Chapter 2
Warren Atwell’s Legal Briefs: Know when to invoke the right to remain silent.
In through the nose. Out through the nose.
“Babe, how long is this going to take? I have a threading appointment this afternoon,” the nasally voice cut through my yoga breathing.
“Don’t worry, babe. We’ll get what we came for and be on our way,” a deeper voice answered the first.
In through the nose. Out through the nose.
I counted to ten, doing my yoga breathing with my eyes closed, and tried to relax before the arbitration with the worst human being on the planet. Granted, I did not know every person, but if I did, Treat Benton, the Fourth, would be on the top ten list of horrible humans. I was sure of it.
Someone sat in the chair beside me. “Look at that man. He’s a fool for thinking that young lady wants him for anything else than his money.”
I cracked open an eye to find my client, Shirley Benton, sitting beside me. Her short, gray hair framed brown eyes filled with concern. She wore a sensible navy pantsuit to today’s proceedings. If it were not for the tissue she twisted in her hands, you would think she was cool as a cucumber.
“Does it bother you, Mrs. Benton?” I asked.
The 59-year-old woman blinked at me. “I don’t understand it. My daughter babysat her! Why would he throw away forty years of marriage for that?”
I turned my attention to Madison, no last name given, the “assistant” of Mr. Benton.
She was 22 years old and wore a barely-there red dress accentuating the silicone enhancements recently purchased by Mr. Benton.
The young woman petted and stroked her long blonde hair as she spoke, a sign that the hair extensions were new and she was getting used to their feel and heft against her scalp.
She uncrossed her legs to confirm what my sources told me - that she also recently received Brazilian waxing services, courtesy of Mr. Benton’s finances. I averted my eyes quickly.
The man himself scrolled through a brand-new titanium phone, nodding to Madison as she complained about this, that, and the other.
His silver hair was impeccably styled. His face was tan from a recent vacation that did not include his wife.
And the silver Rolex on his arm shined like the glossy nail polish on his manicured hands.
I narrowed my eyes at the Rolex, which was reported missing when we subpoenaed his financial records.
“Because he is an asshole, Mrs. Benton,” I answered.
The arbitrator opened the door to the courthouse conference room and welcomed us inside.
Mr. Benton’s lawyer, a shark from a Tampa law firm, rushed into the waiting area and shook his chin-length hair out of his face. “So sorry to be late. My girlfriend wanted a word before we began.”
I studied his left hand holding a thousand-dollar briefcase and wondered if his girlfriend knew he was married. Maybe she did not care like Madison.
We filed into the conference room. Mr. Benton, Madison, and their lawyer sat on one side of the table while Mrs. Benton and I pulled out chairs on the other.
The court stenographer set up in the corner of the room.
The arbitrator, Ms. Slawiak, slid into a chair at the head of the table.
Shrewd eyes surveyed everyone before she spoke.
“Now that we’re all here, we can finalize this divorce. ”
Benton’s lawyer grinned as he pulled copies of the paperwork from his briefcase. He slid two copies our way, and Mrs. Benton reached for a pen. I placed my hand over hers.
“Not so fast,” I whispered.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Atwell?” Ms. Slawiak asked.
I nodded at her and stood, buttoning my suit jacket.
“Indeed there is. We negotiated an agreement on this divorce based on the other side delivering all pertinent documents. However, it has come to my attention that Mr. Benton has been hiding assets. One of which he had the audacity to wear to this meeting.” I pointed to his wrist. “That Rolex is a family heirloom from Mrs. Benton’s family.
She asked that it be returned, and Mr. Benton claimed it was ‘lost.’” I shared the last word with air quotes, even though that would not be part of the official transcript.
“Fine,” Mr. Benton spat as he angrily unclasped the Rolex and flung it at Mrs. Benton, where it clanged to a stop on the wooden conference table before her. “You want that piece of shit? Fine. Take it. Happy now?”
Mrs. Benton’s breath hitched as she clutched the watch and stared at me.
I pressed my lips together to keep from telling Mr. Benton where to shove his attitude.
I pulled out a stack of paperwork from the briefcase my family gave me when I graduated from law school two decades ago.
It was engraved with my initials that had faded over time.
“These documents will prove Mr. Benton began hiding assets overseas before he asked Mrs. Benton for a divorce,” I said as I walked toward the arbitrator and placed a stack of documents before her on the table.
I walked behind Mr. Benton and his lawyer and dumped their copies in front of them.
“There are considerable assets in these offshore accounts that you will see on page two—”
“Objection!” The other attorney stood. “This is ridiculous. Where does this alleged information come from? There’s no proof that these belong to my client!”
“That is a good question,” the arbitrator admitted. “Mr. Atwell, where did you obtain this information?”
“If you turn to the last two pages of the packet, you will see signed affidavits from Celia Saber, C.E.O. of Saber Security, and Tatiana Martel, Saber Security’s head of Information Technology. We hired this company to do a forensic audit of Mr. Benton’s holdings,” I answered.
The arbitrator’s eyebrows rose as she leafed through the packet. “Mr. Fitzdavid? Your response to that?”
The other attorney blinked a few times, then sat back in his seat. “We’ll need a few days to process this information.”
“No,” I said. “You have had all the time in the world to make this right, but you tried to steal from my client. Mrs. Benton gave Mr. Benton 40 years of her life. She worked two jobs while the man finished his undergraduate education and then went on to get his M.B.A. She made a home for him and raised his three children when Mr. Benton demanded she not work. And now, we simply ask that he pay what is owed to Mrs. Benton.”
“You have a settlement in mind?” Arbitrator Slawiak asked.
“I do.” I pulled another packet of paperwork from my briefcase.
“We are asking for the true assets listed in this document to be split fifty-fifty between the parties - including all of the offshore accounts, the house, the cars, the jewelry, the vacation home, the hideaway apartment that Mr. Benton believes we do not know about—”
“Hey!” Mr. Benton shouted.
The arbitrator silenced him with a look.
“We also ask that his retirement accounts be split,” I continued. “There is no child support to discuss since all of the couple’s children are in their 30s.”
Mrs. Benton snickered.
“But once this agreement is finalized, we request alimony. Twenty-five percent of Mr. Benton’s earnings until he retires.
We feel this agreement is fair. And we ask that the court hire a third party to oversee the asset liquidation and split, to be paid for out of Mr. Benton’s half of the settlement,” I finished.
Mr. Benton’s face turned red during my summation, and he appeared ready to collapse from a heart attack. “What the fuck?”
The arbitrator banged a gavel on the table. “Mr. Benton, while this may not be a court of law, I will not abide by vulgar language in my presence. I also highly recommend you allow your attorney - Mr. Fitzdavid - to speak for you.”
“We need time,” the other attorney began.
“No,” Ms. Slawiak cut him off. “I’ve heard the arguments and am ready to rule.
Both sides agreed to the outcome of this arbitration, and my decision is binding.
” She turned toward Mr. Benton. “You have dragged out these proceedings for over a year, Mr. Benton. I believe you hoped your wife would cave at the first ridiculous settlement you put in front of her, but you didn’t count on Mr. Atwell’s tenacity.
Which, bravo, Mr. Atwell. That’s quite the team of investigators you have on retainer. ”
I nodded but kept quiet.
“I’ll cut to the chase. I believe the settlement Mr. Atwell proposed is more than fair to both parties, and I accept this as my ruling. Take your time to look it over, but this will be what we file today,” the arbitrator said, banging her gavel.
“Babe,” Madison said, twirling the ends of her hair and turning to Mr. Benton. “Does this mean we won?”
“You son of a bitch!” Mr. Benton was out of his chair and climbing over the table toward me.
He grabbed my wrist. I raised an eyebrow and swiftly lowered my arm, breaking his hold.
He reached for me a second time, and I grabbed his hand and bent it straight back toward his elbow.
This stopped him from coming at me a third time, and he screamed.
“Mr. Benton, I suggest you refrain from attempting to touch me or my client. Otherwise, I will break your wrist and file assault charges. Then, I will go after more of your future earnings for aggravating me. Are you ready to calm down and sit back on your side of the table?” I asked.
His perfectly tanned face was now mottled red. His silver hair lifted off his scalp to reveal the toupée tape beneath. I bit back a smile. Mr. Benton looked toward his attorney, who raised his hands in surrender. Smart move.
“Fine,” Mr. Benton huffed. “I’ll sit down and sign.”
“Excellent.” I smiled and released the man. “Now, let us turn to page one.”
Hours later, Mrs. Benton hugged me with tears in her eyes. “I can’t thank you enough, Warren. That was freaking awesome!”
I patted her back awkwardly. I was not a fan of emotional public displays. “Just doing my job, ma’am. That is why having representation in legal matters is so important.”
A sharp shout down the hall where Mr. Benton stood with his attorney and assistant captured our attention. It seems Mr. Benton was not as happy with today’s outcome.
Mrs. Benton sighed. “I don’t know when he became that asshole that you see today. He was so much nicer when we began dating and got married.”
I doubted that, but I remained silent.
“You don’t believe me?” Mrs. Benton tilted her head toward me.
I considered the question and what I knew of my client. “I believe you believe it. But I do not believe that people have such a radical personality change. People will tell you who they are when you meet them. You were 18 when you married?”
She nodded.
“I think it is also challenging for an 18-year-old to decide what is real and what is not. I know he can be a charming man when he deigns to. So, I am not surprised that he was kind to you initially.”
“Oh,” Shirley Benton said as she covered her mouth with her hand.
“What?”
“Nothing.” She dropped her hand. “I understand.”
“Understand what?”
“You’ve never been in love!” She chuckled. “Wow. I can’t wait for that to happen for you. Will you text me when it does? Better yet, send me a picture of your face!”
I shook my head. “This is ridiculous.”
“Ah, who said love was anything but ridiculous?”
I had a terrific comeback on the tip of my tongue when a familiar set of dark curls captured my attention down the hall.
Avery Hunter stood with an overflowing messenger bag slung over her shoulder.
She wore faded jeans and a National Association of Broadcasters T-shirt under a denim jacket.
Her ebony skin glowed in the fading light coming through the courthouse windows.
Those natural curls bounced as she laughed.
And I did not have to be close to her to know that her brown eyes sparkled when she was amused.
“Oh, my. Maybe I’m seeing it happen in real time!” Mrs. Benton laughed beside me.
I startled. I forgot she was standing there. I cleared my throat. “Well. Thank you for your business, Mrs. Benton. I will send you the final copies of your paperwork and work with the third-party auditor to get your money.”
I did not wait for her response but hustled down the hallway toward Avery. I tried for months to muster the courage to ask her out, but every time I opened my mouth, my brain fell out, and I became a blithering idiot.
“Hello, Avery,” I called as I reached her in the hallway.
“Warren Atwell!” She stared up at me. I was right. Her eyes did twinkle. She turned to the records room clerk. “Thank you for your help today.”
“Anytime, girlfriend.” The woman retreated to her office and shut the door behind her.
Avery turned toward me, and the faintest hint of jasmine tickled my nose. “Fancy meeting you here. You on a case?”
I thumbed over my shoulder. “Just finished. Big settlement. Huge.”
“That’s what he said,” Avery cackled.
I blinked a few times.
“Not a fan of The Office? That’s cool. Cool. Cool. Cool.” Avery bobbed her head and readjusted the strap on her shoulder.
My mouth went dry. I did not dare blink, for I feared she would disappear if I did. That is the only explanation for what came out of my mouth next.
“Are you a settlement agreement? Because I feel like we were meant to solve things together.”
Avery’s mouth opened to an O, and then she burst out laughing. She punched me in the arm and said, “Good one, Atwell! See ya on The Point!”
Mortification flamed over my face as I watched her shimmy down the hallway toward the exit.
What the hell was I thinking?
Why was it so hard to talk to her?
And why in the world was I throwing lawyer pickup lines at her?
Bad lawyer pickup lines.
I wanted to bang my head into the nearest wall, but that would not befit a man of my position. I cautiously walked to my car in the parking lot, placed my briefcase in the backseat, slid into the driver’s seat, and banged my head against the steering wheel instead.
I never had trouble in court. I knew what to say and when. Granted, I did practice my opening statements, closing arguments, and questions, but still.
Around my family, I did not clam up like this.
And on the app…
My heart leaped in my chest. Why was I worrying about Avery Hunter when my match waited for an answer?
MsWrite
Do you think we should meet?
It was a dick move, leaving her on read for more than a day, but I panicked at the question. What if we were not as compatible as the app seemed to think? What if I became tongue-tied like with Avery?
I shook my head.
Avery was not MsWrite.
Avery was brilliant and accomplished, and her ability to know a little bit about many things was indeed sexy. But I could not converse with her like I could MsWrite.
It was easy, texting back and forth like we had been doing for weeks.
She was right.
It was time to meet.
ByTheBook
Would Sunday work?
You can choose where we go.