Jack With a Twist

Gilson, Hecht and Trattner

425 Park Avenue

New York, New York 10022

Jack has served me with a discovery request. A document request, to be specific.

I immediately pick up the telephone. “I’ve just been served,” I say to Vanessa.

Oh, please. As if your first order of business after being served wouldn’t be to call your best friend?

“Served? Like in that movie?” Vanessa asks. “Has someone challenged you to a dance off?”

“This is not funny!” I say. “Jack has just served me with a document request! And he’s requesting a lot of documents here!”

“Just get the junior associate to do it,” Vanessa says. “Why are you panicking? It’s not like you’re going to be the one reviewing all of those documents. You’re just going to supervise the darn thing, so don’t be so dramatic.”

“I’m the only person on the case,” I say, twirling the phone cord around my index finger.

“Oh, that is not funny,” Vanessa says.

“I know,” I say, now twirling the cord around my whole hand. My engagement ring peeks out from in between the cord, all sparkles and fire, and I unwind my hand from the cord.

“What types of documents is he requesting?” Vanessa asks, and for a moment I consider faxing the document request to her to get her opinion on the case. But then I remember that she, too, works at Gilson, Hecht and could turn to the dark side just as quickly as Jack had.

“Tons and tons of things,” I say, flipping through the request. “And it’s due in two weeks.”

“No,” Vanessa says, “in the Southern District of New York all discovery requests get thirty days for response.”

“We’re fast-tracked,” I say. “I agreed to turn around discovery requests in two weeks.”

“Well, that was stupid,” she says, matter-of-factly. “Unless you did it so that he can’t spend as much time with Miranda Foxley, man stealer to the stars.”

“Man stealer to the stars? She’s slept with celebrities?” I ask, my ears perking up at the thought of such delicious gossip. Even in the face of hours and hours of work, a girl’s still got time for some juicy celebrity gossip. “Who has she slept with that I would know?”

“Oh, no,” Vanessa says, “she hasn’t slept with any actual celebrities.”

“Why’d you call her man stealer to the stars then?” I say.

“Everything just sounds better when you say ‘to the stars,’ doncha think?” she says.

“Let’s see, tailor to the stars, chef to the stars, yoga instructor to the stars…. Yes, actually it does,” I say. “But it’s making Miranda sound more fabulous than she is. Let’s just call her ‘man stealer extraordinaire.’”

“Done,” Vanessa says. “But my point is the same. Is that why you got the case fast tracked?”

“I didn’t think he was actually going to serve me with discovery,” I say. “This is a dissolution of partnership, for God’s sake! We shouldn’t even be litigating!”

“Just request an extension,” Vanessa says. “Judges love it when parties play nice. You can ask Jack for an extension of a week or two. That way you won’t have to miss all of your wedding dress appointments and you’ll also get in good with the judge when he sees that you and Jack are being professional.”

My wedding dress appointments. I still don’t have a wedding dress. I still don’t have a wedding dress!

“That would mean that Jack wins,” I say, twirling the cord once again.

“Now you’re being ridiculous. It’s not about winning or losing,” she says as I hear her slam the door to her office shut. “It’s about the wedding dress! Get your priorities straight, for God’s sake, woman.”

“Anyway, you can’t ask for extensions on a fast-tracked case, especially when it was your own motion that requested the fast-track,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “The judge will realize that you don’t actually need the case to go fast and think that you’re just trying to manipulate his court calendar.”

“I wish your judge was a woman,” Vanessa says. “A woman would totally understand that you need an extension to go wedding dress shopping.”

“So true,” I say as Vanessa begins to tell me the horror of her latest first date. We’d been so excited about this one, since he had tickets to see The Drowsy Chaperone on Broadway, which Vanessa and I were both dying to see. We got even more excited when he asked her to go to dinner beforehand. The only thing, he said, was that he got the tickets with another couple, and would she mind it much if they went on a double date as their first date? Well, the theater is the theater, so Vanessa told him that she wouldn’t mind one bit and then put on her cutest skirt and cropped jacket to go on the date.

Imagine her surprise when she gets to the restaurant to meet her date and finds out that their dinner companions are her date’s parents. Who would also be accompanying them to the show.

“Ironic,” I say, “considering you were going to see The Drowsy Chaperone.”

“Are you mocking me?” Vanessa says, and I can’t help but giggle. And I do feel badly that I’m laughing at Vanessa, but come on! A double date with the guy’s parents?

And then I take a peek at document request number thirteen and immediately stop laughing. Document request thirteen is a request for all e-mails sent by Monique that relate to the partnership she had with her husband. Requests that ask for e-mails are always a nightmare—it means that the lawyer reviewing them will have to go through each and every one of their client’s e-mails one by one to analyze them for relevancy, just like you would a normal document. But they usually take three times longer to review than regular documents, since e-mails are generally single-spaced. And God forbid there be an attachment.

I could object to the request on the grounds that it is overly broad—it could take me months to go through all of Monique’s e-mails—but chances are that the judge will tell me that it’s relevant to Monique’s husband’s countersuit. Which is true. There’s only one thing I can do here. Besides throwing myself on the floor and crying like a baby, that is. Or calling my fiancé to yell at him. Or my mother. Or my therapist.

No, there is one thing that I really must do here: I need to get myself to Monique’s computer as soon as humanly possible.

“Van,” I say, “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go.”

Column Five

Just asking…

WHAT prominent French businessman, married to a former model turned fashion designer, took a quiet jaunt to the Cayman Islands for the weekend?

His friends say he was just in desperate need of a tan, but sources tell us he’s hiding his funds in anticipation of his impending megadivorce. Sources say when this one hits, it’ll be bigger than the Loni/Burt, Alec/Kim and Charles/Denise splits…combined.

12

“Where were you?” my mother says, bursting through the door to my office. I’m shocked to see her there for two reasons: the first is that my mother never visited me at work. The second is it’s 8:00 p.m. that night.

“What are you doing here, Mom?” I say, getting up from my desk to give her a kiss hello.

“We had a 7:00 p.m. appointment at Amsale,” she says.

“I totally forgot,” I say, trying to figure out what day it is. “I’m so sorry.”

“You forgot?” she says, “about shopping for your own wedding dress?” And with that, she puts the back of her hand to my forehead. And then her other hand to her own forehead.

“What are you doing?” I say, swatting her hand away.

“You must be ill,” she says, “I’m testing to see if you have a temperature.”

“I feel fine,” I say, walking back behind my desk and sitting down, “Why would you think that I’m sick?”

“Well, you would have to be deathly ill,” my mother explains, as she sits down on one of the visitor’s chairs