Been There, Married That, page 27
“The Penthouse therapist gave us a favorable report,” she said. “The judge can’t ignore that. I think you’ll be very pleased.”
Trevor must’ve rejected her advances. I almost burst into tears. I grabbed her hand.
“I wasn’t worried, but I was worried,” she said. “So now, the primary focus will be on finances.”
“Great! I don’t have any,” I said. “This should be a breeze.”
I barely had time to compose myself when the bailiff turned from the judge’s bench and yelled, “Anonymous v. Anonymous!” as though we were in Yankee Stadium, not a claustrophobic courtroom filled with people barely keeping their heads above water. A few folks started shuffling out. “You might want to stay for this,” I said as I weaved toward the front of the courtroom to take my seat of shame.
The bailiff eyed Trevor’s team as five attorneys, two carrying a large poster board, clambered up to the plaintiff’s table in front of the judge. It seemed a strange place to bring artwork.
“How many of them are there?” the bailiff asked. “It’s like a circus.”
“Complete with clown car,” I said and settled in.
* * *
I remember what happened in that courtroom like a movie sequence, like something that didn’t happen to me but perhaps to Sandra Bullock. Like so:
INT. COURTROOM—MIDMORNING
The air is stifling. Outside, the day promises to be a hot one. The courtroom is filled with people—men in suits, men holding their caps in their hands, shuffling their feet in their seats. Women in black and gray, clutching tissues, their lawyers speaking softly in their ears. The presiding judge is a big lady, a massive judicial structure, her dishwater hair with one curl adorning her forehead like an upside down question mark. Her nails are inches long and painted red. She spends a lot of money, time, and effort on her hair and nails. Our heroine, Agnes, sits next to her lawyer, Anne, in front of the judge. Agnes is wearing a light pink dress with a small bow at the collar, a suit jacket, and modest heels. She looks professional and in charge and the type of person who’s not afraid to wear pastels to court. She has a, dare we say, Jennifer Garner / Sandra Bullock mom-next-door quality. She looks quite young for her age (and like a really nice, decent person). Anne, her lawyer, is what you want to grow up to be; she’s attractive and commanding and looks like someone who should be on a dollar bill.
On the other side, Trevor sits with Ulger Blecks and a slew of other, smaller-in-stature attorneys. A Russian nesting doll of diminishing attorneys. Or an Attorneys “R” Us store, all sharing the same solemn, dour expressions, even though a couple are so young Agnes could’ve given birth to them. There are poster boards involved.
The judge clears her throat. The bracelets jingle and jangle. Agnes leans over to Anne.
AGNES: This is the person who’s going to be deciding the fate of my child.
ANNE: No. You decide her fate. She settles living arrangements.
Agnes leans back in her chair.
AGNES: Duly noted, counselor.
BAILIFF: Anonymous v. Anonymous. Honorable Judge Fezel presiding.
Agnes, Anne, Ulger, and his attorneys all stand, making a lot of noise.
Agnes turns and looks at the courtroom. All eyes are on them. No one’s left the room.
She turns back.
BAILIFF: Anonymous v. Anonymous, case number 46E.
The bailiff hands the judge a file.
JUDGE FEZEL (shuffling papers, looking down): We’ll start with distribution of property. Who’d like to go first?
ANNE: Ulger?
Ulger smiles.
ULGER: I’d love to.
Ulger stands and moves to the front of the table. His minions stand beside him, with their visual aids, which have not been unveiled yet. It’s all very dramatic.
ULGER, CONT: Judge Fezel, I’m sure you’re aware that the economy has shifted, and even clients like mine have experienced a change in their lifestyles. No longer can Mr. Anonymous fly private, for example, to New York, for a meeting with, say, Denzel Washington, or even to a premiere of his newest movie. The Paramount jet is no more, sold to the Russians. The Sony jet is no more; the Universal jet a memory. Producers are paying for their own tickets and sometimes hotel rooms. Per diems have dwindled. Movies have to come in, Judge Fezel, under budget and on time. The Chinese, who now own half the studios, brutally slash film budgets and studio deals and free coffee. Let me show you some statistics.
JUDGE FEZEL: Please.
ULGER (to his team): Unveil the poster boards.
Ulger’s minions drop the black covers from the boards, and Agnes can feel everyone in the rows behind her leaning forward in their seats. At least they’re getting a show, if not a Princess Leia action figure.
Graphs and columns and numbers saturate the boards.
AGNES (to Anne): I got a C, okay C-, in macroeconomics—what does this mean?
JUDGE FEZEL: Mr. Blecks, I’m anticipating that you’ll explain, in a timely manner.
ULGER: Of course, Your Honor. Here (pointing to the first board), you’ll see the effect that streaming has had on movies and television, my client’s bread and butter.
And here, you’ll see the concomitant effect on Mr. Anonymous’s income.
(The judge squints above her glasses.)
JUDGE FEZEL: Is that … how many zeros is that?
ULGER: It’s gone from seven to six.
JUDGE FEZEL: Seven zeros.
ULGER: To six, your honor.
JUDGE FEZEL: Please proceed.
* * *
Allow me, First-Person Agnes, to step in here to paraphrase the rest of Ulger Blecks’s opening statement. Ulger painted a bleak picture of Mr. Anonymous living just above the poverty line—the poverty line providing enough for five lawyers, a kid in private school, and a penthouse at Testosterone Towers. The judge watched him paint a squalid picture, his voice building, then diminishing as he waxed eloquently about the trials and tribulations of a producer finding himself at the mercy of a revolving door of studio heads and the goddamned economy.
Magic show! The master of ceremonies gestured with his cane, and another poster board was unveiled by a magician’s assistant / junior lawyer.
Voilà! A graph of Trevor’s past to future projected earnings. It had a sort of modern art feel—lines, squiggles, numbers, letters—that I thought would go well in my future dining room, if I were lucky enough to have one.
Forget HBO, Hulu, Netflix, and Chill. I turned and looked around the courtroom. Every sad, anxious, angry pair of eyes was glued to the bull in a suit banging his cane. I didn’t blame them. Mr. Anonymous’s life was fascinating to me, and I’d lived it as a guest. More like an accessory. A human being that went with everything. You could pair me with a premiere, a dinner party, a trip on a billionaire’s yacht. I went with everything until I had too many opinions and a baby, and then I went with nothing.
Anne rose to speak after Ulger collapsed next to his troops, spent; the poster boards were retired. I wanted to ask him if I could keep it as a souvenir.
Anne rebutted Ulger’s claims point by point (“current savings”) as I tuned out (“projected income”) and stared at my feet. I’d wasted years writing books when I could’ve been working on a series, going to med school even though I hated blood and chemistry—okay, law school, a trade, a skill, anything else. I’d made just enough money to buy my dad a house and pay my sister’s legal bills. That had been sufficient. Had been. Was. That was then, this is now. But I hadn’t put anything away. I was no different from any other observer in the courtroom, except no one would feel sorry for me. I didn’t blame them. I didn’t feel sorry for me. I felt ashamed.
I forced myself to watch the judge as she responded to Anne. Nails clicking. Pink lips pursed. Bangles caught in the folds of her wrists.
“Have the parties worked out custody arrangements?” the judge asked as Anne sat down, having performed sans banging and raging and poster boards.
“We are close, Your Honor,” Anne said.
“Close,” the judge said. “Sounds ominous.”
“There’s been discussion over primary versus joint custody.”
“In 99 percent of the cases in my courtroom,” the judge said, “I rule for joint.”
“May I approach the bench?” Anne said. “I have a report from the therapist who worked with Mr. and Mrs. Anonymous during parenting classes.”
“Please.”
Anne stepped forward, handed the judge the file, then returned to her seat. We waited while the judge read over the report. I leaned back in my chair to catch Trevor’s eye, as if to say, What are we doing?
I crossed my fingers and willed my knees to stop shaking.
“Ms. Anonymous,” the judge said, looking up from her bench, “what are your plans for future living arrangements?”
I was caught off guard. I looked at Anne.
“I’m not asking your lawyer; I’m asking you,” she said.
I stood up. “I haven’t exactly, um … I was planning to live in our home with our daughter until … my husband, until Trevor—”
“Mr. Anonymous,” Ulger said.
“Until Mr. Anonymous sold it.”
“Your Honor, may I speak?” Ulger wanted to talk. This wasn’t good.
“You may.”
“Mr. Anonymous has an offer on the property,” he said.
“Is he accepting it?”
“He’ll very likely accept it,” Ulger said. “It’s a short escrow. Thirty days.”
I closed my eyes. Trevor had done it. He’d sold our house. I flashed on Pep’s room, the colorful tiles in her bathroom. Her view of the hillside.
“Ms. Anonymous,” the judge said. “Did you know this would happen?”
“No, I mean, I didn’t think it would happen so quickly.”
“But you knew the house was for sale.”
“Yes.”
“And you haven’t made other arrangements for you and your daughter.”
“Not yet. I mean, I’ve been looking, but I wasn’t sure what my budget would be.”
“Where could you move in the next three weeks?”
“That depends,” I said. “On what I can pay.”
“You don’t have any savings?”
“I did,” I said. “I had saved up a lot. Then my sister kept getting arrested.”
Anne kicked my ankle.
“And I bought a house for my dad. I mean, he didn’t ask, but the drive was terrible.”
Anne kicked my ankle again.
The judge tilted her head at me, breathing heavily. I was tiring her out. My nonsensical babbling was her cardio that morning.
“Where is your father’s house?”
I blanked for a moment. “Venice, by the beach, it’s adorable. One of those old beach bungalows from the 1920s. I fixed it up; it looks great.”
“Ms. Anonymous. How big is your father’s house?”
Anne cut in. “Your Honor, may I ask why you’re posing these questions? Whatever size her father’s home is, it cannot compare to the house Mrs. Anonymous resides in currently.”
The judge gazed at her, eyebrow arched, like an animated villain.
And what happens in every animated Disney movie?
The mom dies.
“Counsel, I’m trying to determine if your client has arranged for adequate living space for her daughter.”
“Your Honor, I appreciate that; however, I must object.”
“On what basis?”
“I could move in with my dad,” I said. “No problem. At least temporarily. Pep loves it there.”
“How big is his place?”
“It’s a one … and a half … bedrooms … ish.”
“So your daughter will sleep on the floor.”
“The couch is fine,” I said. “It’s a foldout. Plenty of room.”
“Counsel,” she said. “I’ve reached my decision. The court gives temporary custody of minor child to Mr. Anonymous, subject to a hearing in three weeks when I can learn what Ms. Anonymous’s new and adequate living arrangements will be.”
I felt my knees buckle.
“Anne?” I turned. “Anne?”
For the first time, Anne looked stunned. I turned back to the judge.
“Wait. No. You can’t do that,” I said. “You don’t understand. She’s never been away from me. Except for that one time in rehab.”
“Excuse me?”
Why? Why do I have a problem keeping my truth vomit mouth shut?
“Long story,” I said.
“Your Honor,” Anne said as she gripped my arm. “If I could have a word with my client.”
I wasn’t done. “Your Honor, please. I’m begging you. I know it doesn’t seem like a long time, but Pep’s never been away from me. Except overnight for faux rehab. Please.”
“I’ve made my decision. I’ll see you back here in three weeks. I’m sure you will have figured out a proper living arrangement.”
“No, no. I can’t. I can’t.”
Anne had her hands on my waist. I pushed her away.
“Next case!” The judge lowered her gavel.
“No,” I said. “No, this isn’t right. I object!”
“Excuse me, Mrs. Anonymous,” the judge said.
“Agnes, not now, please,” Anne said. “I know it seems unfair, but you can do this.”
I stood and pointed at the judge. “You’re unfair!” I yelled. “This isn’t right!”
“Damn straight,” someone piped up from the back. Fin.
“You are out of order!” I yelled. “This isn’t right—none of this is right!”
“Hell yeah! Fight the power!” Fin said, her fist in the air. “Get the man!”
The judge banged the gavel until a barrette loosened from her hair and hopped off the bench. The bailiff jumped over the plaintiff’s table, chasing me down as I leaped to the other side.
“You’re out of order!” I yelled as the bailiff caught me and pulled my hands behind my back. “This is a sham! Your courtroom’s a sham! I pay taxes for this!” People rose in spurts, clapping and cheering. Fin was still yelling. The judge was banging her gavel, her hair in her plump red face. And Anne, poor Anne, shaking her head, her hands on the table, holding her up.
The last visual I caught as I was hauled away was Ulger shaking Trevor’s hand and patting him on the back, and Trevor’s eyes wide as disks, as though a flashlight were shining straight at his face.
22
The Writer Gets a Sentence
I hated being overdressed for the occasion, this occasion being Downtown LA Women’s Correctional Facility anteroom. I should’ve worn flats. “You’re going to break a toe,” a voice said as I kicked at the door of the tiny, puke-beige room; the door served as a trompe l’oeil of the courtroom, Ulger’s bloated face, Trevor’s hair, and the judge, her bear paws and those blood-soaked nails.
I kicked and screamed and kicked.
“They can’t hear you out there,” the man said, “but I’m in here getting a headache.”
I turned. The bailiff was hunched in the corner, his mountainous form bogarting the room, chin docked in his baseball mitt hands.
“Sorry,” I said. “I need to throw up.”
“Sure.” He kicked a wastebasket toward me. I bent over and expelled Gabriela’s breakfast and the last of my pride.
“Can I … I need to wipe my mouth.” My hands were cuffed behind me. I couldn’t remember when they’d slipped on the cuffs. A wave of embarrassment and nausea gripped my stomach. I threw up again.
“Sure thing,” he said. He took a Kleenex out of his pocket. “It’s unused. I have allergies.”
“Can you undo me?”
“You’re not a danger to yourself and others, correct?” he asked. I nodded, and he reached over to unlock the cuffs.
“You’re no longer a danger to that door?” he asked, flashing a dimple. I could see why he never smiled in court; that dimple destroyed his credibility. On the other hand, that dimple could easily disarm any criminal.
Like myself.
“I’m a danger to common sense,” I said, wiping my mouth with the Kleenex, stained red with the lipstick I’d tried this morning. Maybe I could swallow this soiled ball of snot, vomit, and lipstick and suffocate myself.
“I’ve seen a lot of people lose it in there,” he said. “Emotions run high in that courtroom. It’s what I call ‘emotionally charged,’ that room. Me, personally, I’m never getting divorced.”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” I said. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Easy. You’re going to cooperate with the judge,” he said. “You’re going to find yourself a place. A nice place for you and your daughter.”
“I don’t know if I can find a nice place.”
“Of course you can,” he said.
“How can you be sure?” I asked.
“You’re white,” he said. “You’re wearing expensive shoes that you can afford to ruin on that door. You’re way ahead of the game.”
“I see your point,” I said as I slunk to the floor. “That judge. She’s horrible.”
“She’s tough but fair,” he said. “You know how I know? Everyone hates her.”
I shook my head, swallowing bile.
“Mr. Anonymous loves her, I’m sure. I’m sure he wants to buy her lunch, produce her life story,” I said. “How did I ever marry that motherfucker? How? All he cares about is winning. He doesn’t give a shit about our child. He doesn’t want to raise her. He can’t. He has to be raised himself!”
The bailiff leaned back, his eyebrow cocked. His shoes reflected the fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling.
“You chose him, my dear,” he said, weary. I got the feeling he’d had this conversation many times.
“I sure did,” I said. “My fucking mistake. For which I’ll be paying the rest of my life.”
“I know one thing, for sure,” he said, leaning forward, his hands on his knees. He looked me in the eye. “Heroes don’t marry zeros.”
Holy ouch, Batman.
