I get lost three times wandering around looking for the building, but helpful students cheerfully point me in the right direction. Finally, I see Adam and his friend Evahi outside the lecture hall waiting for me, and they both come over and kiss me on the cheek. Evahi on both cheeks. When I’d called Adam to tell him I’d be coming up today, I told him all about the case, Melinda’s role, and the threat to my job. My loyal son promised that both he and Evahi would help.
“Thanks for letting me come to your class,” I say.
“No problem, I think what you’re doing is cool,” says Evahi, who’s dressed in jeans and a baggy sweater. She’s not wearing any makeup, but with a nineteen-year-old’s natural glow, she looks even prettier than she did at Christmas.
“Maybe we’ll help you crack the case and we’ll all end up on Court TV,” says Adam.
“Or make a movie of it,” says Evahi excitedly. “So many sexy actresses in movies about sex discrimination. Demi Moore in
Disclosure
. Meryl Streep in
Silkwood
. Charlize Theron in
North Country
.”
“Melina Marks in
How Mom Lost Her Job
,” adds Adam.
“Thanks, darling,” I say, patting my son on his shoulder.
The classroom is crowded and while the kids take their seats, I’m happy to slip into a spot near the back, out of the guest speaker’s line of sight. From my experience, I expect the professor will be white-haired, stoop-shouldered, and wearing a tattered tweed jacket with frayed elbow patches. But this one, who the kids call Joe, is in his early thirties and tall and handsome enough to be in movies instead of teaching about them. Another incentive to be back at college. He gives a gracious introduction to Melina, who smiles and thanks him for inviting her. Stepping to the podium in her navy pantsuit and flat shoes, Melina doesn’t exactly look like the femme fatale of the case. She flips through some note cards, then launches into a smart, thoughtful lecture on the ins and outs of film marketing, explaining that publicists are more important than anyone knows in creating a star’s image.
The students in the class are riveted, and even I’m learning a thing or two. Alas, not about the case. But now I know that Tom Cruise flipped out on Oprah’s couch only after he ditched his longtime handler and hired his inexperienced sister—who found keeping him in line a mission impossible. And I learn that to get celebrities on the cover, women’s magazines sometimes let the publicist pick the photos and the writer and control what gets asked. So much for the ethics taught at journalism school.
After about half an hour, Melina starts winding down from her prepared speech. “I’d be delighted to take questions,” she says pleasantly.
A few hands shoot up enthusiastically and Melina points to a young woman sitting near Evahi.
“First of all, thank you for all this wonderful information. You’re such an inspiration—a woman in a high position,” says the student who’s obviously about to shove her résumé into Melina’s hands. “Can you tell us the best way to land a job?”
“Get A’s in Dartmouth and then suck up to somebody in the film business,” jokes Melina. The class laughs, and I look around to make sure there’s no spy for the other side writing down that line to use it against Mr. Tyler in court. But no, I seem to be the only mole.
“Seriously, contacts are important,” Melina continues, “but I’ve always found it’s really hard work that pays off.”
Well, that’s better. Now she’s quotable for the defense.
Melina calls on another student.
“Is the film business really as viciously competitive as we’ve heard?”
“Yes, cutthroat,” she says, taking a finger and drawing it dramatically across her neck. “I have so many scars that I have to wear turtle-necks.” She tugs at the cowl on her sweater for proof while the kids laugh again.
“Hermes scarves would also work,” suggests a hopeful girl in the second row, who’s probably already bought her ticket to L.A. Maybe after class I’ll tell her about Echo scarves—lovely and an eighth of the price.
“Other questions?” asks Melina.
More hands pop up, and the next three questions are all about getting jobs in film publicity. Melina is relaxed and easygoing with the kids, telling them everything they need to know short of her cell phone number and e-mail address.
“What’s the one most important thing you can tell us about moving up in the business?” asks a young man in the front row.
Melina pauses and adjusts an earring as she thinks about her answer.
“Keep your ego in check,” she says finally. “If you’re the idea person you have to try not to get upset if someone else takes the credit. What’s important is that your boss knows what you’ve done, not that the whole world does.”
I sit forward. That’s interesting. I’m dying to ask a question myself. But I’m obviously better off as spectator than interrogator. Melina’s a lot more unguarded with the class than she’s ever been with me.
Evahi’s madly waving her hand, and Melina looks encouragingly at her.
“Did that ever happen with you?” Evahi asks. “A time you didn’t take credit?”
“Sure,” says Melina.
Now she’s really piqued my interest. Could that uncredited work be why Melina got the promotion over Beth? If so, Mr. Tyler knew about it and had some reason for keeping it a secret.
“Can you tell us about it?” Evahi persists.
Just what I wanted to ask. If Evahi doesn’t become my daughter-in-law, I may just adopt her.
“I can give you a theoretical example,” says Melina, trying to be helpful to her eager young audience. “Let’s say you came up with an idea that brought a lot of attention to a big star, completely changed her image and her career. She’s really grateful, but the head of the company takes the credit. He makes it very clear that he has to stay numero uno with the star. All ideas are his ideas. If you go around bragging that this genius plan was yours, he’s going to get pissed off and fire you.”
“Did you get anything at all for what you did?” asks the girl who recommended the Hermes scarf, not convinced that it’s worth being a team player.
“A promotion,” Melina says. But then realizing she’s said too much, even to a group of college kids, she quickly amends. “I didn’t say this was me. Just theoretical.”
“But it is you, right?” asks Evahi eagerly.
Melina shakes her head no, and then says, “No, no. Not at all.”
“Who was the star?” shoots Evahi, not letting up.
A shadow crosses Melina’s face. “Look, forget about that example,” she says nervously neatening her note cards and pulling at her turtleneck, as if the room has unexpectedly become too hot. She looks pleadingly over to Professor Joe and cuts the session short. “I guess that’s all I have to say. Thank you for the opportunity.”
The students give Melina a generous round of applause and she smiles shakily. Class over, the would-be movie moguls gather around Melina. I lurk in the back of the room, trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together. And suddenly I think I get it. A few minutes later, as the crowd thins, Melina notices me. She looks briefly startled, but then she excuses herself from the remaining students and comes over to me.
“My son’s girlfriend mentioned you were lecturing today,” I say, before she has a chance to ask what I’m doing here. “You were excellent.”
“Thank you. I hope the students enjoyed it. But maybe I said too much.”
“No, you said exactly what you should,” I tell her.
She looks at me worriedly.
“Look, I finally understand what happened. Your husband, Charles Tyler, didn’t promote you out of favoritism. You earned the position over Beth because of some idea that your boss, Alan Alladin, claimed was his.”
“I didn’t say that,” says Melina.
“No, I’m saying it. And am I right?”
Melina hesitates a long time. And then in a voice so soft I can hardly hear her, she says, “Yes.”
We look at each other and she gives a big sigh, as if relieved to finally be free of her secret.
“Why haven’t you or Charles told me about it?” I ask gently.
Melina sinks down into one of the old-fashioned chairs in the lecture hall and leans her elbows on the attached desk. “Look, Hallie, I begged Charles to tell you,” she says. “But he knew if the story got out, Alan Alladin would fire both of us and blackball us in the whole community. He’s powerful, and nobody would hire us if Alan said not to. Charles wanted you to pull off some miracle and settle the case some other way.”
“Oh, come on. You two have to be exaggerating. Mr. Alladin couldn’t possibly demand you stay quiet about it in the middle of a lawsuit.”
Melina shakes her head. “Yes, he can. The man’s ego is limitless. The company’s logo is everywhere and all his shirts are monogrammed AA. He’s thinking of suing Alcoholics Anonymous for using his initials.”
“Well, right now, Beth Lewis is suing your husband.”
“It’s not really Beth’s fault,” says Melina. “All she knew was that Charles and I were close. We fell in love at work, and I guess everybody sensed it. But that had nothing to do with the promotion. Beth had no idea that I was pulling all the strings for Angelina Jolie.”
“An-ge-li-na Jo-lie?” I ask drawing out the name.
“You might as well know everything,” says Melina with another sigh. “Angelina’s been Alan’s client for years. Everyone thought she was a wild woman kissing her brother and wearing vials of blood around her neck, and I had the idea to turn her into Audrey Hepburn. That whole U.N. ambassador position she has? I thought of it; I arranged it. Then those trips to Africa about AIDS? Arranged those, too.”
“But Alan was the front man?”
“Right. Now it’s the only way anybody thinks of her. And the funny thing is that under all those tattoos, I think Angelina really is a great humanitarian.”
“You’ve got to let me use this to settle the case,” I entreat.
Melina shrugs. “Won’t do any good. Alan will just say it’s a lie and that he did all the arranging. Who could prove otherwise? Then it’s my word against his. Charles will look even worse, and we’ll both be out of work.”
“Make that we’ll all be out of work, including me. My job’s on the line with this case, too.”
“Sorry to hear it,” says Melina. “But I’ve been around and around on this. I just don’t see any way out.”
“I might be able to come up with something,” I say, thinking about Kevin. “I have a friend who knows Angelina. You might say she relies on him for every breath.”
Chapter SEVENTEEN
THE OPENING DAY OF THE TRIAL, I take a car service with Arthur down to the courthouse at 60 Center Street in Foley Square. Ever since the building became the backdrop for
Law and Order
, I always feel like I’m going to a TV set rather than my job when I come down here. Today I’m definitely hoping for a good plot twist. But Arthur isn’t in the mood for anything unscripted.
“I don’t like surprises,” Arthur grumbles to me. “We can’t be going into a courtroom not knowing every single thing that’s going to happen. That’s rule number one of being a lawyer.”
“Yes, be prepared. Also rule number one of being a Boy Scout.” I don’t stop to tell him that I’ve often wondered what rule number one is of being a Girl Scout. Sell cookies?
“Anyway, I’m prepared, Arthur,” I continue. “But sometimes you just have to go with the flow.”
“You did good work at Dartmouth, getting the information about Melina doing Alan Alladin’s job. But as she told you, he’s just going to deny it. We’re going to end up with he says-she says.”
“At least a different kind of he says-she says than you usually get in sexual harassment,” I suggest. “Isn’t that worth something? Keeps our jobs interesting.”
Arthur just grunts and looks out the window. Despite my bravado, I’m hoping that after today, I’ll still have a job to keep interesting. Kevin’s promised to deliver our secret witness, but like Arthur, I don’t really trust surprises. Sometimes they blow up in your face.
When court convenes, Judge Ruth Warren, an elegant, gray-haired woman, walks quickly to the bench in black pumps and her black robe. Unlike me, she doesn’t have to worry about what to wear to work every morning. Since both sides have agreed to waive a jury, the judge makes a few comments, then calls for opening statements. Plaintiff Beth Lewis’s lawyer goes first, explaining the grave injustice done to his client.
“Talented, hard-working, Beth Lewis deserved a promotion. But it was denied because her boss, Charles Tyler, unfairly gave that promotion to Melina Marks. And why?” He pauses to look at Beth, who is sitting demurely at the table next to him. “Because Mr. Tyler, the defendant, was having an affair with Ms. Marks, whom he later married.” He pauses again and then takes off his glasses to face the judge. “Your honor, the law says the workplace must provide a level playing field. But how can the playing field be level when there’s a bed in the middle of it?”
He sits down as we all mull the image of a king-size mattress at the fifty-yard line of Giants Stadium. At least it would make things more convenient for the football players and all their groupies.
But I shake off the thought and stand up to make my own opening comments. I carefully lay out our position, explaining that the defense will not be challenging the fact that Mr. Tyler and Ms. Marks have a connection outside of the workplace. (Come to think of it, they have a lovely two-bedroom apartment on Sutton Place. Irrelevant to the case, though it’s an impressive victory in the New York real estate market.)
“The defense will show that Mr. Tyler gave the promotion to Ms. Marks based strictly on merit, and we will offer irrefutable testimony to that effect.”
I see Beth’s lawyer shuffling through the thick stack of papers in front of him, preparing to call his first witness. Mr. Tyler looks nervously at me, knowing that he’s about to be sworn in. “We’re going to be fine,” I whisper to him, hoping that I sound more certain than I am.
Just then there’s a flurry in the back of the courtroom, and a woman enters, immediately recognizable despite the dark sunglasses, voluminous brown coat, and Grace Kelly head scarf hiding her long thick hair. Eschewing courtroom protocol, she strides forcefully down the aisle, directly toward the bench.
“Judge, I just have a few minutes and I need to talk to you,” says the mysterious interloper. A court officer steps forward to intercept her. He touches the Glock automatic in its holster but then, deciding she doesn’t look all that threatening, puts a firm hand on her arm to make sure she doesn’t get any closer to the judge.
“Who is this person?” asks Judge Warren, looking from Beth’s attorney to me.
“It’s Angelina Jolie,” whispers the stenographer, looking up from her transcription machine, mouth agape.
“I’m touching Angelina Jolie?” asks the court officer. He immediately lets go of her arm, figuring that in a mano a mano with the star who played superhero Lara Croft, he’s going to lose. Besides, he has more pressing issues. “Can I get your autograph for my son?”
“Officer!” calls out Judge Warren. “We need some order!”
Angelina walks over to the witness stand. “Could you just swear me in or something so I can testify?”
Beth’s attorney jumps up to object. “This is completely out of order. She’s not on my witness list. She can’t appear.”
“I have appeared,” says Angelina, whisking off her coat and handing it to the officer. She folds her sunglasses and tucks them into the V of her already low-cut sweater, which pulls the material down so much farther that the astonished officer drops the coat on the floor. They both bend down at the same moment to pick it up and knock heads on the way.
“Wow,” he says, rubbing his forehead as he stands up. “Now I can truthfully say I’ve banged Angelina Jolie.”
The star gives a deep, throaty laugh, and everyone else in the courtroom joins in—except Judge Warren, who takes the opportunity to bang her gavel. “Ma’am, may I ask you to please take a seat?”
“I would, thanks, but I can’t stay,” Angelina says graciously, as if she’s just been invited to tea. “Look, all I want to tell you is that this poor man, Charles Tyler, is innocent. You know me. I have a reputation for correcting injustices wherever I go. And that reputation is thanks to this wonderful woman right here, Melina Marks.”
“Your honor, if this is a new defense witness, she needs to be properly deposed,” says Beth’s lawyer, hopping to his feet again, red-faced and flustered. “This is completely inappropriate.”
“Yes, it is,” agrees Judge Warren. “Completely inappropriate. But kind of interesting. And I’ve just figured out who you are, Ms. Jolie. I loved
Mr. & Mrs. Smith
. Please go on.”
Angelina nods. “Thank you. I’m sorry I didn’t know about this lawsuit earlier, but my cameraman, Kevin, just told me what was going on. So I did some investigating and I found out that he”—Angelina points to Alan Alladin, who is sitting in the audience—“is taking credit for everything that she”—now pointing to Melina—“did for me. Nobody else knows it, but Melina was the one responsible for changing my career.”
Angelina gives a dramatic pause while we take in her information. Then the star continues. “And he”—her long, slim finger is now indicating Charles Tyler—“did exactly what was right in rewarding Melina with a promotion, and shouldn’t be sued by her.” Angelina swivels around to aim at Beth.
“I had no idea,” says Beth.
“You were duped, too. We all were,” says Angelina.
“Hold on a second. I’m the head of this company, and I say none of this is true,” proclaims Alan Alladin, now standing tall—or as tall as a man about five foot five can stand—and waving his hand to reveal the AA monogram on his shirt cuff and his diamond AA cufflinks. This man has a serious identity issue.
“The head of the company, but not the brains,” says Angelina. “I’ve spoken to all my friends at the U.N. Everyone says they worked with Melina, not you. She was there talking and convincing and making everything happen for me. You tricked me, Alan. I hate people who pretend to be something they’re not.”
Pretending to be something you’re not is exactly what the whole acting profession is about, but I don’t point that out since Angelina is my new hero. I may even watch the DVD of
Girl, Interrupted
and try to figure out why she won the Oscar.
By now Beth’s lawyer is practically apoplectic, but there’s not much he can do. Angelina looks at her watch.
“I have to go, but I hope that settles everything,” says Angelina, taking her coat from the bailiff and finding an autographed picture to hand him.
“Are you absolutely sure that everything you’re saying is right?” Beth asks as Angelina walks past her.
“Absolutely,” she replies confidently.
“Well, then, it does settle it for me,” Beth announces before her lawyer can stop her. “If Angelina’s correct, I’d like to drop the case.”
Thoroughly satisfied with her morning’s performance, Angelina waves good-bye and strides to the exit. We look after her in silent astonishment, but then suddenly the courtroom erupts as Arthur congratulates me, Charles and Melina embrace, and Beth calls out, “I’m sorry.” But one person isn’t so thrilled with the outcome.
“You’re FIRED!” Alan Alladin screams furiously in the direction of Melina and Charles. “In fact, you’re both fired!”
Angelina pauses on her way out and flashes the same smile that must have won over Brad Pitt. “Oh, good!” she says. “That makes it easier. Because now I can leave the Alladin Agency and hire the both of you.”
Arthur calls me into his conference room later that afternoon for an impromptu celebration in my honor. A few of the partners and associates, and all of the paralegals, are gathered to toast me with apple cider. But I’ve been around long enough to know that they didn’t come for me, they’ve really come for the free cake. And what a cake it is—a colorful Elmo-shaped ice cream confection that says “Happy 3rd Birthday, Petey.”
“I never dreamed you’d win that case today,” says Arthur’s assistant apologetically. “So I didn’t order ahead of time. This is all Carvel had left.”
“Why didn’t poor Petey get his cake?” I ask her.
“He threw a tantrum and told his mother Elmo was passé. She had to spring for Shrek.”
I take off the three candles that nobody bothered to light. Oh, well. “Happy Birthday, Petey” isn’t such a bad message. The cake could have said “Bon Voyage,” since I came darn close to this being my farewell party.
Arthur gives me an awkward hug and makes a brief speech about how wonderful it is to work with me. Apparently all is forgiven.
“Why don’t you head home early tonight,” Arthur says five minutes later, as everyone leaves the room to get back to work, plates of cake in hand. Parties in our law firm are more concept than occasion.
“I don’t mind staying,” I say.
“Go. You did a good job. Sorry I’ve given you such a hard time,” Arthur says graciously.
I leave and catch the early train, but once I’m back in Chaddick, I don’t know what to do with myself. The house is silent and feels emptier than ever. I change out of my clothes and slouch around in sweat-pants, turning the TV on and off, then doing the same with the radio, the DVD player, my computer, and Adam’s old video game player. It was never clear to me why they called it an Xbox when only people with Y chromosomes use it.
Given my amazing morning, I should feel triumphant, but instead I’m dragging. I’ve already spoken to Kevin today, but I call him again to marvel at what a miraculous feat he pulled off.
“You’re right, I did,” he says smugly. Then more modestly, he adds, “But you don’t have to thank me. That’s what friends are for, babe.”
“At least friends who know Angelina Jolie,” I laugh.
Of all the outcomes I considered when I first went down to see Kevin in Virgin Gorda, his helping me save my job and win a highprofile lawsuit weren’t on the list. But as I’ve discovered, life takes unexpected turns.
When we hang up, I feel even lonelier. It would be nice to have someone to celebrate with tonight. I wander into the kitchen, open one of the Dr Peppers that Bill left on New Year’s, and take a swig. Cheers.
I thoughtfully turn the bottle around and around in my hands. What would it be like to have Bill in the house again? I’m not sure I can imagine it. All the joyful memories of years past are confused in my head with the stunts he’s been pulling lately. Bill used to be the first one I’d want to tell when something good or bad happened because I always knew he’d be on my side. But then he had something else on the side—Ashlee. And I wonder whether she was the first, or could possibly be the last.
My gut tells me that Bill’s wanting to come back was just a passing fancy on his part. He and Ashlee broke up, so as Bellini warned, he thought about slipping back into his comfort zone of familiar chain saw, familiar garage, familiar backyard, and familiar wife. What was it she said about my being like an old shoe?
Still, old shoe or not, I could do with some familiarity now, too. I quickly dial Bill’s cell phone before I can think about it too much. When he answers, I tell him about my big win today, and sure enough, he guffaws and gives a big cheer of approval.
“Wish I could have been there to see that,” he says.
“It was pretty neat,” I admit. Then I pause for a moment. “If you’re not doing anything tomorrow, I’m going shopping for Emily’s birthday gifts. Want to come?”
“Sure,” he says. “Why not? I’m not very good at picking presents on my own.”
By the next morning, I’m annoyed at myself for making the plan. What was I thinking? I keep busy with errands—dry cleaners, CVS, and the fruit store. Then I stop at the fancy French bakery in town. As I drive down to the South Street Seaport to see Bill, I munch on a chocolate cupcake for courage. I used to complain about the raisins strewn across the backseat of the car when the kids were little. Now that they’re gone, how can I explain all the crumbs?
“You have frosting on your lip,” Bill says when I meet him outside the Abercrombie & Fitch store. He wipes it off and kisses me on the cheek, eyeing the bakery bag I’m carrying. “Is that for me?”
“As a matter of fact, it is,” I say, handing him the jumbo black-and-white cookie I’d bought, knowing it’s his favorite. After I stood in line for ten minutes at Le Pain au Francais (or as we call it, the French Pain), I was embarrassed to buy one lonely cupcake. But now I’m even more embarrassed to be bringing something for Bill.
“This means a lot to me, Hallie,” Bill says looking at the cookie as if it’s the Nobel Peace Prize.