layla

The morning after hearing about Marvin Mitchelson, I start to call attorneys. I probably shouldn’t have waited so long, but I didn’t know when exactly Brett was going to start proceedings. Maybe I hoped he’d change his mind. Of course I hoped he’d change his mind.

I’m stunned to find that the first two shysters I call have already heard from Brett and therefore can’t ethically or legally take my case; he and I are apparently drawn to the same advertisements. The third lawyer I call is just too damned expensive, and the fourth has also spoken to Brett.

Admittedly, a harsh rejection can put a person in an advanced state of stupid. Add to that being boxed out of all the decent lawyers you can find and/or afford, and you feel humiliated, inadequate, discarded, and alone—all lousy foundations for behavior in the average person. You start contemplating truly regrettable things, like eating saturated fat directly out of the carton of self-pity, dumping someone’s entire DVD collection curbside, or leaving phone messages for an ex in this vein: “I’m sorry to call again but I don’t know what else to do, because you won’t answer your door, and if you’ll just give this thing one more chance, I’ll utterly debase myself to make you happy.” I don’t want to do any of these things—at least not yet.

Being a virtual orphan all these years has left me extremely sensitive to even the most minor slights and every pinprick of exclusion in any context: familial, social, professional—hell, even when I’m trying to buy a new shirt and the salespeople ignore me for ten minutes, it can feel like a spear being shoved down my throat. So as I arrive at the three-quarter mark in my box of Barbara’s Shredded Oats cereal, I’m aware that the sound of my chomping is drowned out by my pulse pounding in my ears. The rejection effect is kicking in like a shot of Jägermeister.

Through this buzzing, a commercial catches my attention and I’m sucked in like I’m being hypnotized: “Have you been wronged? Feel as though nobody’s on your side?” a man who slightly resembles Alec Baldwin says. “Then you need to call me now, toll-free. I’m on your side and I will fight for you. I will stop at nothing! And your initial consultation is absolutely free!”

I do need someone to fight for me! Someone with the young Muhammad Ali’s gift of gab and Mike Tyson’s eternal bloodlust. And as so often happens in life, at the precise moment when you need a sign, when you need a true bruiser on your side, you get … well, not exactly what you wished for, but rather Tommy Thames of Thames, Schlicter & Thames. And as the honorable Mr. Thames repeats the same stirring appeal in Spanish, I write down the number that comes up on the screen and resolve to call him.

• • •

I call Brooke from the car on my way to see this Tommy Thames, and she couldn’t be less interested in hearing about my plight. In fact, she only perks up when she hears about my meeting with a divorce lawyer, since she sees the budding potential for her to have me as a wingwoman for her nights on the town.

“We are back in business, baby,” she says. “Well, technically we were never in business, since you and Brett were together since you were like seven years old. Trust me: This is a good thing. We are gonna have so much fun.”

“Fun, huh?” I say, not quite thinking that’s what I’d call this.

“Oh my God, I went on the craziest date last night, I forgot to tell you. This guy picks me up for dinner, and proceeds to eat a bag of potato chips in the car on our way to the restaurant. Is that not crazy?”

“It’s certainly odd,” I admit. “Did he offer you a chip?”

“No!”

“Not very well mannered.”

“Oh, it was disgusting. There were crumbs all over the car.”

“How was the rest of the date?” I ask, hoping it gets better, if this is indicative of what’s in store for me.

“Lame,” she says. “Boring. He really didn’t talk much. It was probably good that he crunched chips on the whole drive, because I didn’t notice how freakin’ dull he was.”

“Yikes,” I offer. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I fucked him. He wasn’t that bad in bed. Kept his mouth shut, so that was good. Probably won’t see him again.”

I squint my eyes to read the passing addresses and realize I need to hang up and pay attention or I’m going to pass the office. That and the fact that this conversation is completely depressing me. I say good-bye, feeling worse than before I called, and pull in to the parking lot.

Inside the building, behind a door with a prominent No Smoking sign is a smallish lobby that positively reeks of smoke. The smell wafts from the upholstery, the carpet, the walls, and the Men’s Health and Woman’s Day magazines strewn across the faux-oak (foak?) end tables.

The receptionist’s hair is a cumulus cloud of nicotine as she addresses me for the first time. “We’re moving,” she says, unprompted.

“Where are we going?” I want to say, but I let it drop.

“I know it’s not what you’d expect, a …” And with this, she waves her hand at the lobby and her own crowded desk. But the sentence never gets an ending. So I wait mutely as she looks around in mild disgust.

Finally I say, “I’m here to see Tommy Thames. I’m Layla Foster. His ten o’clock?”

“Of course you are,” she says. “Is it ten? I’ll let him know. And since you appear curious, this is an Early American Colonial vintage law office.”

Indeed, she is correct. If décor that resembles a patriotic seven-year-old’s bedroom—complete with a bald-eagle wallpaper border and red-white-and-blue parade-drum table lamps—is a good indication of your attorney’s total focus on legal matters, the place is a resounding endorsement.

“And the smoke stench. Oh, awful, I know. From Thames senior, God rest him. Never paid attention to the no-smoking thing. It’s enough to make me think of quitting.” She looks everywhere but at me, and clearly I am not the first audience for this commentary. “When you’re leaving in another month, you try not to get too concerned with it.”

She is obviously very concerned about the possibility that I might bolt at any second, but she overcomes her misgivings long enough to pick up the phone. “Ms. Foster is in the lobby.” She hangs up. “Why don’t you take a seat. He’ll come for you in a moment. Can I get you anything?”

You can get me out of here via the nearest window, I think, but all I say is “No, thank you.” I am extremely reluctant to comply with her seating request, but something about this woman tells me she’s not to be messed with, despite her acknowledgment of the plight of anyone unfortunate enough to have to spend more than ten seconds in this ashtray of an office. So rather than obey my impulse to recast myself as a photocopier salesperson and get a quick dismissal, I sink with dread into a shabby side chair.

Then Tommy Thames calls to me. I see only half his body—he’s leaning around a corner—but I note that the resemblance to Alec Baldwin isn’t as redeeming as I’d hoped it might be. His face is fatter, ruddier, and coarser, and the hair, if possible, is slicked even farther back than it was in the ad. It’s Alec Baldwin on a morning after an all-week bender.

In Thames’s office is his chair; a desk with a phone, a closed notebook computer, one legal pad, and one plastic cup; a visitor’s chair; a print of some stern old man in a judge’s robe; and in one corner, a redwood forest of file folders that seems about to topple and kill us both at any second.

“We’re moving,” he says, as he sits down and motions for me to do the same, and I see for the first time a long stain running down his suit jacket. I wonder if he doesn’t know it’s there or he does know and doesn’t care. I decide he’s blissfully unaware, just to make myself feel better. “Remind me when the injury occurred,” he asks, as he taps his pen on his long yellow pad.

“It’s not a physical injury as much as an emotional injury,” I answer. “This is sort of a matrimonial issue.”

“Certainly these things call for some measure of respect and delicacy.”

“Right now, I’m pretty upset.”

“Oh, no—we’ll definitely take the sick bastard for everything he’s got. But we step lightly at first. Now, with all sympathies to the situation … any infidelity or physical abuse?”

“Never!” I say, as I laugh for the first time in days. Brett hitting me? Never. “It’s not like that. It’s sort of more about the relationship.”

“Not exactly my forte. Been married three times, and the third one … let’s say that one was the reason this move has been on hold so long.”

Just what you want to hear from your prospective divorce attorney.

“Hear me out,” I say. “My husband and I are, I think, getting a divorce. So that’s easy.”

He smiles. “I’m glad you think so. But you won’t by the time we get done with this. No offense or anything.”

I rub my forehead to clear the thought, close my eyes, then restart. “I mean, that’s done. Sort of. Rather, I don’t think the dispute will be complicated, because there are no kids and God knows not a whole hell of a lot to split between us. I’m not sure if he’s filed the paperwork yet. I haven’t heard.” I open my eyes again. “Anyway, there’s something trickier that I need your help with. This family that I married into: the Fosters. They’re the only real family I’ve ever had. Between growing up with them when I was in high school and then my years of being married to their son, they really became my family. I love them. They are mine, too. Practically. Truly. Legally. And dammit if I’m not going to fight for what’s mine.”

“I’m not sure I’m getting what you’re saying,” Thames admits. “We can talk about distribution of real property, sure. They have some of your belongings in their house?”

“Yes. Them,” I say. “They are my family. If I am splitting up with my husband, then so be it. But I want his family.”

“Well, you can’t have that,” Thames says.

“Why not?” I ask, and I mean it. Why not?

“Because custody is for minors. Maybe if the parents were incapacitated in some way—are they?” When he asks this, I can see he’s probably thinking about how and why they got incapacitated, and if he can get a piece of that lawsuit.

“No, they’re not. They are able-bodied and sound-minded.”

“Then you’re out of luck,” he says.

“You said on your commercial that you would stop at nothing. Nothing means nothing. Which would include not being stopped by having no previous legal precedent.”

He purses his lips and twists his mouth to the right side. I can tell I’m getting to him. And I know this guy. I saw his dream of being the next Johnnie Cochran when I spotted him on his commercial, so I’m not giving up.

“You seem like a high-profile guy,” I say.

“I don’t like to toot my own horn but … toot.” He gives a smile that makes me slightly queasy.

“You wouldn’t mind a headline, a little notoriety, some hate mail.”

“Not sure what you’re driving at,” he admits. “Well, this could potentially be a very high-profile case,” I explain.

“Hmm. Keep driving.”

“He wants a divorce? Well, I am going to file a countersuit—not just for divorce but for joint custody of his family!”

He taps his pen to his lips and shakes his head. Luckily, it’s a thoughtful and not a dismissive shake.

“A lawsuit like this is unprecedented, if not impossible,” he finally decides. “As I said, custody exists only for control of and responsibility for dependents.”

“Isn’t that the definition of the word? Things are unprecedented only until they are precedented. And I don’t care if that is an actual word any more than I care that a lawsuit like this has never been filed. I want to file anyway—if for nothing else than to make a statement.”

“Statements are expensive,” he says.

“I’m prepared to pay,” I reply, not even knowing what I’m agreeing to, thinking I’ll take out another loan if I have to. This is my destiny.

“Judges don’t like them,” he adds.

“Reporters do,” I rebut. “And I don’t think this will get ignored. A marriage certificate is a legal document. I am legally bound to that family. They are my in-laws. Imagine how groundbreaking this could be. The first case of its kind.”

I’m calculating that he doesn’t give a damn about breaking ground, except in that his firm is no well-oiled plaintiff’s machine, throwing off private plane—level contingency fees, and a breakthrough is just what his reputation needs. Even something off the wall. I see the wheels turning in his head: the press conferences, the angry denunciations of justice denied on the courthouse steps, the movie deals….

He smiles.

He’s in.