Suddenly One Summer
Page 19
“What Mr. Jaffe is basically arguing, Your Honor, is that my client has less of a right to see his children simply because he’s a working parent,” Victoria said.
“No, I’m saying that given the facts in this particular case, it doesn’t make any sense to have these kids raised by a babysitter during the weeks they’re supposed to be with their dad.”
“My opposing counsel exaggerates the circumstances,” Victoria told the judge. “The facts are that unless he’s out of town, Mr. Ferrara drives his children to school in the mornings and makes a point to be home before they go to bed—even if it means he has to bring work home and finish it while they’re sleeping. He has attended every parent-teacher conference—even before he and Mrs. Ferrara separated—he checks the kids’ homework every night and recently helped his son build a diorama for a classroom presentation. He and the kids also take an indoor family rock-climbing class on the weekends, and just last month, when his daughter came down with the stomach flu, he was the one who stayed up all night and took care of her—not a nanny. Yes, Mr. Ferrara’s work schedule has become more demanding since his promotion, Your Honor, but lots of parents have demanding work schedules. The fact remains that he is a meaningful part of these children’s lives and shouldn’t be punished because he can’t always make it home in time for a family dinner.”
The judge considered this, and then looked at the other attorney. “Any response to that, counselor?”
Five minutes later, Victoria walked out of the judge’s chambers and smiled at her client, who’d been waiting anxiously in the courtroom.
She felt good about today’s victory—if one could call it that. In her line of work, there were seldom any true “winners,” particularly when children were involved. But that didn’t stop her from always doing her best to ensure that her clients’ interests were protected as much as possible throughout the divorce process.
She’d been fortunate in her career. In the beginning, she’d simply been in the right place at the right time: about six months after opening her firm, a former law school classmate passed along her name to a woman, someone in her book club, who was looking for a divorce lawyer. That woman turned out to be the wife of an extremely wealthy riverboat casino owner who had done some very un-husbandly things with eighteen-year-old prostitutes in his casino hotel. When the wife walked away from the divorce nearly fifty million dollars richer in a high-profile case with significant local media attention, Victoria Slade & Associates instantly became one of the go-to family law firms for Chicago’s rich and famous.
Because of her success, Victoria now had the luxury of being selective in the cases she took on. Her clientele tended to be mostly women, although not always. Regardless of gender, she believed that her primary responsibility as their lawyer was to help her clients feel empowered during the divorce process. She was blunt and didn’t sugarcoat, and she asked each prospective client the same question during their initial meeting: “What do you need in order to move on from this marriage and start building your new life?” If the answer was something she thought she could deliver, she took them on as a client.
And then she fought like hell to get the job done.
After returning from court, the rest of Victoria’s workday was spent bouncing between meetings with her associates, and on phone calls with either clients or opposing counsel. She left the office around six o’clock—early for her. But she’d been trying to shake a headache all afternoon and figured the best way to do that was to set the laptop and cell phone aside, pour herself a glass of wine, and have a long, relaxing bath.
Per usual, she avoided the subway, opting for a cab home instead. It began to pour about a mile from her building, but fortunately she had her umbrella as she darted from the cab into the small lobby. She grabbed her mail, flipping through it as she rode the elevator up to the fourth floor.
When she stepped out of the elevator, she saw someone at the end of the hallway—a woman leaning against the door to Ford’s condo. In her midtwenties, with shoulder-length, light brown hair, she wiped her eyes, obviously crying, as she pushed a baby stroller back and forth.
Oh, boy. What now?
Ever since her run-in with Ford at the coffee shop, a nagging voice in the back of Victoria’s head had been asking whether she had, perhaps, rushed to judgment about her new neighbor and whatever situations, frisky or non-frisky, he had going on with the women she’d seen coming and going from his condo. But now here they were, just two days later, and the guy had a crying woman with a baby on his doorstep.
At this rate, they were going to have to set up a damn number dispenser and a waiting area outside unit 4F.
The younger woman’s eyes were puffy and her cheeks blotched. She tucked a lock of hair behind one ear, appearing embarrassed by her obvious state of distress as Victoria approached.
“Sorry. I’m just waiting for my brother to get home.” She cleared her throat and peered down at the stroller, continuing to push back and forth.
Oh. She was Ford’s sister. Victoria had assumed . . . Well, whatever. She paused in front of her door, keys in hand, and watched as the younger woman brushed away more tears.
Just keep moving. It’s a family matter. She’d paid the price once for sticking her nose into Ford’s business, with that little press-and-crane routine of his. She wasn’t about to do it again.
She put her key into the lock, just as the other woman sniffed and did that shaky-inhale thing people did when trying to stop crying.
Aw, hell.
She stuffed the mail into her briefcase and walked over. “I’m Victoria. Ford’s neighbor. I don’t mean to intrude . . . but are you okay?”
The woman looked her over. “Are you Owen’s girlfriend?”
“No, Owen moved out. I’m renting his place for the summer.”
“Oh.” The woman cleared her throat. “I’m Nicole.” She gestured to Ford’s door, as if feeling a need to explain. “My brother’s on his way. He texted and said he got stuck in traffic. I guess he was on the south side, doing an interview for work.”
“Ah,” Victoria said, as if this information made sense. In truth, she had no clue what Ford did for a living. They hadn’t gotten that far in their brief, mostly insult-based exchanges.
She watched as Nicole continued pushing the baby stroller back and forth.
“No, I’m saying that given the facts in this particular case, it doesn’t make any sense to have these kids raised by a babysitter during the weeks they’re supposed to be with their dad.”
“My opposing counsel exaggerates the circumstances,” Victoria told the judge. “The facts are that unless he’s out of town, Mr. Ferrara drives his children to school in the mornings and makes a point to be home before they go to bed—even if it means he has to bring work home and finish it while they’re sleeping. He has attended every parent-teacher conference—even before he and Mrs. Ferrara separated—he checks the kids’ homework every night and recently helped his son build a diorama for a classroom presentation. He and the kids also take an indoor family rock-climbing class on the weekends, and just last month, when his daughter came down with the stomach flu, he was the one who stayed up all night and took care of her—not a nanny. Yes, Mr. Ferrara’s work schedule has become more demanding since his promotion, Your Honor, but lots of parents have demanding work schedules. The fact remains that he is a meaningful part of these children’s lives and shouldn’t be punished because he can’t always make it home in time for a family dinner.”
The judge considered this, and then looked at the other attorney. “Any response to that, counselor?”
Five minutes later, Victoria walked out of the judge’s chambers and smiled at her client, who’d been waiting anxiously in the courtroom.
She felt good about today’s victory—if one could call it that. In her line of work, there were seldom any true “winners,” particularly when children were involved. But that didn’t stop her from always doing her best to ensure that her clients’ interests were protected as much as possible throughout the divorce process.
She’d been fortunate in her career. In the beginning, she’d simply been in the right place at the right time: about six months after opening her firm, a former law school classmate passed along her name to a woman, someone in her book club, who was looking for a divorce lawyer. That woman turned out to be the wife of an extremely wealthy riverboat casino owner who had done some very un-husbandly things with eighteen-year-old prostitutes in his casino hotel. When the wife walked away from the divorce nearly fifty million dollars richer in a high-profile case with significant local media attention, Victoria Slade & Associates instantly became one of the go-to family law firms for Chicago’s rich and famous.
Because of her success, Victoria now had the luxury of being selective in the cases she took on. Her clientele tended to be mostly women, although not always. Regardless of gender, she believed that her primary responsibility as their lawyer was to help her clients feel empowered during the divorce process. She was blunt and didn’t sugarcoat, and she asked each prospective client the same question during their initial meeting: “What do you need in order to move on from this marriage and start building your new life?” If the answer was something she thought she could deliver, she took them on as a client.
And then she fought like hell to get the job done.
After returning from court, the rest of Victoria’s workday was spent bouncing between meetings with her associates, and on phone calls with either clients or opposing counsel. She left the office around six o’clock—early for her. But she’d been trying to shake a headache all afternoon and figured the best way to do that was to set the laptop and cell phone aside, pour herself a glass of wine, and have a long, relaxing bath.
Per usual, she avoided the subway, opting for a cab home instead. It began to pour about a mile from her building, but fortunately she had her umbrella as she darted from the cab into the small lobby. She grabbed her mail, flipping through it as she rode the elevator up to the fourth floor.
When she stepped out of the elevator, she saw someone at the end of the hallway—a woman leaning against the door to Ford’s condo. In her midtwenties, with shoulder-length, light brown hair, she wiped her eyes, obviously crying, as she pushed a baby stroller back and forth.
Oh, boy. What now?
Ever since her run-in with Ford at the coffee shop, a nagging voice in the back of Victoria’s head had been asking whether she had, perhaps, rushed to judgment about her new neighbor and whatever situations, frisky or non-frisky, he had going on with the women she’d seen coming and going from his condo. But now here they were, just two days later, and the guy had a crying woman with a baby on his doorstep.
At this rate, they were going to have to set up a damn number dispenser and a waiting area outside unit 4F.
The younger woman’s eyes were puffy and her cheeks blotched. She tucked a lock of hair behind one ear, appearing embarrassed by her obvious state of distress as Victoria approached.
“Sorry. I’m just waiting for my brother to get home.” She cleared her throat and peered down at the stroller, continuing to push back and forth.
Oh. She was Ford’s sister. Victoria had assumed . . . Well, whatever. She paused in front of her door, keys in hand, and watched as the younger woman brushed away more tears.
Just keep moving. It’s a family matter. She’d paid the price once for sticking her nose into Ford’s business, with that little press-and-crane routine of his. She wasn’t about to do it again.
She put her key into the lock, just as the other woman sniffed and did that shaky-inhale thing people did when trying to stop crying.
Aw, hell.
She stuffed the mail into her briefcase and walked over. “I’m Victoria. Ford’s neighbor. I don’t mean to intrude . . . but are you okay?”
The woman looked her over. “Are you Owen’s girlfriend?”
“No, Owen moved out. I’m renting his place for the summer.”
“Oh.” The woman cleared her throat. “I’m Nicole.” She gestured to Ford’s door, as if feeling a need to explain. “My brother’s on his way. He texted and said he got stuck in traffic. I guess he was on the south side, doing an interview for work.”
“Ah,” Victoria said, as if this information made sense. In truth, she had no clue what Ford did for a living. They hadn’t gotten that far in their brief, mostly insult-based exchanges.
She watched as Nicole continued pushing the baby stroller back and forth.
