moment.”
“I’ll call you a cab whenever you want.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
F or initial client conferences, Oscar always put on his dark jacket and straightened his tie. It was important to set the tone, and a lawyerin a black suit meant power, knowledge, and authority. Oscar firmly believed the image also conveyed the message that he did not work cheap, though he usually did.
He pored over the proposed property settlement, frowning as if it had been drafted by a couple of idiots. The Flanders were on the other side of his desk. They occasionally glanced around to take in the Ego Wall, a potpourri of framed photos showing Mr. Finley grinning and shaking hands with unknown celebrities, and framed certificates purporting to show that Mr. Finley was highly trained and skilled, and a few plaques that were clear proof he had been justly recognized over the years. The other walls were lined with shelves packed with thick, somber law books and treatises, more proof still that Mr. Finley knew his stuff.
“What’s the value of the house?” he asked without taking his eyes off the agreement.
“Around two-fifty,” Mr. Flander replied.
“I think it’s more,” Mrs. Flander added.
“This is not a good time to be selling a house,” Oscar said wisely, though every homeowner in America knew the market was weak. More silence as the wise man studied their work.
He lowered the papers and peered over his drugstore reading glasses into the expectant eyes of Mrs. Flander. “You’re getting the washer and dryer, along with the microwave, treadmill, and flat-screen television?”
“Well, yes.”
“In fact, you’re getting probably 80 percent of the household furnishings, right?”
“I suppose. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing, except he’s getting most of the cash.”
“I think it’s fair,” said Mr. Flander.
“I’m sure you do.”
“Do you think it’s fair?” she asked.
Oscar shrugged as if it weren’t his business. “Pretty typical, I’d say. But cash is more important than a trainload of used furniture. You’llprobably move into an apartment, something much smaller, and you won’t have enough room for all your old stuff. He, on the other hand, has money in the bank.”
She shot a hard look at her soon-to-be-ex-husband. Oscar hammered away. “And your car is three years older, so you’re getting the old car and the old furniture.”
“It was his idea,” she said.
“It was not. We agreed.”
“You wanted the IRA account and the newer car.”
“That’s because it’s always been my car.”
“And that’s because you’ve always had the nicer car.”
“That’s not true, Barbara. Don’t start exaggerating like you always do, okay?”
Louder, Barbara responded, “And don’t you start lying in front of the lawyer, Cal. We agreed we would come here, tell the truth, and not fight in front of the lawyer. Didn’t we?”
“Oh, sure, but how can you sit there and say I’ve always had the nicer car? Have you forgotten the Toyota Camry?”
“Good God, Cal, that was twenty years ago.”
“Still counts.”
“Well, yes, I remember it, and I remember the day you wrecked it.”
Rochelle heard the voices and smiled to herself. She turned a page of her paperback. AC, asleep beside her, suddenly rose to his feet and began a low growl. Rochelle looked at him, then slowly got up and walked to a window. She adjusted the blinds to give herself a view, then she heard it—the distant wail of a siren. As it grew louder, AC’s growl also picked up the volume.
Oscar was also at a window, casually looking at the intersection in the distance, hoping for a glimpse of the ambulance. It was a habit too hard to break, not that he really wanted to stop. He, along with Wally and now Rochelle and perhaps thousands of lawyers in the city, couldn’t suppress a rush of adrenaline at the sound of an approaching ambulance. And the sight of one flying down the street always made him
“I’ll call you a cab whenever you want.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
F or initial client conferences, Oscar always put on his dark jacket and straightened his tie. It was important to set the tone, and a lawyerin a black suit meant power, knowledge, and authority. Oscar firmly believed the image also conveyed the message that he did not work cheap, though he usually did.
He pored over the proposed property settlement, frowning as if it had been drafted by a couple of idiots. The Flanders were on the other side of his desk. They occasionally glanced around to take in the Ego Wall, a potpourri of framed photos showing Mr. Finley grinning and shaking hands with unknown celebrities, and framed certificates purporting to show that Mr. Finley was highly trained and skilled, and a few plaques that were clear proof he had been justly recognized over the years. The other walls were lined with shelves packed with thick, somber law books and treatises, more proof still that Mr. Finley knew his stuff.
“What’s the value of the house?” he asked without taking his eyes off the agreement.
“Around two-fifty,” Mr. Flander replied.
“I think it’s more,” Mrs. Flander added.
“This is not a good time to be selling a house,” Oscar said wisely, though every homeowner in America knew the market was weak. More silence as the wise man studied their work.
He lowered the papers and peered over his drugstore reading glasses into the expectant eyes of Mrs. Flander. “You’re getting the washer and dryer, along with the microwave, treadmill, and flat-screen television?”
“Well, yes.”
“In fact, you’re getting probably 80 percent of the household furnishings, right?”
“I suppose. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing, except he’s getting most of the cash.”
“I think it’s fair,” said Mr. Flander.
“I’m sure you do.”
“Do you think it’s fair?” she asked.
Oscar shrugged as if it weren’t his business. “Pretty typical, I’d say. But cash is more important than a trainload of used furniture. You’llprobably move into an apartment, something much smaller, and you won’t have enough room for all your old stuff. He, on the other hand, has money in the bank.”
She shot a hard look at her soon-to-be-ex-husband. Oscar hammered away. “And your car is three years older, so you’re getting the old car and the old furniture.”
“It was his idea,” she said.
“It was not. We agreed.”
“You wanted the IRA account and the newer car.”
“That’s because it’s always been my car.”
“And that’s because you’ve always had the nicer car.”
“That’s not true, Barbara. Don’t start exaggerating like you always do, okay?”
Louder, Barbara responded, “And don’t you start lying in front of the lawyer, Cal. We agreed we would come here, tell the truth, and not fight in front of the lawyer. Didn’t we?”
“Oh, sure, but how can you sit there and say I’ve always had the nicer car? Have you forgotten the Toyota Camry?”
“Good God, Cal, that was twenty years ago.”
“Still counts.”
“Well, yes, I remember it, and I remember the day you wrecked it.”
Rochelle heard the voices and smiled to herself. She turned a page of her paperback. AC, asleep beside her, suddenly rose to his feet and began a low growl. Rochelle looked at him, then slowly got up and walked to a window. She adjusted the blinds to give herself a view, then she heard it—the distant wail of a siren. As it grew louder, AC’s growl also picked up the volume.
Oscar was also at a window, casually looking at the intersection in the distance, hoping for a glimpse of the ambulance. It was a habit too hard to break, not that he really wanted to stop. He, along with Wally and now Rochelle and perhaps thousands of lawyers in the city, couldn’t suppress a rush of adrenaline at the sound of an approaching ambulance. And the sight of one flying down the street always made him
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