Authors: Olivia Goldsmith
Jada, still trying to maintain some kind of emotional control, got up. “All right,” she said. “I do that first. Then I go to my reverend.”
“Okay. We have a plan,” Michelle said.
They were in the car in less than fifteen minutes, which, considering the time Michelle usually needed to get ready, was a huge sacrifice on her part. They drove together in Mich’s car—Jada had had more than enough of the Volvo for a while. On the way over, as Michelle scanned the neighborhood for Pookie, she gave Jada the background on Bruzeman. As Jada understood it all, the main point seemed to be that time was of the essence.
That didn’t mean that his receptionist didn’t make them wait for almost twenty-five minutes. Jada picked up a
Fortune
magazine—the kind of magazine white lawyers had in their very white waiting rooms—and leafed through it. She stopped at an article about the reclusive Moyer clan—a bunch of brothers so old and rich from inherited wealth that they spent most of their life fighting about how many billions belonged to each of them. She showed the article to Michelle. “Do you think Charles Henderson Moyer would lend me a few bucks to pay for a divorce?”
“I doubt it,” Michelle told her. “If any of them have a NUP, it’s taking not giving. That’s how they got rich in the first place.”
By now Jada could barely speak, she was so hyped, so scared, so angry. There were some other news and financial magazines spread out on the table in the reception area, but she couldn’t look at them. She hadn’t slept, but she still wasn’t tired. She had to do something with this energy. She’d just decided to call in to the bank again when Bruzeman’s secretary showed up and ushered them down the hall.
“Hello, Michelle,” Rick Bruzeman said as the two of them walked into the huge room. When he looked up at her, Jada saw his eyes register that slight surprise that she was black. He was a little guy with a tan that looked like he’d gotten it in some tropical place—maybe that resort in Barbados less than a mile from her parents’ place that they’d never eaten at.
Bruzeman’s gray hair was thinning and Jada was tall enough to see down to the monk’s spot in the middle of it. His mustache was surprisingly small and seemed to move a lot when he talked. He hugged Michelle enthusiastically, in a way that managed to be cold at the same time. Then he smiled, his mustache twitching, and asked them to sit down on the sofa so they could be comfortable—as if Jada could be comfortable at all. Michelle patted Jada’s hand when she sat beside her friend on the sofa. Bruzeman asked if they wanted coffee and they both shook their heads.
“I’d just like to begin,” Jada said.
Michelle launched into the whole sorry business. She told Bruzeman a little bit of background and then went right into how Jada had helped her clean up, only to be rewarded by the desertion of her husband and the kidnapping of her kids.
“Well, wait a minute here,” Bruzeman said when she had finished. “This isn’t kidnapping. This isn’t a police matter. He’s the children’s father, but it is serious.”
Jada restrained herself and merely said she knew that.
“It’s serious, but it’s not uncommon, though usually it’s the woman who leaves with the children. What we need is an immediate determination of temporary custody. That means I have to get to the courthouse today and have this heard immediately. We have to go aggressive, as well as fast. What I’m going to suggest is that you also go for a
pendente lite
.” He paused and waited for one of them to ask what that was.
Jada and Michelle both said “What?” at the same time.
“A
pendente lite
is a request for immediate support payments for the children until the trial. If we move fast enough we can have first strike advantage. The
pendente lite
will hold until the custody and support issues are heard officially in county court.” He leaned forward and smiled for the first time. “The fact is, that that can take months. In the meantime, your husband has to pay support.”
“He has no money,” Jada said.
“Then he’ll have to get some. Because if he doesn’t pay, he goes to jail. For contempt. Now, of course, eventually the court may decide to lower the amount or change it, but in the meantime, he pays or he’s looking at the sky through bars.” He picked up a legal pad and pulled out a gold pen from his pocket. “Three children?” he asked. “Is that what you said?”
Jada nodded, silent. She wouldn’t mind beating Clinton almost to death, but the idea of the father of her children in prison wasn’t a good one to her. And if he went to prison, it ought to be for kidnapping, not contempt of court, but apparently things didn’t work like that.
Bruzeman asked a lot of questions then about her job, her income, their home, its equity, Clinton’s business, and the like. She listened and answered as best she could, though now her only thought was to get him moving as quickly as possible over to the courtroom where her future would be determined.
“Hmm,” Bruzeman said at last. “I think I see the full picture. You’re the breadwinner. That could be a problem, if someone didn’t know how to spin it right.”
“Never mind spinning. How do we find him?” she asked. Forget his questions about whether or not Clinton had a pension fund or any other significant retirement monies. “How do we find him, get my kids, and serve him with these papers?”
“Oh, I have professionals we retain who will do that. Process service. It’s not really that difficult. Not usually.”
“She wants her children back,” Michelle said. “She just wants her children back as soon as possible.”
“Well, this is the fastest way,” Bruzeman unctuously told Michelle. “Thank you for bringing in Mrs. Jackson,” he added. “I think she and I might have a few things to say to one another alone, if you don’t mind.” He reached out, patted Michelle’s shoulder in his oily way and said, “How is Frank doing? Calming down a little?”
“He won’t calm down until we sue all of those sewer rats,” Michelle said, and stood up. She turned to Jada. “I’ll wait out in the lobby.”
Bruzeman put his arm around Michelle’s shoulder and walked her out the door. For a moment Jada was alone. She tried to offer up a prayer of thanksgiving; this man seemed to know what he was doing and how it had to be done. Certainly she didn’t like him, but she didn’t like to think what she would have had to go through on her own. And it was good of him to take her without an appointment. He hadn’t even asked about a fee.
Bruzeman walked back in and closed the door behind him. When he sat down across from Jada, something about his manner had changed. In a way he seemed more relaxed, though she couldn’t exactly define why. He reminded her of people who have gone backstage after a performance at the community theater; they still had their costumes on, but they were suddenly themselves instead of their roles.
Bruzeman looked across at her. “A black man won’t get custody over you unless you’ve been doing crack or whoring.”
Jada blinked. Was he asking her a question? Was he insulting her? “I work at the County Wide Bank,” she said. “I’m the branch manager. I just do it for the money. It’s a form of prostitution, but it’s legal.”
“Well, that does lead us to the money.” Bruzeman continued to look at her without any discernible human feeling. “Divorce is expensive,” he said. “And right now there’s going to be a lot of legal tap dancing. I’m going to have to ask for a ten-thousand-dollar retainer and I’m afraid it won’t go far—not unless we stabilize the situation quickly. I’ve never heard of your husband’s lawyer, which means I don’t expect much trouble there, but I can’t move forward until you retain me.”
Jada sat there absolutely stunned. Ten thousand dollars? She didn’t have
ten
dollars to spare, certainly not a hundred, and definitely not a thousand. Where had she gotten the idea that this guy was going to give her a break?
He kept looking steadily at her. “You have to move fast, Mrs. Jackson. You have to move fast if you want your children back.”
“But I don’t have the money,” Jada was forced to admit.
Bruzeman stood up as easily as if he were on springs. “Then I don’t have the time,” he said.
Jada still sat there. Looking at him, she knew that words would get her nowhere.
“Speed is essential here, Mrs. Jackson.”
Jada figured she might have a little over seven hundred dollars in her checking account. And the mortgage was due, as well as the phone bill, which already made her two hundred dollars short. Nonetheless, she reached into her purse, pulled out her checkbook, and wrote him a check larger than any she’d ever written before. Her hand shook only a little.
She put the check down on the coffee table; when she stood up, she could look down on him. “You had better make this happen right,” she said, and walked out of the room.
In which the lost is found and home truths are revealed
“Let’s go for our walk,” Jada said as she stood out in the cold beside Michelle’s kitchen door.
Michelle hesitated. “You know, I think I just can’t today. I…” She paused, feeling a strange reluctance to go out, a pull to the house. If she could just wash the hallway. “I really should do something about the linen closet. And I have laundry…” Michelle had been up until two-thirty cleaning, yet she felt there was so much yet to be done. Cleaning was the thing that calmed her; putting order into a disorderly universe was a comfort.
Jada was looking at her, her eyes wide. “Have you gone completely crazy, Cindy?” she asked and pulled Michelle’s ski jacket off the hook. Jada began stuffing Michelle’s limp right arm into the sleeve. “You have all afternoon to do the laundry. And all evening. I mean, you’re not competing in the Miss America pageant tonight or anything, are you? Besides, we can look for Pookie.”
Michelle smiled and shrugged into her jacket, though the thought of the towels piled askew in the closet and not yet color-stacked still bothered her. Well, maybe she’d have a few minutes for it after breakfast.
Once outside, Jada critically surveyed Michelle up and down. Michelle realized she hadn’t washed her hair in two days, she had Frank’s sweats on, an old shirt of Jenna’s, and Jenna’s funky, dirty sneakers. “Love the look,” Jada said. “Early leper colony.
So
you.”
Michelle stopped and looked down at herself. Suddenly she felt better, almost able to laugh. “Okay. So I’m a
Glamour
Don’t. What did Bruzeman say?” she asked Jada as they trudged down her driveway. She thrust her hands into her pockets. Damn! She’d forgotten her gloves again. Now her hands would freeze if she used her arms, so she’d have to keep them fisted in her pockets. Less aerobic exercise. Oh well.
Jada still hadn’t answered her question, and Michelle, for a moment, thought her friend hadn’t heard her. Then they turned off of Elm Street and she saw that Jada was biting her already chapped lower lip. “That bad?” Michelle asked.
“You have no idea,” Jada said shaking her head. “He can get me immediate visitation, but he can’t get me custody back. He also can’t seem to return my calls. I mean, it got me crazy waiting to hear from him.”
Michelle nodded. “Frank is going crazy, too,” she said. “He’s on the phone with Bruzeman’s office all the time. I swear, I’m the only thing that’s holding him together. Last night—for the first time ever—he almost smacked Frankie Junior when he spilled his milk all over the dining room table.”
Jada shook her head. “Men are weak. Unless they’re out to getcha.”
“So you will see the kids?” Michelle asked. She turned her head, checking the yards of the houses nearby. Something was rustling in the bushes of a yard. But it wasn’t Pookie, it was only a bird. Michelle continued walking, her eyes scanning lawns for the dog.
“Yeah. But I can’t get custody back. Not until we have a hearing.”
“And when will that be?” Michelle asked. “With Bruzeman’s connections he should be able to get you right on the family court calendar.”
“It’s not as easy as that, it seems,” Jada said. She turned to look at her friend as they rounded the corner to Oak Street and started down the long hill. “The truth is, I don’t think he really gives a shit about this case. He said he was going to move fast, but this isn’t fast.”
But they were walking fast. Jada took bigger steps than Michelle, and Michelle had to match her stride, which was almost impossible. “I’m also so hungry,” Jada said. “I’m sure it’s all anxiety, because when I’m not hungry, I’m nauseous.”
“Well, I could have brought you four dozen brownies,” Michelle said. “I’m stuck with them.” When Jada turned a questioning eye on her, Michelle poured out the whole story of the women at the bake sale.
“Those bitches!” Jada spat. “You stayed up all night baking. It’s not as if you’ve even been accused of anything. Damn them!” She shook her head. “I know I should turn the other cheek and pray for their small, pathetic souls, but that was really mean, Mich. And to use Jenna. Who were they? I’d like to go and whap them.”
Michelle, despite the cold, felt warmed by her friend’s indignation. “Oh, they’re Christians, too, I’m sure. They probably turn the other cheek.”
“Good,” Jada said. “Then I’d whap that side.” She looked over at Michelle. “There are Christians and there are Christians,” she said.
“Actually, the worst was Miss Murchinson.” She told the whole story while Jada nodded her head sympathetically.
“Kevon had her last year. The woman was a witch. And a bigot. Kevon never got to show-and-tell until I went over there and told her a few things myself.”
“Hey, can I stop here long enough to check the thickets? Pookie used to run off and come here to chase squirrels.”
“Michelle. It’s November. There are no squirrels.”
Michelle shot her a look and Jada raised her hand as if to ward off the laser beam. “Go for it,” she said.
Michelle crouched down, calling for the dog. After a few moments she gave up and they continued to walk down the hill and around the next corner of the circuit in silence.
Michelle was breathing deeply, trying to keep up with her friend. It was really good to get this exercise. She was crazy to want to stay in the house. She hadn’t been able to breathe well in there; she’d woken up last night with her heart fluttering, gasping for air. “Hey, Jada, did you ever feel like you couldn’t breathe?”