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Five
I t’s after dinner when I finally catch up with CM’s friend Jill Trimble and get the phone number for her attorney, Elizabeth Gooden. When I call her office Wednesday morning, her secretary puts me through to her immediately. “Jill told me to expect your call. Tell me what’s happened up to this point.” Her voice is low and there’s a clipped formality about her speech that suggests schooling in New England.
I give her the broad overview, acutely conscious of how much like soap opera this sounds. She says, “I can check and see if the house is in his name only. If it is, then he’s right, you probably can’t get back in. We can get an order for him to let you in to get your things, however. And he’s going to have to come up with some money for your maintenance.”
“I have what I want from the house.”
“Do you have any financial records with you—information on bank accounts, investments, real estate?”
“Of course not. I was only going to visit a friend.” I hate the way I come off, like a snotty rich girl, but she seems not to notice.
“It sounds like your husband wants to play hardball. If he’s the only one who has access to the records regarding the marriage property, he can make it difficult for us to find out exactly what your fair share of the estate should be.” Estate? Sounds like someone’s died. “… should sit downand make a list of everything you can think of that’s jointly owned.”
“Oh, God. This is insane,” I say to myself, almost inaudibly.
“Mrs. Franklin, marriage is about love. Divorce is about money. We don’t know if your husband—it’s David?—has already begun the paperwork for a divorce, but my advice to you would be to get ready to file as soon as possible. Even if he’s already done it, you’ll have to reply within thirty days anyway, and the more time we have to prepare, the better off you’ll emerge.”
“It’s just that this is all so weird. I’m numb.”
“Of course you are. That’s how he planned it, I would guess.”
“I can’t believe he’d—I suppose you hear this all the time.”
“Unfortunately, I do.”
I sigh. “Can you tell me your rates?”
“One hundred seventy-five dollars an hour. I can send you a copy of my fee agreement, which spells out my charges. I generally ask for a twelve- to fifteen-hundred-dollar retainer to start, but if you’re strapped, we can get started with five hundred. I always try to recover my fees from the other side as much as possible. And, of course, I won’t bill you for this call.”
I know I’m supposed to be grateful. I gnaw at the inside of my cheek. What if I hire this woman and then David realizes he’s being stupid? Maybe he was upset about something at work. Maybe they lost a big account. Or something political—Grady Polhurst, he’s always been jealous of David, and Andrea said he was in the meeting. David must be under incredible pressure. Maybe he’s having a nervous breakdown. Men don’t handle stress well. And then I call up and start screaming at him, no wonder he was angry—
“Mrs. Franklin?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. Listen, Elizabeth, I really appreciate your time. But I just can’t—I need to think. I’m sorry.”
“I understand. I’ll check on the title to the house and get back to you tomorrow. In the meantime, please consider what I’ve said. Time