Page 108 of Love Is an Art
I smile at him, so happy that I can’t be bothered by his petty remarks. “You’re right. But it does give me a very satisfied feeling and courtroom experience, so it has its benefits.”
He sips his coffee. No response.
Shouldn’t I stay at the firm? The Comidas en Canasta case was fun. I’d helped Roberto, Ana, Valeria, and the woman who’d lost her job. And Zeke. There is still a personal element in corporate law. Isn’t pro bono on the side enough?
I don’t know.
“Why did you become a lawyer?” I ask.
“It seemed intellectually challenging and paid well.”
The elevator arrives. We get in and each press our floor. He stands stiffly next to me as the elevator fills up with associates.
“I was commended for having the most billable hours this past month.” He turns, looking down at me. “Maybe you were second?”
“Maybe.” So my trip to Mexico City did not produce enough billables. Tom worked more. If only I didn’t need sleep. And this month is going to be even less with all the time I’m spending on Taylor’s case. And then there’s catching Jurgen. I hope that case turns out like this one, and we’re not only right that Jurgen is scamming artists, but we get the evidence to prove it.
It’s fine. I relax my face muscles so Tom can’t see he’s getting me stressed.
My floor is first, so I get off and walk down the hallway to my office.Shake it off.I was so happy about my case, and then Tom succeeded in riling me. He definitely knows how to do that.
I text Jurgen and suggest we meet soon.
But now I can pull together my list of witnesses and prepare my direct and my cross-examination. That’s always exciting. And if I get done quickly enough, maybe Zeke will be free for dinner.
I submit my affidavit of my client’s evidence showing that she lived there prior to her military service (all her mail, her school records, her voting record showing this apartment as her primary residence) and then her military service. We can definitely prove this part of the case. Without any other evidence, it’s up to the judge whether to grant it to the “spouse” or the child, and usually the legal spouse would win.
We’ll find out at the hearing this week.
I meet Taylor, Mrs. Humming, and Mr. O’Brien outside 111 Centre Street, where the Manhattan housing court is located.
As we walk into the courtroom, Mr. Howard is there, chatting up the transcribing typist. His lawyer calls him over. Ken is at our table, already conferring with a clerk about technology. I nod hello to opposing counsel. I take my seat at our table, Taylor next to me.
Mr. Howard comes over and says to my client, “I’m sorry about your grandma’s death. And I want you to know that I’m happy to have you come by and pick up whatever keepsakes you want. Other than this afghan she knitted for me. Once this is over. No hard feelings about your contesting this.”
Taylor raises an eyebrow. “We’ll see how this plays out. But if Grandma knitted an afghan for you, I’m willing to give that to you.”
Stalemate.
Their side presents their evidence first. Mr. Howard takes the stand and swears to tell the truth. He explains how they commingled financial accounts with his depositing his work check into her bank account. He produces a cable bill in his name for the apartment. The utilities had all remained in her name.
He comes across as earnest and likable. Not the man I met in the deli. But he’s someone who relies on his charm, so I’m not surprised.
Still, it means I have to be gentle at first in case the judge likes him.
Now it’s my turn for cross. Taylor tenses.
I stand and cross over to him, my clipboard with my questions on it in hand.
“You testified that you deposited your checks in Ms. Robinson’s account,” I say.
“I did. And the bank account shows that.”
“But you also withdrew all of that money?”
“To pay expenses.”
“You testified that you and Ms. Robinson were in a romantic relationship?”
