.
Chapter 8
“You’re an hour late,” Esther Finch announced as her daughter stepped through the front door of the family home. “You promised me you’d be here by four at the latest.”
Katie Silkwood put down her pocketbook and shopping bag, hung her coat on the front hall banister and sighed. “I’m sorry, Mom. After my shift at the hospital, I had a few quick errands to run. Everything took longer than I imagined.”
“I don’t like being taken advantage of, dear.”
“I know. You’re right. But cut me a break, will you? I’m new to this ‘single mom’ business.”
“Whose fault is that?”
Katie frowned. “Do you really want to go there, Mom? Besides, you got to spend an extra hour with your grand kids. How terrible was that?”
“That’s not the point.”
“OK, OK: Mea culpa.”
“Precisely, dear. Call ahead next time—and ask.”
“All right, I will.” Katie picked up her shopping bag, stepped forward and kissed her mother on the cheek. Then, she looked around the pristine living room.
“I don’t know how you do it,” she said with genuine admiration. “The place is spotless…and so quiet. Where are the kids?”
Esther smiled. “Monica’s taking a nap, and Justin is playing one of his video games in the den.”
Katie walked toward the kitchen. “How were they for you?”
“Monica’s just like a little bab
y doll, so sweet and pleasant.”
“And Justin?”
“That boy never stops talking! He gave me an earful. Told me all about some game he and the other kids invented at lunchtime. He started talking about it the moment he got off the bus, and he didn’t stop until about a half-hour ago.”
As Katie emptied the shopping bag, Esther began putting the various items away. “I think they’re happy to be home, dear.”
“Of course they are, Mom. This is what they know.”
“Justin really misses his dad. He kept asking me when Marty was coming home. I think he’s hoping his dad will be here for his birthday party, Saturday.”
Katie froze. “He won’t be, Mother.”
“Not even for Justin’s party, dear? The boy only turns seven once.”
“No, Mother. I’ve already explained this to you. The restraining order says ‘no contact’ until after the hearing next Monday. And ‘no’ means ‘no.’”
“Justin doesn’t know from restraining orders, sweetie. And you don’t need to tell the judge everything, do you? Let the boy have his daddy at his party!”
Katie stopped emptying the grocery bag. She closed her eyes and frowned as she took a deep breath. “Why don’t you just mind your own business Mother?!” she finally blurted out. “Justin will get over this a lot sooner than you think. Kids, these days, are very resilient. At least, that’s what all the studies say.”
“So, that’s it, dear: marriage over?”
“Yesss!” she hissed, attempting, once more, to reapply the dampers. “Please respect my wishes on this.”
“I can’t. I’m not sure you’ve thought this through. You’re willing to destroy your marriage and to turn your kids’ lives upside down…for what? I think you are making a huge mistake.”
“After everything I’ve told you about Marty’s behavior, I would think you’d understand.”
“Just what did he do that was so bad? Call you a few names? Raise his voice now and then?”
“Yes! And whether you know it or not, that’s abusive behavior.”
“Says who?”
“My lawyer, for one.”