On how NOT to avoid paying child support...
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
P.R. for the Sex, Drugs & Rock'n'Roll Disasters
Okay, who hasn't been at least peeking at the headlines of the latest celebrity train-wreck splits? Vicodin rehab, sex addiction clinics, rock star lovers, etc etc. Of course, whoever's in the news today is in the recycle bin tomorrow. Then it starts all over again, and we get regaled anew with tales about other rich, famous, glamorous people who've unzipped their pants one too many times, or left rings of white powder gobbed around their noses in public, or cussed out a self-styled journalist who posted the video all over YouTube.
I know, I know. I totally watch this crap, too. Thinking stuff like, better them than me. Or, if I had all that money, I'd never do that. Or, how could someone that talented end up like that?
And then I hear all the snarling about the lawyers for these people. Publicity hounds. Greedy bastards wallowing in their celebrity clients' misery. Is it true? Who's responsible for all the ugly P.R.? What makes people think the train-wrecks didn't ask for the publicity themselves?
Lawyers who go issuing press releases about a sensitive case without permission have some serious issues if they breach client confidences. Most experienced lawyers pretty much have the attitude of 'same old, same old'. Custody and divorce cases don't get resolved in the court of public opinion, unless you want to count how an individual's career survives the hurricane headlines. Remember Woody Allen? Alex Baldwin? Christie Brinkley? How did all the public noise about their personal travails affect their cases? Not one bit. Now think about how it affected their careers. Mel Gibson is a case in point. So what's the negative P.R. about one spouse or the other really all about? Yeah, thought so.
Here's a great example, just hitting the headlines this week: In the Woods's divorce, these highly-regarded bloggers were notably impressed that the lawyers said nothing about the details of the settlement. A dignified conclusion to what had been a media circus. http://www.divorcesaloon.com/how-many-divorce-lawyers-does-elin-nordegren-need-to-get-her-750-million
But for some reason (I don't blame her for being angry, but Lord knows how much the settlement actually was for their short-term marriage), silence won't suffice for the ex-Mrs. Woods. http://sports.yahoo.com/golf/pga/news?slug=ap-tigerwoods-elin/
Hmmm, do I smell a book deal?
I know, I know. I totally watch this crap, too. Thinking stuff like, better them than me. Or, if I had all that money, I'd never do that. Or, how could someone that talented end up like that?
And then I hear all the snarling about the lawyers for these people. Publicity hounds. Greedy bastards wallowing in their celebrity clients' misery. Is it true? Who's responsible for all the ugly P.R.? What makes people think the train-wrecks didn't ask for the publicity themselves?
Lawyers who go issuing press releases about a sensitive case without permission have some serious issues if they breach client confidences. Most experienced lawyers pretty much have the attitude of 'same old, same old'. Custody and divorce cases don't get resolved in the court of public opinion, unless you want to count how an individual's career survives the hurricane headlines. Remember Woody Allen? Alex Baldwin? Christie Brinkley? How did all the public noise about their personal travails affect their cases? Not one bit. Now think about how it affected their careers. Mel Gibson is a case in point. So what's the negative P.R. about one spouse or the other really all about? Yeah, thought so.
Here's a great example, just hitting the headlines this week: In the Woods's divorce, these highly-regarded bloggers were notably impressed that the lawyers said nothing about the details of the settlement. A dignified conclusion to what had been a media circus. http://www.divorcesaloon.com/how-many-divorce-lawyers-does-elin-nordegren-need-to-get-her-750-million
But for some reason (I don't blame her for being angry, but Lord knows how much the settlement actually was for their short-term marriage), silence won't suffice for the ex-Mrs. Woods. http://sports.yahoo.com/golf/pga/news?slug=ap-tigerwoods-elin/
Hmmm, do I smell a book deal?
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Eight Emotions During and After The 'Closing'
In no particular order:
1. Exhaustion (from: negotiations, legal fees, pressure from spouse and family, emotional turmoil)
2. Relief (because the parentheticals in #1 are over)
3. Anxiety (about: financial future, ability to survive and bounce back emotionally, children where applicable)
4. Anger (i.e., why the hell did s/he have to put me/us through this?)
5. Sadness (about: the end of the marital relationship or the strains placed on it)
6. Guilt (that the relationship required a formal agreement in the first place)
7. Joy (that the parentheticals in #1 are over)
8. Emptiness
1. Exhaustion (from: negotiations, legal fees, pressure from spouse and family, emotional turmoil)
2. Relief (because the parentheticals in #1 are over)
3. Anxiety (about: financial future, ability to survive and bounce back emotionally, children where applicable)
4. Anger (i.e., why the hell did s/he have to put me/us through this?)
5. Sadness (about: the end of the marital relationship or the strains placed on it)
6. Guilt (that the relationship required a formal agreement in the first place)
7. Joy (that the parentheticals in #1 are over)
8. Emptiness
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
What's it REALLY like in Family Court? A courtroom scene from my protag's perspective...
Industrial carpeting muffled the footsteps of scores of litigants and their lawyers who jostled their way through security. Casey and John squeezed into an elevator. When the doors opened with a bing! on the third floor, the tide of passengers carried them out into the hallway. Casey tugged her briefcase away from the human wedge and joined the line of lawyers milling around a bank of desks.
“I’m here on Campbell v. Zambelli. Attorney for the respondent. My client’s over there.” Casey pointed her chin in John’s general direction.
“Don’t lean on the desk, counselor.” The court officer rustled through the pages of the morning docket.
Devon Family Court was no different from any of the Family Courts in the city, she thought. User-unfriendly to the litigants and more abrasive than a steel-wool massage to the lawyers. Especially lawyers who weren’t regulars.
She skimmed the docket sheet upside-down before the court officer flipped back the pages. Not bad, fourth up. She’d already checked Judge Greene’s background. New to the bench, 28 years of matrimonial practice in a two-person firm, state university education. The judge was probably buddies with Vickie Feinberg, she thought, as she slid onto a bench next to John.
“How long we gotta wait?”
“It shouldn’t be more than an hour or two,” Casey answered.
A skinny blonde woman in a tight suit approached them. The hall echoed with a ‘click-clang-clop’ sound. “Darrell said you were looking for me.” She peered at John first, then at Casey. “You’re Zambelli, I recognize you. You his lawyer?” She folded her arms to discourage any attempt at hand-shaking.
“Hey, Vickie,” called a court officer. “Do you want Campbell called last so you can make it to Supreme for your other conferences?”
“Nah, thanks, Darrell, I’m good. Tammy’s covering them.” She turned her attention back to Casey. “I’m Vickie Feinberg, Dr. Campbell’s attorney.”
“Casey Lang.” She handed Vickie her business card.
Vickie snorted. “You must be kidding me. A big New York law firm up here on a Temporary Order of Protection? I’m not impressed.”
A slim woman in a dark business suit tapped Vickie on the shoulder. Vickie shielded the woman with her arm and they marched away without another word.
“That’s Meg,” John said. His hands were clasped so tightly his knuckles were white.
Casey shook her head as she watched the two women disappear down the hall. She hadn’t gotten a good look at Meg, but Vickie gave off a vibe that screamed ‘nightmare lawyer’. Like those Mineola guys in GTX, Casey thought. Lots of attitude, lots of bluster. Zero courtesy. She braced herself for what promised to be an even lousier morning than she’d expected, and she hadn’t expected much to begin with.
Vickie returned alone and beckoned to Casey. “My client doesn’t want your guy anywhere near her,” she said, as Casey approached her. “He can have therapeutic supervised visitation with the kids once a week for six months before we’ll agree to anything more. But we’re not letting him back in the house.”
Casey positioned herself in front of Vickie so their eyes had to meet. “That’s unacceptable.”
“Suit yourself.” Vickie shrugged and turned to a court officer near the elevator. “Antonio, my lady out of the bathroom yet?” She tromped down the hallway again.
*
Two hours passed before a reedy court officer motioned Casey and John to follow him. They stood in front of the courtroom door. No matter how many times Casey stepped into a courtroom, it always gave her an adrenaline rush. And this time she was on her own. Her heart was working triple-overtime. Moments later, Vickie and Meg joined them in the hallway. No one spoke while they waited.
The court officer thrust open the courtroom door. Casey spotted a middle-aged woman in black robes, seated behind a blonde wood barrier atop a blonde wood dais. Blonde wood paneled the walls and blonde wood benches were lined up in neat rows in the back of the courtroom. Large metal tables with rickety unmatched chairs stood in front for parties and counsel. The most heavily used furniture in the courtroom, and the flimsiest.
“Bring everyone in,” the judge said to an unseen clerk. “First time on, right?” Judge Greene had heavy jowls that pulled the corners of her mouth downward.
Family Court was a spectator sport on TV. But not in real life, not in New York. Vickie and Meg, and Casey and John, trooped toward their tables before the judge. The court clerk sat to the judge’s left, and the court reporter perched on a small stool at the base of the judge’s bench. The yawning court officer who let the door close behind him, and the flags in front of the courtroom, were the only other presence. Just them and the stifling tension in the air.
John’s jaw was clenched so tightly that Casey could see the veins in his temples. “I’m counting on you,” he whispered, as they took their seats.
Casey pulled a standard yellow legal pad from her briefcase. Only an idiot would use a tablet computer in this courtroom.
“Before we get started,” Judge Greene said, “I’ve enjoyed several delicious meals at Mr. Zambelli’s restaurant, and Dr. Campbell delivered two of my grandchildren. I’ve never met or spoken to either one of the parties. This isn’t a commercial dispute or a medical malpractice case where their professional abilities are at issue, so I have no problem sitting as the judge. No one else has a problem with this, right?”
Casey weighed the odds of a recusal motion and shook her head. The chance of getting a judge in Devon County whose path had never crossed John’s or Meg’s was almost zero. If she disputed this judge’s impartiality, she would lose. And if she won, another judge might be more biased.
“No? Good. Everyone, please state your appearances for the record.”
The reporter’s fingernails tapped against her small black box.
Vickie spoke up immediately. “Judge, if I may?” The fabric on her skirt pulled into folds where it stretched across her hips.
“Yes, Ms. Feinberg?”
“As you know, Dr. Campbell is a prominent member of this community. Mr. Zambelli has menaced her repeatedly over the years. He’s been abusive in front of the children and in public -”
“Your Honor?” interjected Casey, as she scribbled furiously on her pad. Repeatedly? That wasn’t in the petition.
“Please, counsel, let Ms. Feinberg finish.”
Vickie pointed at John. “The man is huge. He’s 110 pounds heavier than my client, and almost a foot taller. All you have to do is look at him and you can see he’s capable of beating her to a bloody pulp without breaking a sweat. He could kill her with his bare hands.”
“Objection, Your Honor!” Casey said.
“Counsel, don’t interrupt Ms. Feinberg again in my courtroom unless you want to be held in contempt.”
Casey clamped her teeth together. So far, not so good. She glanced at John and noticed his hands shaking.
“Thank you, Judge.” Vickie continued. “Mr. Zambelli is an alcoholic with a violent temper. Dr. Campbell has every reason to believe that if he’s allowed to return to the marital residence, or even come near her, he’ll assault her like he’s been threatening.”
Judge Greene adjusted the sleeves of her robes. “I’ve read the petition, Ms. Feinberg. Do you have anything else other than what’s already in your client’s papers?”
“Yes, I do. Mr. Zambelli went to their country club on Wednesday after we got the TOP. My client had just finished a meeting with hospital officials there when Mr. Zambelli cornered her. He didn’t leave her alone until she threatened to call the police.”
Casey looked at John, who shook his head furiously. She touched him on the shoulder to calm him down.
“Will your client proceed with a criminal action against him?”
“We’re not sure yet. We’re reserving our rights.”
“Okay, counsel for respondent, what did you want to say?”
Another excerpt: My main character's wife has some problems
“Don’t let her get dry. Any change in her vitals, I want a call immediately.” Meg Campbell snapped the chart shut and glanced down at the bed as the ICU nurse adjusted the drip rate on one of the peripheral IV lines. Meg’s patient was heavily sedated. Her face was so swathed with bandages she looked like something out of a a sci-fi movie. Almost four hours of surgery and her prognosis remained guarded. NICU was slightly more optimistic about the baby’s chance of survival.
Meg bent over her patient and carefully peeled back a bandage to reveal a jagged laceration that slashed below the umbilicus, now bound together by tiny, even sutures. Satisfied it was draining properly, she examined the abdominal incision site. No localized swelling. She uncovered the vulva and gently separated the labia. They were marred by bruises. And teeth marks. She shuddered. Another victim of a drugged-out argument in a rat-infested crack house, poor thing. No family to help her, no one to care what happened to her. Nobody had even called about her, according to the nurses. At least the police had the assailant in custody.
Fucking pig-men, they have nothing else to do but attack women with knives and baseball bats, she thought. Her mother used to call her father a “pig-man” behind his back, until the time he caught her in the act and broke her jaw to teach her a lesson. Meg had added the “fucking” part of it later, just for good measure, after he’d been sentenced. Because that’s exactly what they all were. Women deserved better, that was for goddamn sure. She’d realized long ago women doctors were the only one swho really understood how to care for their own. Male ob/gyns were an oxymoron, to put it politely.
Next stop, third floor, for maternity and the more routine OB/GYN surgery patients. Meg strode over to the nurses’ station for updates. As she travelled through the corridors, her low heels made an elegant click-click against the floor. She softened her gait. Too noisy. She checked her own patients first, and then she dropped in on the rest to make sure they were satisfied with their care. Hospital patients were entitled to the attention of the department chiefs, she liked to say, and she took her own words seriously.
She silently cursed the young medical school graduates who cared more about paying back their loans in five years, and owning luxury cars, than following the Hippocratic Oath. The money comes soon enough, she thought. Compassion first. No need to alienate patients. Goddamn malpractice rates, now that was the result of treating patients like files. Meg kept a copy of an American Journal of Medicine article and two JAMA extracts posted in the doctors’ lounge, with studies correlating lawsuits with poor patient relations, just in case anyone was foolish enough to challenge her.
Turning the corner, Meg headed toward the DaVinci surgical wing. The extra rounds took another hour. Reviewing her orders with the nursing staff swallowed up another 30 minutes. Once she was through, she slid her cell phone out of her pocket, scanned her contacts list and, frowning at the calendar, put the phone away. Nobody around to hook up with tonight. A gold hair on her cuff caught her eye. Who’s was that? she wondered, idly flicking it off.
Her car keys were buried in her handbag. Biting her lower lip, she dug them out and headed for the garage, reconciling herself to the fact that she had no other choice than to head back to Chesley Ridge tonight. What the fuck, she thought, it’s my goddamn house.
*
“Nice of you to come home.” John’s voice was tight. “I gotta go to work in a couple of hours.”
The study was right next to the staircase. Meg knew he was in there. No way to avoid it, or him. She inhaled sharply and entered the front lines, hoping he hadn’t been drinking. Liquor made him harder to handle.
“Since when do you ‘gotta’ go to work? You’re a fucking parasite.”
“Classy as always.” John rubbed the chin of the cat stretched across his lap. “In case you've forgotten, the kids gotta have someone upstairs with them when they go to bed. I thought we’d agreed on that much after you banished me to the basement. How am I supposed to get any sleep --”
“Please. Spare me.” She leaned against the doorway and felt far heavier than 115 pounds. Her legs were anchored to the floor with invisible cinderblocks. “I realize I cramped your style when I gave Siobhan tonight off.”
“What style?” John asked. “I got no style when I’m constantly racing between work and the house like a maniac to look after the kids.”
“And I don’t do anything for them, is that what you’re suggesting?” Her voice rose. “I’m the one who pays for their food, their clothes, their dance classes, their sports lessons, private school, camp, Siobhan, the house…” Meg ticked off the items on her fingers.
“Shh-- you’ll wake up the kids. Jesus. It took me forever to get them down tonight.”
“The least you can do is get off your ass and help out while I’m earning a living.”
“Don’t talk about my ass, Meg. Not unless you want to see it.” He laced his hands behind his head and grinned, leaning back to reveal a flat belly and powerful chest. Heavily muscled arms swelled under his sleeves. “Come on, let me move back upstairs. You’ve punished me long enough.” The cat yawned and curled into a ball next to him.
It infuriated Meg the way Zambelli flaunted his body and used those brilliant blue eyes of his to seduce every woman over the age of 18. It didn’t work on her, not anymore. When was the last time she’d seen any glimmer of real warmth in his eyes, anyway? Not like she gave a shit.
“You ever come upstairs, I’ll call the police on you just like I did last week. And don’t flatter yourself. The only ones who want to see your sorry ass are your whores.”
“Jesus Christ, Meg. You gonna bring that up again? How many times I gotta tell you I haven’t messed around with anybody-”
“Stop. Just stop. I’m not blind.” Her voice was sharp enough to make the cat jump off John’s lap and stalk out of the room.
“You got Panther all upset now.” He stifled a yawn. “Why bother coming home if all you’re gonna do is yell at me? Just stay at the hospital and poke your fingers inside those women. Check out their boobs. Hell, you seem to like doing that more than being home with your family.”
“That kind of bullshit is why women prefer female gynecologists.” Son of a bitch always knows how to get under my skin, she thought. “You knew what I wanted to do when I was still in medical school. It didn’t bother you then. Lord knows, it never stopped you from shoving your dick in me whenever you had the chance.”
“Christ, Meg, you know what I mean. I’m at the end of my rope here. I don’t know what else to do.” He held out his hands, palms up.
“You should have thought of that before.” She rested one hand on her hip. Her dress was form-fitting. She knew he’d noticed from the way his eyes scanned her, up and down, down and up, lingering on her breasts. Good, let the fucker look. Can’t have any of it.
“So you’re gonna call the cops on me because of what Dana told you last year? Still not gonna give me a chance to explain?”
“No.” Meg might have felt sorry for him if it were a decade ago. Maybe. But not now. Not after everything he’d put her through. “And I am never- I repeat, never- letting you touch me again. Or my money.”
John lurched forward in his chair. “Man, you just don’t stop, do you? I make my own way. You got no right to say I don’t. I work eighteen hours a day. I got worse hours than you, for Christ’s sake. Running around so much I don’t know where I am most of the time.”
“I’m sure you don’t,” she said, and turned to go upstairs. “Good thing that’s not my problem anymore.” She wiggled her ass a little more than was necessary as she marched up, knowing her dress clung to every cell. With any luck, she was giving him a huge hard-on and he would have to waste time in the bathroom jerking off instead of sleeping. Appropriate punishment for a gutless bastard.
An hour later, Meg was cross-legged on her bed, naked except for the beige thong that circled her waist, slid between her buttocks and wrapped over her crotch. Her nipples glistened with oil, which she was massaging into her biceps. A faint blueberry scent hung in the air. She hated any intrusions while she hydrated her skin, so she’d turned off her phone and her IM service. The door was bolted even though Zambelli was no doubt in the basement where he belonged.
Wiping her hands on her thighs to rub off the rest of the oil, she tugged her computer onto her lap. Her webcam was off. Instead of starting it back up, she maximized the news feed. There it was. She pressed the play button and watched the video stream. She ran it, and ran it again, and again and again: “The charred remains of a woman recovered from the fiery three-car collision on I-95 last night has been identified as 38-year old Dana McWilliams…"
Yeah! she cheered silently, feeling positively exuberant. That bottle of Veuve Clicquot had been growing dust in her office since last Christmas. La Grande Dame. She hit the replay button again. “The charred remains.” Giddy wasn’t a word she ordinarily used, not a word anybody would use to describe her, either. But giddy was how she felt. “Charred remains.” Wow. Tomorrow night she’d pop open the bottle.
She grabbed her cell phone, fired off a few texts, and paused. Maybe she should be feeling dread instead of exhilaration. Where was the goddamn video now? Had Dana left instructions with anyone in the event of her death? Had she given anyone copies before the accident? Maybe she’d never even had it in the first place. Bitch couldn’t be trusted with anything - might have been playing both sides of the deal, for all Meg knew. And now that she was dead, maybe the shit was going to hit the fan. Question was, what shit and who had it?
Meg rested her fingers against her jugular. Her pulse had started to race. Not good. And her breathing was too shallow. She forced herself to draw a deep breath, exhale slowly - in, out, in out, repeat - consciously slowing her breathing, although her pulse rate was still too fast. She padded into the bathroom and ran two cotton pads under warm water. Compresses on her eyes had a way of calming the rest of her body. Leaning back, she closed her eyes and placed the pads on them, letting the warmth seep through her eyelids into her mind. Soothing, soft warmth.
She removed the pads and got ready for bed. Worrying never changed anything- it only made things worse. Especially at night. There would be plenty of time to worry about Dana’s residue - it didn’t merit a kinder description than that- later. Right now, the bitch was dead and she was going to stay dead. Glory hallefuckinglujah, what a stroke of luck.
Friday, August 13, 2010
CLIENT RELATIONS- Celebrity Chef divorce
As many of my friends know, one of the main characters in my novel, CLIENT RELATIONS, is a celebrity chef-on-the-rise, whose marriage is exploding . No, I didn't pull my story from the headlines, but it's always interesting to see what's going on in the real world to celebrity chefs with serious marital problems.
A Heartbreaking Case from Jolly Old England
Forget father's rights, mother's rights- this should disturb anyone with a heart and soul, regardless of agenda:
Thursday, August 12, 2010
World Literacy Initiative
A company called Better World Books, that was started 8 years ago, has raised over $8 1/2 million for world literacy projects. They collect and sell used books online, and the purchase proceeds help to fund the global literacy projects.
Here's the company's website: http://www.betterworldbooks.com/
Toilet Paper's New Name Is...Revenge!
I found this article about Charmin a/k/a Cushelle linked on John Bolch's excellent "Family Lore" blog from across the pond (http://www.familylore.co.uk/):
http://www.newsbiscuit.com/2010/08/11/rebranding-of-charmin-toilet-paper-was-‘revenge-on-ex-girlfriend-cushelle’/
Now that's one angry (and powerful) ex, if it's true!
http://www.newsbiscuit.com/2010/08/11/rebranding-of-charmin-toilet-paper-was-‘revenge-on-ex-girlfriend-cushelle’/
Now that's one angry (and powerful) ex, if it's true!
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Blame It On The A-a-a-a-a-alcohol
Just thinking about a few examples of life in the loony-bin world of divorce and custody cases:
A father rants on the phone, oblivious to the probability he's being recorded. Telltale white powder rings a mother's nose as she hurls obscenities at strangers, while her kids cringe next to her. A husband spends tens of thousands of dollars on hookers instead of on his family. A wife runs off with a lover and expects her kids to welcome her back with open arms after a 30-month absence. A lawyer doesn't look at the settlement proposal that her adversary sent six months earlier. A judge issues contempt orders, over and over and OVER again, for the exact same offense that happened one time last year.
Cripes. What are these people thinking???
Some folks say, blame the lawyers. Others say, blame the adversarial process. Still others say, blame the whole legal system. There's plenty of blame to go around. Like blame solves anything, right?
I say, there comes a point when I've just gotta go with Jamie Foxx and T-Pain: Blame it on the vodka, the Henny, the blue top, and the a-a-a-a-a-alcohol.
I can't wait for tomorrow's headlines (sigh).
A father rants on the phone, oblivious to the probability he's being recorded. Telltale white powder rings a mother's nose as she hurls obscenities at strangers, while her kids cringe next to her. A husband spends tens of thousands of dollars on hookers instead of on his family. A wife runs off with a lover and expects her kids to welcome her back with open arms after a 30-month absence. A lawyer doesn't look at the settlement proposal that her adversary sent six months earlier. A judge issues contempt orders, over and over and OVER again, for the exact same offense that happened one time last year.
Cripes. What are these people thinking???
Some folks say, blame the lawyers. Others say, blame the adversarial process. Still others say, blame the whole legal system. There's plenty of blame to go around. Like blame solves anything, right?
I say, there comes a point when I've just gotta go with Jamie Foxx and T-Pain: Blame it on the vodka, the Henny, the blue top, and the a-a-a-a-a-alcohol.
I can't wait for tomorrow's headlines (sigh).
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Piranhas!
Now this is one fugly fish. http://dummidumbwit.wordpress.com/2010/03/18/piranha/
It's also one of the stars of a guaranteed movie classic-in -the-making, scheduled for release in the US on August 20: Piranha 3D!!!!!
Here's the IMDb summary for this must-see flick: After a sudden underwater tremor sets free scores of the prehistoric man-eating fish, an unlikely group of strangers must band together to stop themselves from becoming fish food for the area's new razor-toothed residents. http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0464154/
"Fish food for the area's new razor-toothed residents"? I'm hooked!
Okay.....here's my segue: Divorce lawyers may be ruthless, but jeez-- I don't know anybody who's quite this ugly. Not even me after I pull consecutive all-nighters.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
The Lawyer vs. The Writer
Lawyer : The parties executed a separation agreement on June 25, 2009, approximately two years from the commencement of the action for divorce.
Writer: Paul grasped his pen as if it were a bayonet. Across the conference table, Elaine leaned her chin on her hand and suppressed a yawn at the sight of her husband's consternation. What's the big deal, she wondered? After two years, just write your goddamn initials underneath mine. Every page, just like the lawyers had instructed. She heaved a theatrical sigh as he finally scribbled his name under hers on the last page. Finally. All the lawyers had to do was not smear the ink from their notary stamps all over the page. And fill in the date: June 25, 2009. The hemorrhaging was about to end.
Writer: Paul grasped his pen as if it were a bayonet. Across the conference table, Elaine leaned her chin on her hand and suppressed a yawn at the sight of her husband's consternation. What's the big deal, she wondered? After two years, just write your goddamn initials underneath mine. Every page, just like the lawyers had instructed. She heaved a theatrical sigh as he finally scribbled his name under hers on the last page. Finally. All the lawyers had to do was not smear the ink from their notary stamps all over the page. And fill in the date: June 25, 2009. The hemorrhaging was about to end.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Likeable? No, make that redeemable
An instructive post from literary agent Nathan Bransford:
http://blog.nathanbransford.com/2009/02/sympathetic-vs-unsympathetic-characters.html
http://blog.nathanbransford.com/2009/02/sympathetic-vs-unsympathetic-characters.html
After the divorce- a celebration?
I can't count the number of clients who've told me that when their case is done, and they've finally shed their spouse, they're going to throw a huge party to celebrate their new freedom. And they're going to invite me, of course.
Well, I've never been invited. And I suspect it's for one of these reasons:
(1) The client couldn't stand the sight of me when it was finally over (I've found that when I send a former client a simple holiday greeting, they groan and wonder what bad thing has happened- me and bad memories, we go hand-in-hand); or
(2) The party never happened - the client realized the divorce was too sad, too anti-climactic or too damn debilitating to leave much energy (or much money) for celebration.
I've seen a few photos of "divorce cakes" on the Internet (seems like they're more pro-women). I wonder if they're for real and if they are, how many people actually enjoy eating them.
http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:8jVK0Eb-Bw34FM:http://img160.imageshack.us/img160/1072/darndivorcecakeae3.jpg&t=1
http://danamccauley.wordpress.com/2008/04/07/divorce-cake/
Well, I've never been invited. And I suspect it's for one of these reasons:
(1) The client couldn't stand the sight of me when it was finally over (I've found that when I send a former client a simple holiday greeting, they groan and wonder what bad thing has happened- me and bad memories, we go hand-in-hand); or
(2) The party never happened - the client realized the divorce was too sad, too anti-climactic or too damn debilitating to leave much energy (or much money) for celebration.
I've seen a few photos of "divorce cakes" on the Internet (seems like they're more pro-women). I wonder if they're for real and if they are, how many people actually enjoy eating them.
http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:8jVK0Eb-Bw34FM:http://img160.imageshack.us/img160/1072/darndivorcecakeae3.jpg&t=1
http://danamccauley.wordpress.com/2008/04/07/divorce-cake/
Monday, August 2, 2010
How We Piss Off Our Clients: Another Top Ten List
What goes around, comes around.
1. Nickel-and-dime the client to death. Charge for subway fare, the dinner you ate while you were thinking about the case but working on a closing for someone else, last month's roaming charges while you were on vacation, etc.
2. Yell at the client. It's your normal speaking voice.
3. Diss everyone in the case. The client's therapist. His/her parents. Your adversary. Make sure it's impossible to speak directly to any third party without having to go through someone else.
4. Remind the client you have a lot of other cases to handle. It's a matter of priorities. Triage, if you will.
5. Keep your client waiting for you. Make sure (s)he sees you sneaking out for a sandwich before the appointment, and waltz back into the reception area with either (i) a brown paper bag; or (ii) a receipt that you can ostentatiously slap on the front desk. Your choice.
6. Don't look at the FedEx packets your client sends you. Just say, "I never received your financial documents" and hope no one tracks the delivery date.
7. Whenever something's missing - and delivery to your office has been confirmed - blame your staff.
8. Is the client calling you again? Hell with it, you're busy. All the time. Ignore their letters, too. And why waste time sending them copies of anything? They'll find out eventually.
9. Make shit up. Everyone else does it. The judge never sanctions anybody.
10. Billing is an art form. So don't bother.
1. Nickel-and-dime the client to death. Charge for subway fare, the dinner you ate while you were thinking about the case but working on a closing for someone else, last month's roaming charges while you were on vacation, etc.
2. Yell at the client. It's your normal speaking voice.
3. Diss everyone in the case. The client's therapist. His/her parents. Your adversary. Make sure it's impossible to speak directly to any third party without having to go through someone else.
4. Remind the client you have a lot of other cases to handle. It's a matter of priorities. Triage, if you will.
5. Keep your client waiting for you. Make sure (s)he sees you sneaking out for a sandwich before the appointment, and waltz back into the reception area with either (i) a brown paper bag; or (ii) a receipt that you can ostentatiously slap on the front desk. Your choice.
6. Don't look at the FedEx packets your client sends you. Just say, "I never received your financial documents" and hope no one tracks the delivery date.
7. Whenever something's missing - and delivery to your office has been confirmed - blame your staff.
8. Is the client calling you again? Hell with it, you're busy. All the time. Ignore their letters, too. And why waste time sending them copies of anything? They'll find out eventually.
9. Make shit up. Everyone else does it. The judge never sanctions anybody.
10. Billing is an art form. So don't bother.
How to Piss Off Your Divorce Lawyer (A Top Ten List)
Easy.
1. Promise to pay. Then don't. Or pay in dribs and drabs - string it out for as long as you can.
2. Yell at him/her at every opportunity. Make sure you can be heard even if the telephone is six inches away from your lawyer's ear (not on speaker).
3. Say you need to discuss his/her legal advice with your best friend (neighbor, former roommate, drinking buddy, etc.), who got a great deal on his/her divorce.
4. Remind your lawyer that lots of other lawyers are waiting to take your case.
5. Arrive 30 - 60 minutes late for all your appointments. Or just show up unannounced and demand immediate assistance.
6. Insist that a complicated document (e.g., your Statement of Net Worth, an affidavit, your draft Separation Agreement) be completed and e-mailed to you on a particular day, although you have no intention of looking at it for at least two weeks because you'll be on vacation.
7. Forget to tell your lawyer that you own property in another state (or country). Let it be a surprise when you testify about it at your deposition
8. Grill your lawyer about the status of your case - repeatedly - four or five times in a single day. Even better, several times in the space of one hour.
9. Invent facts, both trivial and major. No one's going to notice.
10. Repeat #1.
1. Promise to pay. Then don't. Or pay in dribs and drabs - string it out for as long as you can.
2. Yell at him/her at every opportunity. Make sure you can be heard even if the telephone is six inches away from your lawyer's ear (not on speaker).
3. Say you need to discuss his/her legal advice with your best friend (neighbor, former roommate, drinking buddy, etc.), who got a great deal on his/her divorce.
4. Remind your lawyer that lots of other lawyers are waiting to take your case.
5. Arrive 30 - 60 minutes late for all your appointments. Or just show up unannounced and demand immediate assistance.
6. Insist that a complicated document (e.g., your Statement of Net Worth, an affidavit, your draft Separation Agreement) be completed and e-mailed to you on a particular day, although you have no intention of looking at it for at least two weeks because you'll be on vacation.
7. Forget to tell your lawyer that you own property in another state (or country). Let it be a surprise when you testify about it at your deposition
8. Grill your lawyer about the status of your case - repeatedly - four or five times in a single day. Even better, several times in the space of one hour.
9. Invent facts, both trivial and major. No one's going to notice.
10. Repeat #1.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Are there winners in custody cases?
The usual answer is "no".
Kids get so twisted up inside - pressure from both parents, pressure from other family members, pressures they face outside of the custody case (medical, psychiatric, school/learning, social issues, sex, drugs, etc.). They act out, they get sick, their existing problems get worse. Tons of studies discuss how the stress impacts kids for the rest of their lives.
Parents? They have their lives swabbed all over a gigantic microscope slide. Pretty unpleasant. I mean, who doesn't have something negative in their past or present? And on top of the emotional and financial stress, they get to have their heads shrunk repeatedly, not just by their therapists, but by forensic mental health professionals for use in court. Yeah, not fun.
Whatever the results, everyone's too burned out and too broke to do much except collapse after their cases end.
But let's look at this from another angle. The earlier, more traditional - now passe - view. Maybe there are winners. Not all the time, but sometimes.
Like in the documented child abuse and neglect cases, of course. Saving those kids from years of torment, well, that's a win for sure. No argument there.
Then there are the "shades of misery" cases, where, as a lawyer for the kids in one of my cases put it a long time ago, being with one parent was like living in black-and-white while being with the other was like living in technicolor. I'd say the vast majority of cases fall in this compartment. Tough to prove, but when the facts are finally pointing clearly in one direction and the kids end up with the technicolor parent), isn't that a "win"?
Now we get to the noisy, celebrity-choked gray zone of parental alienation claims. Experts pop up everywhere on this one, from the solid mental health pros who've been studying (and testifying about) this stuff for years, to the pissed-off parents whose latest rants are making the circuit on the Internet. Who knows who's really the alienator? Okay, sometimes the answer's kinda obvious. Not as often as you might think, though. Sometimes it boils down to: Who's kept the voice mails? Who retrieved the deleted parts of the hard drive? Who's got the most damaging text message records?
But assuming one's worse than the other - and someone usually is far worse (seriously, is any warring parent totally innocent?) - the facts will eventually be revealed. Hopefully, during the case. And then, isn't getting the kids away from the mega-toxic parent a good thing? A "win"?
Kids get so twisted up inside - pressure from both parents, pressure from other family members, pressures they face outside of the custody case (medical, psychiatric, school/learning, social issues, sex, drugs, etc.). They act out, they get sick, their existing problems get worse. Tons of studies discuss how the stress impacts kids for the rest of their lives.
Parents? They have their lives swabbed all over a gigantic microscope slide. Pretty unpleasant. I mean, who doesn't have something negative in their past or present? And on top of the emotional and financial stress, they get to have their heads shrunk repeatedly, not just by their therapists, but by forensic mental health professionals for use in court. Yeah, not fun.
Whatever the results, everyone's too burned out and too broke to do much except collapse after their cases end.
But let's look at this from another angle. The earlier, more traditional - now passe - view. Maybe there are winners. Not all the time, but sometimes.
Like in the documented child abuse and neglect cases, of course. Saving those kids from years of torment, well, that's a win for sure. No argument there.
Then there are the "shades of misery" cases, where, as a lawyer for the kids in one of my cases put it a long time ago, being with one parent was like living in black-and-white while being with the other was like living in technicolor. I'd say the vast majority of cases fall in this compartment. Tough to prove, but when the facts are finally pointing clearly in one direction and the kids end up with the technicolor parent), isn't that a "win"?
Now we get to the noisy, celebrity-choked gray zone of parental alienation claims. Experts pop up everywhere on this one, from the solid mental health pros who've been studying (and testifying about) this stuff for years, to the pissed-off parents whose latest rants are making the circuit on the Internet. Who knows who's really the alienator? Okay, sometimes the answer's kinda obvious. Not as often as you might think, though. Sometimes it boils down to: Who's kept the voice mails? Who retrieved the deleted parts of the hard drive? Who's got the most damaging text message records?
But assuming one's worse than the other - and someone usually is far worse (seriously, is any warring parent totally innocent?) - the facts will eventually be revealed. Hopefully, during the case. And then, isn't getting the kids away from the mega-toxic parent a good thing? A "win"?
Client Relations: A Novel-- Introducing My Protagonist
[Copyrighted Material]
Casey pushed her bangs out of her eyes and smoothed her suit jacket underneath her hips as she sat, careful not to allow her skirt to ride up. “Everyone on the team did a great job, Lou,” she said. “The other associates, the paras - even the copy guys and the messengers went all out on this one.” They deserved every round she’d bought for them at Jack’s Pub, that was for damn sure. Casey paused and the pages of the decision rustled through her fingers. “The judge quoted directly from our brief for most of her opinion. The facts and the law, ours word for word.”
Casey pushed her bangs out of her eyes and smoothed her suit jacket underneath her hips as she sat, careful not to allow her skirt to ride up. “Everyone on the team did a great job, Lou,” she said. “The other associates, the paras - even the copy guys and the messengers went all out on this one.” They deserved every round she’d bought for them at Jack’s Pub, that was for damn sure. Casey paused and the pages of the decision rustled through her fingers. “The judge quoted directly from our brief for most of her opinion. The facts and the law, ours word for word.”
As Lou scanned the summary judgment decision, the corners of his lips inched upward for an instant. “Nice work.” The head of the litigation section of Wiggens, Lunay & Bernstein was notoriously stingy with his praise. ‘Nice work’ was, for him, the oral equivalent of handing out a blank check at Tiffany’s. And he never doled out complements to anyone lower than a seventh-year associate.
Casey Lang, now in her eighth year, had snagged Lou's attention. The firm was built on fiefdoms, and slaves like Casey were important for partners with turf. Especially a name partner like Lou Bernstein, who had a lot of turf to protect. So far, Casey had managed to hold her own far better than most of the others who'd been cornered by Lou in the past. Keeping on his good side meant the guaranteed demolition ofwhat was left of her youth, but a possible ticket to partnership. Only two years to go before her name went up for the vote.
Lou peered over his glasses to buzz his secretary. “Giselle, get Bill Marston on the phone.”
Casey settled into her seat for the self-congratulatory phone call to the client, slipping her feet halfway out of her shoes. Never buy Bruno Maglis again, she scolded herself, no matter how great they look in the store. Her feet were too damn big, just like her butt and her shoulders. Like a female linebacker, she thought for the millionth time in her life.
“Your people did a hell of a job,” Marston was saying on the speaker. “Especially that girl who was here all the time. You know, the one with the legs. Dark hair. Stacy, Tracy, something like that. My guys were tripping over each other to talk to her. Hell, I was, too, and I’m twice her age.”
Casey flushed and tugged her skirt closer to her knees. Goddamn GTX guys, coming on to anything with a vagina.
Sitting ramrod-straight behind his desk even though it did nothing to increase his height, Lou took the phone off the speaker and swiveled so the back corner of his chair faced her. An expanse of windows framed his desk.
Casey shifted in her seat to get a better view of the activity in Central Park 45 stories below. It was a hell of a lot more interesting than watching Lou’s back for God knows how long. The outside world was indifferent to summary judgment motions and sexist clients. A kite fluttered far in the distance. She emptied her mind as she watched the clouds pass across the sky, allowing only a two-syllable mantra to spin through her brain. Best way to handle the aura of tension surrounding Lou. Ay-mah, ay-mah. She was teaching some of the other associates so they could keep their cool around him, too. Aayyy-maahhh.
A full ten minutes later, Lou spun around to end the call and checked his watch.
“So Marston’s pleased?” Casey asked, knowing the answer. Lou wouldn’t repeat any of Marston’s lewder remarks, of course.
“You’re fishing for compliments.” His mouth formed another momentary tight-lipped smile. “He’s recommending to the GTX board that we handle all their major litigation from now on.”
Partnership felt so close she could almost taste it. She’d done it! She’d landed a major client!
Before she could respond, Lou added, “In the meantime, you need to finish the witness prep on the Flood case. I want it all by tomorrow evening at the latest.”
He never cuts me any slack, she thought, sucking in a sigh as she nodded. Son of a bitch wasn’t going to give her credit, even in private, for landing GTX. Thank God she’d already finished Flood. Just had to zip the outlines over to him on interoffice e-mail, but she wasn’t crazy enough to tell him now. Not on a beautiful Friday afternoon.
“Casey. You need to increase your hours significantly if you expect to have a future here.” Lou thumbed through a folder, and adjusted his glasses so they perched on the end of his nose.
She’d lost count of how many times he’d said that to her. Please don’t wreck another weekend.
“We’ll talk more on Monday,” he continued. “I have some new matters I want you to work on. That should resolve your billable hours issue and help me put out a few fires at the same time.” Lou turned to his computer. “Thank you. Enjoy your weekend.”
I will now, she thought, and tiptoed out. If he assigned her a trial on Monday, her hours would punch a hole through the ceiling. But any more goddamn briefs or memos or outlines, she’d go crazy from boredom.
She squared her shoulders as Harper Millstein strutted by. Some people took their senior associate positions way too seriously and he was one of them.
“We won GTX,” she said. She suspected Harper was an asshole even as a child.
“Good for you.” He thumped on his secretary’s carrel to announce his return.
Harper’s secretary gave him the finger behind his back, and then a thumb’s up to Casey. She used to work as a floater for Casey before being assigned to Harper full-time, and had never forgotten that Casey had gone to her stand-up gigs. Three times! she’d told her fellow floaters, not like the pompous shit she was stuck working for now who barely remembered her name.
Casey winked at the secretary and headed up to her office. An hour later, she flipped off her lights and tugged open the ladies’ room door. She dabbed cold water on the back of her neck and examined herself in the mirror. Thirty-four and counting. Any gray yet? Nope, still dark brown, but with fading highlights. She’d cancelled her hair appointment this week, and her hair looked horrible. It looked better when it just grazed her shoulders. This long, and the ends started to flip around like a Barbie doll’s hair circa 1965.
She stared into her eyes and pulled out a tube of mascara. Her eyes looked back at her, large and bluish-green with a hint of sadness that Anton never noticed. The mascara helped brighten her eyes but they still looked dull and flat to her. Like the widow she was.
Widow. The word spat out from her mind, sounding old and heavy and dreary. And she felt dark and depressed and widow-ish, too, despite everything Scott, her friends and her mom had done for her. Apart from meditation, there were only two things that had made her feel a little less dead over the past two years: Burying herself in work, which sure as hell beat burying her husband, and letting a man bury himself in her. Both kept her mind off Chilton, both made her feel wanted by the world of the living. Needed, even. Almost.
Client Relations: A Novel (excerpt of opening)
[Copyrighted Material]
John’s hands searched for comfort in the familiar stones underneath them. Stones he ordinarily brushed past without a second thought when he went to get the newspaper, when he took the kids out to the bus, when he brought in the mail. Stones that now supported his weight in the darkness as a nightstick jammed into his rib cage and rough hands slapped his body.
John’s hands searched for comfort in the familiar stones underneath them. Stones he ordinarily brushed past without a second thought when he went to get the newspaper, when he took the kids out to the bus, when he brought in the mail. Stones that now supported his weight in the darkness as a nightstick jammed into his rib cage and rough hands slapped his body.
“He’s clean.” The gruff voice behind him belonged to the cop holding the nightstick. “Turn around.”
John rotated his body slowly and squinted into the beam, avoiding the temptation to shield his eyes. Diego, his grill chef, always said: Cops are wired too tight, don’t move unless they tell you or they’ll kill you. Diego and his goddamn drug habit were finally proving useful.
“I’m Sergeant Molinski and this is Officer Dobbs.” Molinski eased onto the landing and clicked off the flashlight. The top of his head, even with his service cap on, barely reached John’s shoulders. “Show me some ID.” He examined the driver’s license and turned to his partner. “John Zambelli, 42-year-old white male, six-three. Black hair. Blue eyes.” Handing Dobbs the license, he added, “Run a check on this.”
“The knife must be in the house,” Dobbs said in a thick Brooklyn accent. Her earrings glinted under the slate and copper sconces at the front entrance as she marched toward her cruiser.
“How long have you been living in Chesley Ridge, Mr. Zambelli?” Molinski asked.
“Fifteen years.” Lines of sweat dribbled down his forehead and pooled along the base of his neck.
“Never seen you around here before.” Molinski put his hand on the door handle. His nose was enormous, dominating his other features. “Mind if I come in?”
“Never had any dealings with the police before,” John said as they entered his house. That speeding ticket three years ago – does that count? He grabbed a towel from the front bathroom and wiped the sweat from his face and neck. His curly hair stuck to his head the way it usually did after a workout. But tonight he hadn’t been exercising. “Officer, what’s this all about?”
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