21. Reid
Reid
“Are you sure this is normal?” Mike asks, pacing the hallway as I prolong us stepping into the conference room. He’s nervous as shit for some reason and he needs to cool it. Luckily, I am impeccable at being nervous enough for both of us.
“It’s very normal. Trust me,” I say, and I wish he would. He’s not paying for one of the best lawyers in the state of New York for nothing.
“But what’s the point of this meeting?” he asks. “Why can’t we just go straight to the courtroom?”
“The point of this meeting is to try to come to some common ground with each other before we see a courtroom. To see if there’s anything that you and the defendant are willing to compromise on,” I explain.
“I want what’s mine. It’s not that complicated,” he states, jiggling his hands in his pockets.
“Unfortunately, it is,” I tell him. “Because you’re married. And you’ve been married for a long time. Anything you bought or made since you got married is legally both yours.”
“But she doesn’t have a job!” he blurts out, and I flatten my hand out and sweep it slowly through the air in a bring the volume down motion.
“Again, it doesn’t matter. Not typically, anyways. I would like to use the fact that she stayed home in your favor to sway it away from the 50/50 line. Just know that they’re going to come at us with alimony and most likely, especially because of your income, she will get it.”
“I never stopped her from getting a job,” he says. “I didn’t care that she only made like twenty thousand a year. It made the fact that we traveled a lot for my job easier. She couldn’t have held a job if she wanted to because of my–fuck.”
Michael stops himself, seeing the problem. She couldn’t work. Not a real career. Not if they wanted the relationship to work.
“Fuck,” he says again, and I walk over to him.
“Listen to me. You need to let me do the talking. All of the talking. Don’t open your mouth, not to speak or scoff or anything else unless I look at you and cue you to do so. You’re not paying me to let you take the lead. So follow mine.”
And with that, I nod toward the door.
We walk in and find Ashley and her attorney sitting at the table, waiting for us.
Just like I wanted. By being fashionably four minutes late, it makes it obvious whose time matters more.
It also makes the opposing client more nervous with every passing second, and my hope is that it will make her sloppy.
They stand.
“Grant,” I nod.
“August,” he nods back.
And for a second, we study each other. It’s pretty humorous that we would end up on yet another case together.
And while I am obviously not a fan of Grant Bowen, I do enjoy going head-to-head with him.
He knows his shit. He’s second to none except maybe me.
He makes my job challenging, and I do enjoy it.
There’s nothing I hate more than being bored.
“Do you two know each other?” Michael asks.
“We’ve had the pleasure of meeting once or twice,” Grant says poetically.
“And who usually wins?” Michael asks, and I shoot him a look that reminds him not one word.
We all sit back down, and the normal tension fills the small, windowless room. Both people are shifting in their seats, shaking their feet, bouncing their knees and looking everywhere but at each other.
But Grant and I don’t waver. As nerve-wracking as this part of the case is for the clients, this is a routine Tuesday for us.
“Alright, so considering the loss of a good six minutes there, why don’t we get started?
” Grant asks, and my mouth twitches. He knows what I’m up to.
And I know his movements as well. “As is expected, my client is looking for fifty-fifty on all assets,” he goes on.
“This includes the home, vehicles, furniture, entertainment, and so on. Is there anything in that clause that your client is not in agreement with?”
“I mean, I think–” Michael starts in, but one look from me has his mouth snapping shut.
“My client would like to discuss assets in a way that is more fitting to their personal wants and needs, as well as what is fair based on financial input.”
“So because I couldn’t follow his job around the country for the first ten years of our marriage, putting my career and even college career on hold, he gets more?” Ashley blurts out and I shoot Michael and I told you so look.
“I never stopped you,” he scoffs and I swear to God I am about to kick this loose cannon under the table.
“I think what my client is trying to say,” I say, my tone more directed at him than anyone else at the table, “is that we would like to go over the assets through itemization instead of assuming a blanket split.”
“Alright,” Grant nods. “How does that look for your client?”
“He wants his car, obviously. The boat because he still uses it. The entertainment room furniture. The bedroom set. And of course, personal items,” I state as I read.
“And that would leave the sitting room furniture,” Grant says. “Which works to my client’s advantage since I believe you picked out the set from World Market, yes?”
“Yes,” she answers with a dry mouth, and she reaches for her water bottle. “I was never much of an Ethan Allen fan.”
“She also would like her vehicle and the guest room set, also from World Market,” he goes on. “As well as the kitchen assets. Dishes, cookware, glassware. Anything not in Michael’s study, of course.”
“Of course,” I nod. “And the house?”
“Will be sold and equity split.”
I can literally feel Michael tensing at that. But there’s no way around that one, like it or not. Then, again, he speaks out of turn.
“There is one other thing…”
All of us look at him.
“I want the vacation home.”
Fuck.
“Are you kidding?” Ashley scoffs, looking at her lawyer.
My jaw clenches because I have to ask the question that is basically Grant Bowen’s first goal into an unguarded net.
“What vacation home?” I ask.
“I didn’t think to mention it. We bought it several years ago as an anniversary gift to ourselves and…I want it.”
“My client wishes to sell it,” Grant says. “Same as the main residence.”
“Well, I’m not budging on that,” Michael clicks his tongue, and I rest my gaze on him.
It’s not a glare, but there is enough heat in it to melt the buttons on his shirt.
“What? There was a storm that damaged the entire first floor. We won’t get half of what I bought it for, not without extensive remodeling. No. I’m not selling it.”
Alright. It’s a plot twist for sure, but nothing I can’t handle.
“This will change the splitting of the other assets, of course,” I say, “But I’m sure we can come to an agree–”
“Counseling,” Ashley blurts out, and we all stop. “I…want to go to marriage counseling,” she stutters before going on. “I never wanted this. I think…we could make it work…Michael. And I…want to try everything first. Starting with…marriage counseling.”
“I think it’s a little late for that, don’t you?” Michael asks. And while he sounds mortified at the suggestion, his throat is tight.
Shit.
Ashley goes on. “If you agree to go to counseling with me, Michael, and don’t change your mind about wanting the divorce…the vacation home is yours. No questions asked. No altering the rest of our agreements.”
“Absolutely not–” Michael says, but I cut in.
“Hold it,” I say. Then I stand up. “My client and I request a two-minute recess.”
Grant answers by casually waving a hand.
I walk out, and Michael follows me. This time I am smarter about the location of our conversation and walk until I know we are out of earshot.
“What the hell are you–” he starts in, but I turn around and cut him off.
“Listen to me,” I boom. “You will never get the vacation home in the trial. No judge will grant you that, and everything else you think you’re entitled to. Not without me lying to the judge’s face about the integrity of your wife.”
“You’re a lawyer,” he snorts. “Isn’t that what you do?”
“That woman is too fucking good for you,” I snap, and his jaw unhinges before a glare builds up like fire in a dragon’s throat.
Except that Michael Overholt is not a dragon.
He’s a small man with a big ego. “And the judge is going to see that. The only way we are going to win this is by compromising where it doesn’t matter and focusing on what does.
You’ll get the equity, less, but still equity.
You’ll get all your Ethan Allen shit. You’ll get your vacation home.
And you’ll get your divorce. But if you want any of that, you’ll go to therapy. One month. Eight sessions. No buts.”
“I hate this,” he mutters.
“This is divorce court,” I tell him with a smirk.
And when I lead him back into the conference room, for the first time since we got here, he keeps his mouth shut. We spend another five or so minutes hammering out the details and call it what it is.
I make my way to my car and hear footsteps close behind. Of course, the other Mercedes belongs to Grant.
“Hidden assets…” he tuts with a grin. “Did someone forget to do all their homework?”
“Hardly,” I state, turning to face him. “But it won’t be an obstacle. Those two couldn’t be more wrong for each other. Counseling won’t change a thing.”
“So little faith,” he says.
“I operate on facts, not false matters of the heart,” I say.
“That much is clear,” he says.
And as usual, the conversation between me and Grant Bowen is both lethal and civilized. Like a sparring match between two princes. But at the end of the day, matches like this hold no mercy for royalty. Even princes bleed red blood. And I intend to make Grant hemorrhage by the end of this one.