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Authors: Ayelet Waldman
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kayaks and his belly jutted so far out in front of him that he had to extend hisham hock of an arm way out past it to reach the gong that served us as a doorbell.
“Stanley?” I said. “Stanley, what the hell are you doing here?”
“Morning, Juliet.”
“Stanley, please tell me this is a social call. Please tell me that you’re dropping by to thank me for the Dodgers tickets Al gave you last season. Please do
not
tell me you are standing on my front steps because you are about to serve me with a subpoena.”
“No, Juliet. I’m not serving you.”
“Thank God. Because that is
all
I need.”
“I’m serving your husband. Is Peter home?”
I glared at him. Then I called over my shoulder, “Hey, Peter, remember I told you about that process server Al and I refer business to sometimes? That old
friend
of Al’s from when he was on the force?”
Peter grumbled something unintelligible.
“Well, you’d better come out here because he’s got a little present for you.”
“What?”
Peter came flying through the front hall, his ratty old fleece bathrobe flying out behind him like a Batman cape. He grabbed the papers from Stanley.
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t come in, Juliet,”Stanley said. “I’d prefer if my first visit to your home were under different circumstances.”
“I am
so
not asking you in, Stanley.”
“I didn’t remember until I saw you standing there that your husband’s name was Peter Wyeth. Otherwise I would have called. I sure would have. You know I would have.”
I sighed. “You want a cup of coffee?”
“No, thank you. Excuse me, Mr. Peter Wyeth?”
“What? What?” Peter said.
“You’ve been served, sir.”
“He knows he’s been served, Stanley.”
“I am aware that he knows that, Juliet. But you know I’ve got to verify service for the record.”
I shook my head. “You’re going to be picking up the lunch tab next time, Stanley.”
“I am certainly aware of that, yes I am.”
“See you later, Stanley.”
“Good-bye now. Have a good day, Mr. Wyeth.”
I watched Stanley heave his massive body down the path to the canary-yellow Cadillac DeVille he has been driving for as long as Al has known him, and probably for a lot longer than that. When I turned back to my husband he was holding the wad of stapled documents out to me with a trembling hand.
“I’m being sued!”
“I know.”
“What do you mean you know? How did you know?”
“Calm down, honey. It’s not like Stanley works for Federal Express. He’s a process server. Ergo, you’re being sued. Who’s suing you?”
“A maniac! A maniac I’ve never met. I can’t make heads or tails of this. Read it. Read it right now and tell me what the hell is going on.”
Having a criminal defense lawyer for a spouse gives a person the opportunity to see the justice system in all its baroque and bureaucratic glory. Before he met me, Peter did not understand how long a case can drag out, how much is involved in a trial, how much can be at stake. Civil litigation is hardly the same as criminal: still, watching me prepare obscurely worded motions dealing with barely comprehensible concepts like habeas corpus, forfeiture, motions for preliminary injunction, and the like, convinced Peter that the American legal system is far more like the absurdly haphazard Court of Chancery of Charles Dickens’s
Bleak House
than it is like the home of reason and logic that we all learned about in grade school.
I took the complaint out of his hands and scanned it quickly. “Okay, first of all, it’s not just you who’s being sued. It’s you and your production company and the studio. So that’s nice. You’ve got some company. Not to mention indemnification.”
“But what is this crackpot claiming?”
I flipped the pages, walking back to the kitchen with Peter trailing behind me. “Hmm.”
“‘Hmm’?” he shouted.
“You’re going to wake the baby.” After nursing pretty much nonstop from five to six in
“Stanley?” I said. “Stanley, what the hell are you doing here?”
“Morning, Juliet.”
“Stanley, please tell me this is a social call. Please tell me that you’re dropping by to thank me for the Dodgers tickets Al gave you last season. Please do
not
tell me you are standing on my front steps because you are about to serve me with a subpoena.”
“No, Juliet. I’m not serving you.”
“Thank God. Because that is
all
I need.”
“I’m serving your husband. Is Peter home?”
I glared at him. Then I called over my shoulder, “Hey, Peter, remember I told you about that process server Al and I refer business to sometimes? That old
friend
of Al’s from when he was on the force?”
Peter grumbled something unintelligible.
“Well, you’d better come out here because he’s got a little present for you.”
“What?”
Peter came flying through the front hall, his ratty old fleece bathrobe flying out behind him like a Batman cape. He grabbed the papers from Stanley.
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t come in, Juliet,”Stanley said. “I’d prefer if my first visit to your home were under different circumstances.”
“I am
so
not asking you in, Stanley.”
“I didn’t remember until I saw you standing there that your husband’s name was Peter Wyeth. Otherwise I would have called. I sure would have. You know I would have.”
I sighed. “You want a cup of coffee?”
“No, thank you. Excuse me, Mr. Peter Wyeth?”
“What? What?” Peter said.
“You’ve been served, sir.”
“He knows he’s been served, Stanley.”
“I am aware that he knows that, Juliet. But you know I’ve got to verify service for the record.”
I shook my head. “You’re going to be picking up the lunch tab next time, Stanley.”
“I am certainly aware of that, yes I am.”
“See you later, Stanley.”
“Good-bye now. Have a good day, Mr. Wyeth.”
I watched Stanley heave his massive body down the path to the canary-yellow Cadillac DeVille he has been driving for as long as Al has known him, and probably for a lot longer than that. When I turned back to my husband he was holding the wad of stapled documents out to me with a trembling hand.
“I’m being sued!”
“I know.”
“What do you mean you know? How did you know?”
“Calm down, honey. It’s not like Stanley works for Federal Express. He’s a process server. Ergo, you’re being sued. Who’s suing you?”
“A maniac! A maniac I’ve never met. I can’t make heads or tails of this. Read it. Read it right now and tell me what the hell is going on.”
Having a criminal defense lawyer for a spouse gives a person the opportunity to see the justice system in all its baroque and bureaucratic glory. Before he met me, Peter did not understand how long a case can drag out, how much is involved in a trial, how much can be at stake. Civil litigation is hardly the same as criminal: still, watching me prepare obscurely worded motions dealing with barely comprehensible concepts like habeas corpus, forfeiture, motions for preliminary injunction, and the like, convinced Peter that the American legal system is far more like the absurdly haphazard Court of Chancery of Charles Dickens’s
Bleak House
than it is like the home of reason and logic that we all learned about in grade school.
I took the complaint out of his hands and scanned it quickly. “Okay, first of all, it’s not just you who’s being sued. It’s you and your production company and the studio. So that’s nice. You’ve got some company. Not to mention indemnification.”
“But what is this crackpot claiming?”
I flipped the pages, walking back to the kitchen with Peter trailing behind me. “Hmm.”
“‘Hmm’?” he shouted.
“You’re going to wake the baby.” After nursing pretty much nonstop from five to six in
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