Dear Rita. Simona Taylor
a few ugly letters, no big deal. You can’t be a writer if your skin’s not thick enough to handle a few bad reviews.” She swirled her rice wine around in its little cup, took a sip and switched from defense to attack. “What about you? Is your name really Dorian Black, or did you make it up because it sounds interesting?”
He’d endured enough teasing about his name not to mind a little more. “It’s all mine. My mother had an unusual sense of humor. But I promise you there’s no cursed picture hidden away in my house, getting old and gray while I stay young and beautiful—” at that, she cracked a smile “—and I certainly haven’t sold my soul to the devil for a shot at immortality.”
“That’s good to know. That devil is one tricky fellow.”
Dorian nodded. “You said it. I’m sure even I couldn’t find a loophole in one of his contracts.”
His work was as good a conversational gambit as any when two people had run out of other things to say. “So, property law must be as rife with drama as the agony aunt business, huh? Buying and selling buildings. I bet you’ve made a whole slew of enemies.”
He took no offense at her sarcasm, but set her straight on one point. “Actually, property law is Clark’s specialty, not mine. My area is family law. More specifically, divorce and child custody cases.”
She squinted a little. “You’re a divorce lawyer?”
She said the word divorce as though it tasted bad. He was used to the reaction, so it rolled off his back. “I guess you could call me that. And before you even think about it, I think I’ve heard just about every lawyer joke in the book.”
“I wasn’t planning on joking,” she informed him. “I don’t think breaking up marriages is funny.”
He shook his head. “We don’t break marriages up. We try to find ways to dissolve marriages that have already broken down, as equitably and as painlessly as possible.”
Rita snorted. “Equitably? Painlessly? If I had a buck for every woman who’s written to me to complain about her husband using a fancy, high-priced lawyer to shaft her out of what’s rightfully hers…”
His calm before the courts was legendary, but this unwarranted attack in the most innocuous of places, the dinner table, by a woman he’d known fifteen minutes, got under his skin. He answered sharply. “I can’t speak for every lawyer out there, but I can tell you that I have never shafted anyone—”
“Nah. I’ll bet you fall all over yourself to make sure that every woman who walks into your office walks away with a nice, cushy settlement…so long as you get a big cut, right?”
Her distrust for his profession was one thing, but her personal indictment rankled. “Actually, our fees are quite moderate by industry standards, and we offer the best service we can to every client. We work very hard, and we’re entitled to be paid for our labor, just like anyone else.”
“I’m sure you must charge a whole lot of very moderate fees to be able to afford a suit like that.”
He looked down at himself in surprise. He’d almost forgotten he was wearing a suit. He’d been toying with the idea of stopping home after he left the jail to change into something less stuffy and more appropriate for the evening, but was running so late that he’d decided not to. He could have explained that, but perversely said, “I don’t need to apologize because our practice is performing well, and I certainly don’t need to feel bad about what my clothes cost. I dress appropriately for my job. My clients expect me to be well groomed. It’s no different from a surgeon wearing scrubs or a fireman wearing his gear.”
She was as intent on needling him as he was on needling her. “Sure, your practice must be performing well. You people look out for yourselves. Just yesterday I got a letter from a woman whose husband, and his lawyer, practically ruined her. They’re probably divvying up the loot right now.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. But there are as many men out there who have been ruined by wives set to break them, more out of malice than financial necessity. A last shot fired at the end of a bad marriage.”
“So, you’re saying your male clients suffer as much during a divorce as your female clients?”
He thought about that for a second, wondering how to respond, and then said, “Divorce is painful for everyone, but to be honest, I don’t have a whole lot of female clients.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re saying you don’t represent women?”
“I represent anyone who walks through my door. But I’ve developed a reputation for being receptive to men and their special legal needs.”
She put her knife and fork down and scowled at him. “What exactly does that mean?”
“It means,” he explained slowly, even though it was obvious to him, “that I have many more male clients than female clients.” He couldn’t resist reminding her, “Men are entitled to legal representation under our constitution, you know.”
“So you spend your days huddled with other members of the Boys’ Club coming up with ways to make sure that, after years of devotion to their husbands, women are left without a penny after their husbands dump them?”
Dorian’s head hurt. He resisted the urge to rub it, wishing he had an ibuprofen tablet or two in his pocket. It hadn’t been a good day. He’d been battling one cause or the other since he’d set foot in Elcroft Green, and now he was sinking deeper and deeper into a new battle with a stranger.
It made no sense, but instead of calling a halt to the madness, he fired back irritably. “Not all divorces are the fault of the man, and if you think so, you’re sadly deluded, sweetheart. And furthermore, despite what your readers might tell you—and Lord knows why they’d want to spill their guts to an inexperienced slip of a girl like you, except perhaps because they’re sure that they’re only going to hear what they want to hear, and not necessarily something that makes a lick of sense—not all wives are devoted. No divorce I’ve ever worked on was the sole fault of one party. It takes two to tango.”
Indignation at being called “an inexperienced slip of a girl” was written all over her face, and the result was comical. He pressed on. “Furthermore, if there is a Boys’ Club, I’m not a member, and I don’t sit around scheming with other men to rob women, either of their money, or their children—”
She gasped. “Children?”
Maybe she hadn’t been listening. “As I said, I specialize in divorce and custody cases.”
“You take children away from their mothers?” The look she threw him could have bent steel.
“Most of the time, I negotiate for fair sharing of custody and visitation rights, depending on what’s best for everyone involved, especially the children. I’ve won custody battles for my male clients, but I’ve won them for my female clients, as well. I don’t win them all—nobody does. But I’d like to think that I help families adjust to a rocky period in their lives.”
“Help? How, exactly, does it help, tearing children out of their mothers’ arms?”
“No child is ever ‘torn out of their mother’s arms,’ as you put it, and I’m sure that even someone as biased as you would admit that not every woman is Clair Huxtable. There are mothers out there who aren’t at the stage of their lives where they can raise children as they deserve to be raised. Some can’t because they’re unemployed, or holding down too many jobs, or drink too much, or have issues to deal with. Some are simply bad mothers. And there are fathers out there who are aching to raise their kids right. Don’t tell me that you think it would be wrong to award custody to the man under those circumstances?”
When she hesitated, he knew he had her cold. It was a minor victory, but as sweet as any he’d won under judge and jury. He waited for her to say something, anything, to demonstrate that she was giving up her unwarranted attack in the face of his inescapable logic.