Free Jack with a Twist by Brenda Janowitz Page A

unbelievably—annoyingly—thin. I could never understand how Southern women could ever be thin with all of that delicious comfort food they grow up with in the South, but Miranda is. I guess that she is able to ignore a buttered biscuit and fried chicken in a way that I never could.
    Today she’s got on a fitted salmon-colored Nanette Lepore suit with a little silk camisole underneath that’s bordered with lace. I’m in my most conservative charcoal-gray suit with a black turtleneck sweater, black opaque stockings and black pumps. The contrast is striking—she’s Susan Dey in LA Law and I’m Marcia Clark before the makeover. I bet Miranda’s even got garters on under that pastel-colored number.
    Thank God I still have an in with the judge by way of my future father-in-law.
    “Jack told me all about you,” she coos. I hate that she knows my fiancé. Visions of them cavorting naked in conference rooms while working on a “document production” fill my mind.
    “He did?” I say, smoothing back my hair with the back of my hand, wishing I’d worn it down today.
    “See? No typo,” the deputy informs me. “You’re appearing against Gilson, Hecht today.”
    “Yes,” I say, “thank you.” And then, under my breath, “I can see that.”
     
     
    Our case is called at 11:00 a.m. and Miranda and I make our way into chambers. Judge Martin sits behind a massive mahogany desk with case files piled high on either side. The bank of windows is right behind his shiny bald head and I almost have to squint as I sit down in my chair. He looks much older than Jack’s father does and I wonder if that’s because he was ahead of Jack’s dad in law school or if that’s because of his huge pot belly and the two hundred and fifty pounds he’s carrying around.
    Note to self: Must start wedding diet, stat.
    “First,” Judge Martin begins, “at the outset, I’d like to tell you, Ms. Foxley, that although I do not personally know Ms. Miller, I do know her future father-in-law and, as such, I will be attending her wedding to his son. I don’t think that this should present a problem, but, before we go any further, we should discuss right now whether or not you’ll be making a motion for me to recuse myself from this matter.”
    “I have no objections, Your Honor,” Miranda says with her thick Southern accent. I’m certain that she’s putting the accent on even thicker for the judge’s benefit. “I know that you and Judge Solomon were both Harvard Law, class of 1962.” Why didn’t I think to do a Westlaw background search on Judge Martin?
    Or, had she done one on Jack’s father?
    “Ms. Miller, I assume that you don’t have a problem with me being on this case?”
    “Of course not,” I say, glowing at the mention of my wedding. Surely, by my wedding day, I will have won this case by a landslide and by spring, Judge Martin will be at my rehearsal dinner giving a toast: Beauty and brains, the total package, that’s our Brooke.
    If I were Miranda, I might have considered a motion to recuse Judge Martin from the case. It is so clear that I already have an advantage here. It’s obvious that the man already thinks of me as his surrogate daughter. And, I’m litigating against an associate who is junior to me. This case is going to be so easy that it’s almost unfair. But far be it from me to point that out.
    Judge Martin glances over the court papers. “So, we seem to have a little bit of a disagreement here.”
    “Yes, Your Honor,” Miranda pipes in, sitting up straighter in her chair. “My client is countersuing. He helped build his wife’s business and he is not going to allow her to cut him off from its future profits. It was his personal savings that first—”
    “I wasn’t aware that we’d be arguing our cases today, Your Honor,” I say with an innocent smile, cutting Miranda off. Normally, I wouldn’t be so bold as to say something like that, but on a case that I had with Jack three years ago, a