Jack With a Twist bm-2 Page 23

  “Well, I’m saying that you can just owe me,” he says, and then shrugs. “I could use a lawyer on retainer. My usual guy’s been giving me trouble lately.”

  “Um, no, thank you,” I say.

  A lawyer for the mob? Somehow I just know that when my parents sent me to law school, this was not what they had in mind. And at any rate, who really remembers the lawyer in The Godfather? I think I’d actually rather be Jimmy Caan, if anything. Not that I want to be on retainer for a mobster in any capacity. And more importantly, does this mean that Jay’s been promoted from soldier? I didn’t hear anything about that from my father. Is there, like, a Facebook for the Five Families you can look stuff like this up on?

  “Why wouldn’t you want to be my lawyer?” he asks. “I can introduce you to friends. Drum up some business.”

  Great, I can just see it now in my law school’s alumni newsletter:

  Brooke Miller—promoted to consigliere of a prominent New York City crime family. Next year, she’s hoping to make underboss. We’ve got our fingers crossed for you, Brooke!

  “I don’t—” I say, only to be interrupted by Jay.

  “And I’ll be your photographer on retainer,” he says. Visions of beautiful Kennedy-like portraits of me and my family for the rest of my life fill my head…. Only, I’m not going to have family any time soon, since I just called off my wedding. “So, we’ve got a deal?”

  “No. No deal.”

  “Great,” he says. “I’ll be in touch, then. And you do the same.”

  “There’s nothing to be in touch about,” I say. “I don’t need any pictures and I certainly won’t have any dirt on Monique and Jean Luc.”

  “Just keep your ear to the ground,” he says, standing up and putting his fedora back on his head. “You never know what might happen. Your life can change in an instant. You know who told me that?”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. John Gotti.”

  Why did I even bother to ask?

  27

  “So, counselors,” Judge Martin says, leaning back in his big leather chair, “are we ready to settle?”

  “My client is not, your honor,” I say, and Jack says the same. We’re both in Judge Martin’s chambers for our final discovery conference—the last conference before the trial is set to begin—and it’s taking all of my energy to not look at Jack. Even Miranda Foxley isn’t there to break up the tension, having been unceremoniously shipped over the George Washington Bridge to a massive document production in a warehouse in Parsippany after she was discovered with the head of the bankruptcy department. Gilson, Hecht is notoriously scandal-averse, and to hear Vanessa tell it, they had Miranda out of her office and knee-deep in documents for a most unglamorous client, Toilet-Cleen, before word of the scandal had even reached the seventeenth-floor real estate department. They didn’t want to fire her, since the only thing worse than a public scandal was a sexual harassment lawsuit, so instead, they sent her to the one place where even Column Five wouldn’t deign to go—New Jersey.

  “You know these cases don’t go to trial,” Judge Martin says, rubbing his forehead with his hand. “So, what are we doing here?”

  “My client misjudged the way her husband would treat her in this matter,” I say, clearing my throat. “She thought that they’d be able to handle this small business matter amicably.”

  “My client never thought his wife would let a simple misunderstanding spin out of control like this,” Jack says. I can feel his eyes burning into me, but I refuse to turn and face him. One look at those baby blues might just melt me, and I want to stay strong.

  “My client is very serious about her business, Your Honor,” I say, as Judge Martin strokes his chin and regards me. “She is very serious about business.”

  “That’s become increasingly clear to me,” Jack says. “I mean, to my client.”

  “My client didn’t want it to come to this either, but she’s learning things about her husband that she really didn’t know.”

  “Such as?” Judge Martin asks.

  “He wasn’t able to stand up for her in the way that she needed him to. I mean, stand up for the company, of course. So, she really thinks it’s best that they dissolve their partnership now, before they get hurt even more. The shareholders, I mean.”

  “I still think that we can come to some sort of agreement here, though,” Judge Martin says. “Isn’t there some way we can meet in the middle?”

  “I’m sorry, Your Honor,” I say, shaking my head, “it’s just too late for that.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that, sweetheart,” Judge Martin says, looking at me as if I were his own daughter.

  “I am, too, Brooke,” Jack says, and I can see out of the corner of my eye that he’s about to try to grab my hand. Not knowing what else to do to stop him from taking my hand, I lean to the side and begin fishing in my briefcase for my day planner.

  “Then, we set a date,” Judge Martin says, looking at Jack.

  Set a date. Judge Martin wants Jack and I to set a date. Sure, it’s for a trial, but I can’t help but think about how those words had such different meaning to us just months ago. When Jack and I first set a date, it was the beginning of our lives together. Now, we’re setting a date to end it, once and for all.

  Jack doesn’t say a word. I can see him staring straight ahead at Judge Martin out of the corner of my eye.

  “I’m going to schedule this for one day,” Judge Martin says, “this shouldn’t take more than one day, should it?”

  “No,” Jack and I say in unison.

  “One day should be perfectly sufficient,” I then add.

  Judge Martin picks up his calendar, the large red leather book that sits on the edge of his desk, and flips through it.

  “Next week’s out, since we’ve got the Federal Bar Council luncheon,” he says. He pauses for a moment and looks up at us. “Honoring Judge Solomon. I assume you’ll both be there?”

  Jack nods—of course he’ll be at a Federal Bar Council luncheon honoring his own father—but I’m already formulating ways to get out of it, so I do a sort of yes/no nod to stay noncommittal.

  “Then we’ll do the week after next,” Judge Martin says, flipping through the book’s massive pages until he hits a Tuesday. “The week after next on Tuesday. I never like to start a trial on a Monday.”

  “That’s fine,” I say.

  “Thank you, Judge,” Jack says.

  Jack and I stand to shake Judge Martin’s hand and then leave chambers together. It kills me that he holds the door open for me as we walk out. I thank him so quietly, it’s practically under my breath, and I walk briskly toward the elevators.

  “So, there’s no hope of settlement?” Jack asks, after he pushes the button for the elevator and stands next to me.

  “No, Jackie, I’m sorry,” I say, looking down at my feet.

  “We really need to settle this.” He gently grabs my arm.

  The elevator doors open with a slight ping and I release my arm from his grip and walk in. Other lawyers are already inside, all facing front, and I get in and do the same.

  “You don’t answer my calls,” Jack says, “and you’re never there when I come by.”

  “I’m busy, Jack.”

  “We need to talk,” Jack whispers to me.

  “There’s nothing to talk about.” I’m whispering, too.

  “Yes, there is.”

  “Anything you want to say to me,” I turn to him, “you could have said in Judge Martin’s chambers.”

  “It’s not about the case—” as the elevator doors open to the lobby and I rush to get out “—it’s about us,” Jack says, walking quickly to catch up to me.

  “Still nothing to discuss, Jackie,” I stop dead in my tracks.

  “I made a mistake. But you’ve made mistakes, too, before, you know. And I’ve always forgiven you.”

  “It’s not just one mistake, Jack,” I say. “We don’t even know each other. I don’t know you. And I can’t marry a m
an I don’t know.”

  “What are you talking about? Of course you know me. We’ve known each other for six years. How can you say you don’t know me?”

  “No, Jack,” I say, shaking my head. “No. The way you litigated against me, the way you let your family treat mine…I don’t know you at all.”

  “Of course you know me.” He takes my hand and holds it gently. “Let me give you a ride back to your office so that we can talk.”

  “I’ve got a car waiting outside to take me back to the office,” I say, releasing my hand from his grasp. “There is one thing I wanted to give you, though. That I thought you’d want back.”

  I take his grandmother’s engagement ring from out of my purse and place it in his hand. I can’t even bring my eyes up to meet his as I rush off to the town car idling outside the courthouse.

  28

  “Noah wants to see you in his office,” my assistant announces, and my hands freeze on my keyboard. I can’t type another word of the memo I’m working on because I know what’s about to happen. Usually when Noah wants to see you, he just picks up his phone and calls you directly. When Noah calls your assistant to summon you, you can rest assured that you are in pretty big trouble.

  “So,” my assistant says as I sail by her, “what can you tell me about that wedding videographer of yours?”

  “Nothing,” I say, furrowing my brow to show my disapproval of the mere mention of him. “You should probably stay away from him.”

  “Is he single?” she asks, twirling a stray curl around her index finger.

  I consider telling her the truth—that I really have no idea whether or not Jay is single. But then I realize that I’ve just told a twenty-two-year old girl to “stay away” from a guy she’s got her eye on, and in doing so, I’ve just about ensured that she’ll go after him. Full guns blazing. So, in an effort to protect my assistant’s life, I tell her that Jay’s married. I just hope, for her own personal safety, that she doesn’t have the same view on married men as Miranda Foxley.

  As I rush down the hall to Noah’s office, I take a quick stop into the ladies’ room to make sure I’m presentable. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, straightening my skirt and smoothing back my hair, I can’t help but remember how nervous I was during my first week at SGR. I was acutely aware of the fact that I’d never worked anywhere but Gilson, Hecht before, so starting work at SGR was a whole new world for me. I was used to Gilson, Hecht’s mammoth offices—encompassing 17 floors of their building at 425 Park Avenue—and was getting adjusted to life at a firm that only had one floor of offices. I was just beginning to find my way around, figuring out where the mail room was, the file room, and, of course, the bathrooms. Which wasn’t as easy as you may think when you’re used to an office with the same exact floor plan on all seventeen floors.

  I remember the day, even, that it happened—it was a Thursday. On my way to the ladies’ room, I bumped into Manny, the head of the file room. As he saw me walking toward the bathroom, he called out “Wrong one!” I had no idea what he was talking about—maybe this was some cool new street slang that I hadn’t heard of? So, I did what any tragically un-hip person would do—I called back “Wrong one!” and smiled. I may have even given him the thumbs-up, too, I can’t really recall. I slipped into the ladies’ room and checked myself out in the mirror, proud that I was beginning to fit in at my new office. I smiled at my reflection and then retreated to use the bathroom. Only, when I turned around, I saw a row of urinals. Funny, I thought, the ladies’ room has urinals? And then it hit me—wrong one. As in, wrong bathroom. Not the ladies’ room. I rushed out, only to find Manny waiting outside for me. We laughed hysterically and it became our inside joke. Any time I’d get nervous like I was that first week at SGR, Manny and I would call out to each other, “Wrong one!”

  As I give my front teeth one final check for lipstick and smooth down the front of my skirt, I silently tell myself “Wrong one.” Without Manny there to laugh with me, though, it doesn’t have the desired effect.

  “You wanted to see me?” I ask Noah, standing in his doorway. By not walking in and not committing myself fully to the idea of walking into his office, I’m secretly hoping that this will all be a misunderstanding, that he doesn’t really want to see me, but I know that that’s not the case. I know what this is about.

  “Have a seat,” Noah says, and I walk into his office and sit down on one of his visitors’ chairs. “I noticed you’ve got a personal day for next Wednesday.”

  “Yes,” I say, “I have some things that I need to tend to, so I figured I’d just take the day.”

  “Take Tuesday then,” Noah says, staring me down.

  “I can’t,” I say, looking out his window. “I need to take Wednesday.”

  “Thursday?”

  “Noah, I can’t—”

  “Brooke,” Noah says.

  “I’ve made up my mind,” I tell Noah. “I’m not going to the Federal Bar Council luncheon.”

  “You have to go. The firm bought a table. Everyone’s going.”

  Noah’s office is one of the corner offices—all three of the named partners have them—and its enormous windows overlook Third Avenue. I glance down at the nameplate that sits at the end of his desk which announces his full name in bold letters set in gold: Noah Fisher Goldberg, and then look back up at him.

  “I can’t go to this luncheon,” I say, “they’re honoring Jack’s father. I just can’t do it.”

  “Brooke—” Noah begins to answer.

  “You can’t honestly expect me to go,” I say, interrupting his train of thought. “After all that’s happened.”

  “There are going to be over a thousand lawyers there, and anyone who is anyone in the New York legal community will be there. Of course I expect you to go.”

  “Noah—” I begin to say, but this time, he’s the one who cuts me off.

  “You won’t even see Jack there.”

  “He’s giving the keynote address,” I say, pointing for effect to the invitation that’s tacked onto Noah’s bulletin board. It’s a gorgeous invitation—ivory with brown lettering on heavy cardstock:

  Please join us as the Federal Bar Council honors one of its most esteemed members, the Honorable Edward Solomon, Circuit Court Judge for the United States Court of Appeals for The Third Circuit

  Keynote address to be presented by Jack Solomon, Esq.

  12 noon

  The Waldorf-Astoria Hotel

  “Can you just trust me on this one?” Noah asks. “You didn’t think that you could take the lead on the Monique case, but I pushed you and you did, and now look at how well that’s going. You’re doing a great job, and Monique absolutely loves you. You’ve earned this firm a client for life.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” I say. “I’m finally choosing life over work and I’m not going to go to this thing simply to please you. I’m sorry, but I’m done. You can fire me if you want, but I need to do what’s right for me right now.”

  “Life over work? I didn’t think that was a choice I ever forced you to make.”

  “I worked around the clock on the Monique litigation and it ruined my relationship. I’m not sacrificing my life for this firm any more. It’s time for me to have a life.”

  “But that’s what I’m trying to say to you, Brooke,” he says, getting up from his chair and coming around his desk to sit on one of the visitor chairs beside me. When I was at Gilson, Hecht, any time a partner came out from around his desk to sit next to me on a visitors’ chair, I always got an immediate sense of panic. My fight-or-flight instinct would kick in and I’d find myself perched on the edge of my seat, ready to make a quick getaway at a moment’s notice.

  But sitting next to Noah is different. As I look into his enormous, brown, puppy-dog eyes, I can see that he really does care for me. He is giving me honest-to-goodness advice, as if I were his little sister. We’re talking friend to friend, not partner to associate.

  “Listen to
me, Brooke. Go to this luncheon. If you miss it, you’ll never get back together with Jack, and the fact is that you guys belong together.”

  “No,” I say, looking down at my hands, “that’s just it. We don’t belong together. Not by a long shot.”

  “Yes,” he says, “you do. And everyone around you can see it. Half of the reason I hired you was because Dani Lewis over at Gilson, Hecht told me about the two of you at dinner one night. She said that you guys were in love and that firm policy would make one of you leave Gilson, Hecht. I actually wanted Jack to come, but Dani Lewis wouldn’t even hear of me recruiting him, and since we’re old friends from law school, I didn’t even try. So we interviewed you and Rosalyn fell in love with you the minute you walked through the door. It was just a bonus that you happened to be a great lawyer, too.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?” I say.

  “You should be with Jack,” he says, “everyone knows it. I just don’t know why you don’t.”

  Column Five

  You didn’t hear it from us…

  ARE Monique de Vouvray and Jean Luc Renault headed for a reconciliation?

  Insiders say that Renault’s moved back into their shared Upper East Side brownstone and things are better than ever for the glamorous couple.

  But if things are so perfect with the two, then why have they fired their entire house staff of twenty-two?

  29

  What do you call a ballroom filled with thousands of lawyers and judges?

  A: The Federal Bar Council Luncheon honoring the Honorable Edward Solomon.

  B: My worst nightmare.

  C: [Insert your own cheesy lawyer joke here.]

  Enormous signs announcing the Federal Bar Council Luncheon point us toward the Grand Ballroom of the Waldorf-Astoria, where Noah is forcing me to eat lunch today against my will. You can spare me the free salad and piece of catering-hall salmon. I, myself, have never wanted to work through a lunch before so badly in my life.