Authors: James Scott Bell
know what New York CPR is, don’t you?”
I shook my head.
Pfeffer looked down at an imaginary victim. “GET UP OR
YOU’RE GONNA DIE!”
When Pfeffer laughed, I forced a little chuckle. Was this gal
lows humor?
“Look,” he said. “Here’s the harsh reality. Eighty-five percent
of the time, the mother is awarded physical custody of the child.” “Eighty-five?”
Pfeffer nodded. “Now I ask you, are 85 percent of the fathers
out there bad? The way the courts go about it, it seems so. Judges
must have a rubber stamp marked MOM on the bench.” “Isn’t there something anybody can do?”
“We’re trying. Trying for legislation in the courts to get rid of
the prejudice against fathers.”
“Any luck?
“It’s tough. You got some very powerful groups opposed to
changing the system.”
“Like who?”
“National Organization for Women, various trial lawyers’ associations. I can see why the lawyers don’t want to change it. Child custody fights are a cash cow. You know what happens if a mother
keeps a child away from a father with visitation rights?” “What?”
“Zip. Nada. Unless the father goes back to court. Cops don’t
care. Social services don’t care. Dad has to shell out thousands
more bucks to a lawyer, wait for a court date. So yeah, the lawyers
always win in the end, don’t they?”
“Great system.”
“What I don’t get is NOW’s opposition. I mean, whenever you
stick it to a father, you’re also sticking it to other women.” “How?”
“Grandma. Aunts. Sisters. All people the child has formed
relationships with. They’re gone from the child’s life. How is that
good?”
“This sounds like a horror story.”
”You don’t know the half of it. Ever heard of a guy named Derrick Brainard?”
“No.”
“Shot himself outside the San Diego courthouse earlier this
year. He shouted his last words, ‘You did this to me.’ In his hand
he had an order denying custody.”
“Sounds like he wasn’t too stable.”
The wooden chair creaked as Joe Pfeffer leaned forward and
put his elbows on the desk. “Tip of the iceberg, my friend. Surgeon
General says suicide is the eighth leading cause of death in
America.”
“But what does that have to do with—”
“Men are now four times more likely to kill themselves.” “Why is that?”
“Guy at U.C. Riverside did a study. The rise coincides with the
increase in divorce and the discrimination of family law courts
against dads.”
“There’s a study on this?”
“Oh yeah. And the stories we get.” Pfeffer dug around in the
papers on his desk, pulled out a sheet. “Guy in the Valley gassed
himself because he was denied access to his kids. A cop in New
York hanged himself because his ex-wife charged him with child
abuse, and the court bought it. After the guy died they found out
the ex-wife was lying all along.”
“Man—” My gut, which Pfeffer had warned me about, was
feeling punched.
“See, not only are fathers being denied custody, they also have
to pony up alimony, even if the wife lives with someone and is being
supported.”
Even if the wife has some rich, powerful director paying for her
every whim?
“There’s even a group on Yahoo,” Pfeffer said, “called Exhusband Is Now My Slave. All sorts of advice from ex-wives on how
they stuck it to their former spouse and get away with it.” “You’re kidding.”
“My friend, about this I do not kid.”
I rubbed my forehead. “My wife has this big-time divorce
lawyer, and I can hardly afford to pay for gas. My daughter is five.
They want to take her away from me.” The hand on my forehead
was trembling. In fact, my whole body shook.
“I know how it is, Mark,” Pfeffer said softly. “Believe me, I
know, having been through the wringer myself. First thing you got
to do is take care of yourself, you hear what I’m saying?” My eyes met his.
“Everybody thinks the man should have it all together,” he
said. “Not true. I want you to talk to somebody, a lawyer. No charge
up front. How’s that sound?”
I hoped the lawyer—Alex Bedrosian, the card said—was an
ex-soldier from the Armenian Army or something. Someone who
would not be intimidated by the fancy attorney Paula had hired.
And someone who would take his time getting his money. I parked in front of the small office building on Cahuenga,
which backed up against the 101 Freeway. A car dealership with
all sorts of balloons flying was next door. Across the freeway, the
giant presence of Universal Studios reminded me of the old saying: You look under the façade in Hollywood, and you find more
façade.
I walked into an office that was small but neat. A pleasantlooking woman of sixty or so was dusting in the tiny reception area.
She looked like someone’s nanny. My heart sank a little. I was so
used to high-powered lawyers with beautiful receptionists. “Hello,” the woman said.
“Hi,” I said.
“Are you Mark?”
I blinked. “Yeah.”
“Joe told me you were coming over.”
“Great.”
She offered her hand. “I’m Alex Bedrosian.”
There is a fake smile one puts on when faced with shattering
disappointment. That was what I plastered between my cheeks as
I shook her hand. Some soldier.
“My receptionist is home with a sick dog,” she said. “Come
on in.”
She led me past the reception area, down a little hallway. We
passed a bathroom-sized room that wasn’t a bathroom. It had a
shelf of books and a computer terminal. The world’s smallest law
library, I gathered.
We got to the back office. Small but homey. The faint strains of
classical music—something Mozarty—gave the room a pleasant
feel. But I did not want a pleasant feel. I wanted war marches. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?” Alex Bedrosian asked. Thinking back to Joe Pfeffer’s brew, I declined.
She sat at her desk. A small, potted flower adorned one corner,
like a dainty Good Housekeeping seal of approval. “Joe didn’t tell
you I was a woman, did he?”
“Uh, no.”
“That stinker. He’s always doing that. New Yorker, you know.
What are you going to do?”
What indeed? Bolt out of there was one option. But that left me
with exactly zero alternatives.
“Now, Joe gave me a little of your story over the phone. Suppose you—”
“Look, Ms. Bedrosian, I have to tell you this up front. I’m not
rolling in bucks at the moment. To be fair, you should know that.” She smiled, and it was warm. I could not for the life of me picture
this woman in a court of law battling the likes of Bryce Jennings. “If I take your case,” she said, “I will ask for a retainer. The
rest of the payment I will take as awarded by the court. Under California law, the family court judge may assign payment if he sees
inequality in the parties.”
“Well, how much of a retainer?”
“Can you come up with $1,200?”
I almost burst out laughing. Before she could take it back I
blurted, “Yes!”
“Then why don’t you tell me your story?”
So I did. For the next half hour I poured it all out, feeling it
gush forth like water from behind a broken dam. In the middle of
it I realized I felt more comfortable with this woman than I had with
the much higher priced Gregory Arsenault. And it wasn’t just
because of the money aspect. I felt like she was listening to me,
almost as if I were her only client.
Maybe I was.
When I finished, she looked briefly at her notes. “I will file for
an immediate adjustment of the
ex parte
order, so you can see Maddie. It may or may not happen. But we’ll push hard toward the hearing, on the Order to Show Cause, and I’ll do what I can to speed
things along. I don’t believe Paula is going to give in on any point.” “But why?” I said. “How can she do that to her own daughter?” “Because she has hired Bryce Jennings,” Alex explained.
“Jennings practices family law the way Colombian drug lords practice kidnapping. No mercy.”
At that point I started to have some doubts. Could I fight for
Maddie by paying $1,200 to a lawyer who looked more like a
favorite grandmother than a lawyer?
“Could I ask you a question?” I said.
“Of course.”
“How did you get into this line of work?”
The knowing smile told me this wasn’t the first time she’d been
asked that question. “Because I went through the nightmare of it
myself.”
“Would you mind telling me?”
She seemed to sense that I was looking for some sort of comfort
in my choice of lawyer. She began fiddling with a rubber band on
her desk. “I suffered for many years from bulimia. What I know now,
that I didn’t know then, was that a huge psychological hole inside
me drove me to men who were wrong for me and finally into an abusive marriage. At the time, of course, I thought I had found the perfect man. We had two kids. The bulimia did not go away. I got a Ph.D.
in behavior psychology, and I was more messed up than ever.” Alex told all of this in a matter-of-fact way. No sign of self-pity
at all.
“When my husband filed for divorce it was because he’d fallen
for another woman, whom he eventually married. But in the divorce
fight, his lawyer made me the villain.”
She looked at me, as if in warning. “All the secrets I had about
my behavioral problems became public record as I was dragged
through the meat grinder of the family court. Of course, my fitness
as a mother was issue number one. I was portrayed as a combination of Lizzie Borden and the Bride of Frankenstein. This was in
Miami. I was grilled by Miami human resource agents, by psychotherapists who knew less than I did about everything, by a
judge who was clearly biased, and by local reporters who couldn’t
get enough of this juicy story. My lawyer fought hard, but we lost.
It was a slaughter. My ex-husband got everything he asked for,
including full custody of the kids.”
“Did you get to see them at all?”
“He moved them out here, partly out of spite, I think. I saw
them only rarely. It turned out well, though. I now have a good relationship with both my sons, who have, unfortunately, grown to
resent their father. I wish that hadn’t happened.”
“Why not?” It seemed just to me.
“Because children should have both parents in their lives,
unless it’s clearly destructive. Matt, my ex-husband, was not an
evil man. But he got caught up in an evil system.”
“So you went to law school?”
Alex nodded. “Came out here to be closer to my boys and went
to night school. I’ve been doing this now for ten years.” “How?” I said, shaking my head. “It would drive me crazy.” Alex nodded. “You have to have something inside that gets you
through it.”
“What is that for you?”
“Since you asked, I’ll tell you. It’s the same thing that got me
through the bulimia. I have a strong religious faith.”
Please don’t let it be the Wheel
“Mind if I ask you what it is?” I said.
“Christian.”
“I believe in God, too.”
“I’m glad, Mark. That will help.”
To blow off steam I went to an acting class at Marty’s. He was thrilled about my
Number Seven
part and announced it to the class. I got the usual tight smiles of affirmation—tight because actors’ envy induces a certain lockjaw that can’t be completely hidden.
After a couple of hours and some improv work, I actually felt refreshed. So much so that I decided to defy Jennings’ threat and called Paula. I left this message:
“I’m not supposed to be calling you, according to your lawyer. So I won’t do this anymore. I just wanted to have one last shot at asking if we can’t sit down together again and try to talk this out. I know that didn’t go so well last time and I’m sorry. I really am. I don’t want this thing to drag out and be bad for everybody. You should know something pretty mind-boggling. My dad showed up. After all these years. Can you believe it? He saw something about us on the Internet and tracked me down. It’s very strange, but he seems to have mellowed out with age, and he is very interested in seeing his granddaughter. Might that be possible sometime soon? I miss Maddie. When can I see her again? Call me if you want, I won’t make a scene. Thanks.”
When I walked into my apartment I was assaulted by a familiar odor, one I hadn’t been around in years.
Out on the balcony, his feet up on the rail, Ron Reid was smoking a joint.
I practically tore the screen door off its rail.
“What are you doing!”
My voice startled him into an upright position on the chair. He held the marijuana cigarette daintily, like a lady at tea.
“You scared me,” Ron said.
“You’re smoking weed in my apartment?”
“I came outside.”
“That’s not the point!” I slapped my hips, making a popping sound. “I’m in a custody fight for my daughter here! I don’t need you doing this! And where’d you get the money for dope?”
Ron remained terminally laid-back. “I had this with me. You want some?”
“No, I don’t want some. You want to stay here, you get rid of it. Can you imagine what’ll happen if I got busted for this?”
“Will you relax?”
There was a scratching sound from the balcony next door. Mrs. Williams, my very pleasant neighbor and Maddie’s sometime babysitter, stuck her head out. “Everything okay out here?”
I stepped in front of Ron, to block him from being seen. “Fine, Mrs. Williams. Sorry I got a little loud.”
“You having a party?”
“No, nothing like that. I’ll keep it down.”
“You tell Maddie I said hello now, you hear?”
“Yes, Mrs. Williams.”
“You bring her on over sometime real soon.”
“You got it.”
She went back inside. I looked at Ron with fire in my eyes. “Listen, this is my place, okay? My rules. You want to stay here, you do what I say.”
With raised hand, Reid said, “Okay, okay.” He licked his fingertips and dampened the end of the joint. Then he popped the whole thing in his mouth and swallowed it. “Enough said?”
“Just don’t do it again,” I said.
Before he could respond, my cell went off.
It was, surprise of surprises, Paula.
“I got your message,” she said. “Is your father really there?” “Right here,” I said.
“Unbelievable. What’s he like?”
“Maybe I should go into that another time.”
Pause. “There probably won’t be another time. I really can’t talk to you. My lawyer just called me. I guess you hired another lawyer, huh?”
“News travels fast.”
“She called Bryce, to see what was up.”
“And what
is
up?” I asked.
“You can’t see Maddie right now, not until a court rules. You are going to be served. I’m sorry.”
She sounded stiff and formal. It was almost worse than having her angry at me.
“So it’s come down to this, huh?” I said.
“I have to go now.”
“I’m not going to let you have Maddie.”
The line clicked.
“Everything okay?” Ron said.
“Don’t talk to me,” I said.