There’s a great lyric in the Queensrÿche song Bridge, written by Geoff Tate [correction from reader: Chris Degarmo penned the lyrics]. I use it as a rotating quote on this site. It reads, “And so I sit here through the night, and write myself to sleep — and time keeps ticking.”
In such a position I find myself tonight. I am outraged to the point of violent nausea by what happened today with Jennifer’s attorney.
As regular readers know, Jennifer has filed for divorce. She has retained counsel — wholly appropriately. Jenn scheduled an appointment last week (and just told me about it) to meet in his office. Alarm bells went off. Why should I go to his office? Every experience I’ve ever heard is of divorce attorneys serving one with papers. Plus, I was annoyed. So I told Jenn I wasn’t going.
We’re still on last week. Jenn called me from her mobile, in his office, and handed the attorney her phone. The attorney told me that I needed to come to his office to get everything notarized.
“Why can’t you serve me with the papers and let me notarize them?” I asked.
“You might not do it right,” he said.
Hm. I told him I’d think about it, and to call me on Wednesday when I had made up my mind.
Jenn was distressed. Jenn, through this whole thing, has honestly, honestly been working in what she believed were the best interests of Jenn, Niall, and me. Awesome. I wanted to recognize this for her. But she has been fed a line of malarky by the attorney, with fire and brimstone warnings about what would happen if I didn’t go into his office to fill out the paperwork. I could completely lose custody! Jenn would lose all say in the uncontested divorce and a seventy-year old judge would (not could) rule against me, drive me further to the poorhouse, and keep me from seeing my son. The attorney had fully convinced her that she had no say in this matter.
Yes, absurd, I know. But stick with me. I’m not writing this to defame Jenn in any way. Stick with this.
Jenn called back to get my address for the service of the papers. I gave it to her, and told her I would be expecting the papers.
Jenn then called my mother to try to convince her of the absolute necessity of following the attorney’s advice. Jenn was upset. My mom was upset. My mom, in the nicest way possible, tried to explain to Jenn that she was being sold a line (my mom and I hadn’t talked about this yet — this is independent.) My mom then called me to pass on what Jenn had said.
OK, so Jenn thinks she needs it. She thinks she is acting rationally and in my best interests, and it’s worth recognizing. I still didn’t want to walk into the lion’s den.
Jenn called to plead that I attend the new meeting, scheduled for Friday (today). I acquiesced.
I don’t have an operational car right now. I needed to finagle a ride. From Woodland Hills. To Santa Fucking Ana. I tapped my dad to chauffeur.
“Explain to me again why you need to go to his office?” asked my dad warily. “This whole thing stinks.”
“I know,” I said. “I’m doing it for Jenn.” My dad picked me up in the early morning to drive to Orange County.
When I first got into his office, I was not completely off-put. He told me he would validate my parking ticket. He seemed personable. I sat down.
The first form he set in front of me was a statement of my debts. I was told to sign it.
“How do you know my debts?” I asked. He told me that I had filled it out six months ago.
I asked to see it. “These numbers have changed.”
“So?” he asked.
“You’re asking me to sign this under penalty of perjury that everything is correct. These are not correct any longer. We need to correct it,” I said.
He got flustered. “Well, if you change your numbers, she’ll have to change her numbers!”
“OK,” I said. “Let’s change them both.”
He changed them, under my guidance. He didn’t change hers. He asked me to sign it.
“I’d like to run this by my lawyer,” I said.
Jenn and the lawyer both got upset. He started to browbeat me. “You just gave me these numbers. I put them on the form. What’s the problem?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “That’s why I want to run it by my lawyer.”
More pressure. Dunno why, but I signed.
The next form was to attest that my list of assets had been correctly filled out.
“Could I see it, please?” I asked.
“See what?” he said.
“The list of assets that you have.”
He handed me a list. It listed my bank account balances (all wrong), valued my car at six times its actual value, and for other assets, listed a value of zero. That’s for all other stuff, like household items and collectibles.
“These aren’t zero,” I said.
More upset lawyer. Honestly, I had no idea why.
“What happens if I have assets that aren’t listed on the page?” I asked.
“Then we would be — er, she would be — entitled to a hundred percent of them,” came the response.
So we fixed the numbers. We were about to finalize them. I said that I had two lawsuits in litigation, and asked if I needed to list them. I was told that, yes, if I didn’t list them, even as “unknown”, “they” would be entitled to 100% of them.
I asked Jenn if she was planning on making a claim to that money. I expected the answer to be “no”. The answer was “yes” — she was making a claim, that she hadn’t disclosed and we hadn’t discussed. I again said that I would like to run it by my lawyer. More upset people. More browbeating.
Actually, at this point, I can’t remember if I was browbeat into signing it or not. But I was already getting queasy.
Another exchange that can be omitted for brevity followed. I’m trying to get to the piece de resistance. As follows.
I was asked to sign a form saying that I agreed with their description of the case. Which I hadn’t fucking seen. Let’s be clear. I hadn’t seen the damn thing. I requested that, hey, maybe I’d like to read the fucker first.
I started reading it on his monitor.
Here it gets good.
There was a paragraph attesting that both Jenn and I were in good health, able to work and earn our full income. He was trying to slide past this one.
“Whoa,” I said. “That’s not true.”
“OK, we’ll take it out,” he said.
“No, actually I’d like it to state that I’m disabled and unable to work. That’s the truth,” I said.
The lawyer got a wicked smile. “I’d advise her against that,” he said.
“Then I’m not signing it, at least until I run it by my lawyer,” I said. After all, this could jeopardize my pending lawsuits, being subpoenable by opposing council.
“I’m not going to put down your disability without proof!” he thundered.
“OK. That’s fine. I’ll go to a doctor this week, get the proof, and fax it to you,” I said in honest equanimity.
He leaned forward. “You know what, I’ve been really patient with you. But the truth is you’re not a very nice guy. I’ll see you in court.”
I smiled a wry smile and held up my parking ticket.
“No, I’m not going to validate you!” he near-screamed.
“OK, I said. Bye!” I stood up and walked out the door.
I was two steps past, really leaving, and the lawyer said, “Josh Josh Josh! Come sit down!”
I spun and glared. “That’s Mr. McGee,” I said.
“Mr. McGee, come and sit down.”
“I’m not going to sit down,” I said.
“Come and sit down!”
“I’m not going to sit down,” I said.
“If you take this to court, it will cost you ten thousand dollars. You don’t have ten thousand dollars.”
“Let me understand this,” I said. “Your plan is to insult me, then threaten me?”
“I’m not threatening you. Come and sit down. You don’t want this to go to court.”
I stood and equivocated. I finally said, “I’m stepping out for five minutes to make a phone call.”
I walked (wrong direction, twice, which kinda ruined the moment) to the lobby and called my dad. I told him what had happened.
“Get the hell out of there!” he said. “Go back, tell him ‘Fuck you!’, and walk out.”
I hung up. Actually I pushed the red button, which isn’t quite as dramatic. I decided I wasn’t even going back. I went down the elevator, got in the car, and called Jenn from my cell. I told her I wasn’t coming back.
“Do you really think I’m trying to screw you?” she asked incredulously.
“I trust you,” I told Jenn (mostly true). “I trust that lawyer about as far as I can throw him.”
We had a surreal conversation, which could be distilled to one statement. Not hard to choose, because it’s the one I said five times.
“You have three options, Jenn. You can have this lawyer serve me with papers, I’ll have my attorney review, and I’ll return them. Or you can fire this lawyer, have a new lawyer serve me with papers, and I’ll run them by my attorney and return them. Or you can set a court date. If you don’t want this to go to court, this ball’s in your court.”
Let’s go back a bit. I’m not a very nice person? What, is he going to tell on me to the playground monitor? Not be my best friend any more? Tell people that I wear Spiderman underwear? What the fuck?
“Like my reason for being here is to get you to like me,” my dad said later, playing me.
“I wonder how many people that works on,” my mom said later.
What? The? Fuck?
An epilogue. Jenn is not a stupid person. But she has a dramatically miscalibrated bullshit detector. She was probably socialized this way, as a female in a religious family. But she trusts too easily. Way too easily. One time, when she had a flat tire, she called me (panicking — she wouldn’t do that now, to her credit) and I talked her through getting someone to call out and change it (she was about eighty minutes away).
“What should I do with the tire?” she asked. I pictured a shredded tire.
“Put it in your trunk, or have the tow truck driver take the tire away,” I said.
She chose the latter option. Almost. She gave the driver her wheel. He was happy to take it, which is probably connected to the fact that buying a used replacement cost hundreds of dollars. She was happy to send it away.
So, trusting. Great, in a friendly, well-monitored twelve-year-old. Not so great in an adult woman who is making choices to affect peoples’ lives for at least the next thirteen years.
I don’t know if Jenn still reads my blog. I have no reason to expect her to read it. I don’t read hers. But I dearly hope that she will reflect on this. Or ask her dad. Or her best friend, who’s a trial attorney. Get someone to fill her in on why I might distrust her attorney, who is counseling me not to retain counsel. She is not stupid. She really, really isn’t. And I know she’s not trying to screw me. I just want her to realize her power, fire this scoundrel, and let us get on with this in a reasonable fashion.
I’m not sure if writing this helped. I think it did. I’m not as nauseated. And you’re welcome to post, or (maybe better) send me private email. If any reflective person thinks I’m unreasonable, with a better bullshit detector, please tell me.
But I’m not wrong. Shit. I’m not wrong. What do you call a thousand lawyers at the bottom of the ocean? What indeed.
Subscribe by email
