Jack With a Twist

“So, our contract,” Jay says. On your life…

“You know what?” I say, using my best negotiation techniques. “Why don’t we do this—how about you just keep the full amount of the contract? I’ll get you a check tomorrow.”

Jay shakes his head “no.”

“Bank check?” I offer. More head-shaking. “Certified check?”

Jay shakes his head “no” again and flicks the little toothpick over to the other side of his mouth.

“I’ll get you cash,” I say. “How’s cash?”

“You know, this really isn’t all about the money,” Jay says. I will later find out that my dad actually already paid him in full. Cold hard cash. “The damage here extends well beyond the amount of the contract.”

There’s that contract again. On my life.

“It does?” I ask. I’m terrified to have him tell me what this actually is about, and why the damage well exceeds the amount of the contract, but I figure the sooner I find out, the sooner I can get him out of my office. Or the sooner they take me out of my office in a body bag. Either way, mission accomplished.

“But the way I figure it,” he says, “there’s a way for you and I to make things right.”

“There is?” I ask. Do I really want to hear more?

“I want the exclusive deets on your girl Monique and her idiot husband Jean Luc,” he says, leaning back in his chair. My visitor chairs are really not meant to be leaned back in. All I can think is, if he breaks the chair’s legs and falls down, RUN!

“Jean Luc’s not an idiot,” I say, even though I’ve never actually met him.

“I don’t really care whether he is or isn’t one. What I care about is getting an exclusive on any dirt,” Jay says, as my assistant comes back in with Jay’s coffee and my water. We both thank her simultaneously and she gives another gratuitous giggle before exiting my office.

“There’s no dirt,” I tell Jay as soon as the coast is clear. “There’s nothing to get. And anyway, I thought you weren’t a pap?”

“I’m not a pap,” he says, “those guys are disgusting. I am an artist. But a guy’s gotta eat. If the pictures I take and the stories I tell just so happen to get printed somewhere, and I just so happen to get paid for it, well, then, that’s that. But, I’m no pap. Paps are the scum of the earth, as far as I’m concerned.”

Okay, taking pictures and getting the inside scoop on celebs and then accepting money for them. Um, so then, doesn’t that mean he’s a pap? I’m so confused.

“There’s nothing for me to get for you,” I say.

“I can get you outfitted with a tiny little camera that she wouldn’t even see,” he says. “I know how much you love the world of surveillance.”

“I do not want to be outfitted with a camera,” I say. “And that was not surveillance we were doing. That was background footage of the groom!”

“Whatever, hon. We could put it into a pair of earrings for you,” he says. “You like earrings, don’t you? Tell you what, you think about it.”

“I don’t have to think about it because there’s nothing to find out. The pictures wouldn’t be anything more exciting than the inside of any bridal salon. Muslins, fabrics, dresses. A bridal magazine or two. That’s it.”

“Do you ever see Jean Luc?” he asks.

“No,” I say. “Why would he be there? I’m there for a wedding dress. I try on muslins and Monique fits them. He’s never around for that.”

“He’s never around?” Jay asks, leaning forward in his chair.

“That’s not what I meant,” I say, leaning back in my own chair. “He just isn’t at the bridal studio.”

“I see.”

“There’s nothing to see!” I say, and then take a sip of my water.

“Well, when there is,” he says, “you keep me in mind. And I’ll keep you in mind.”

Now, I know I should just let him leave my office at this point. It doesn’t really matter what he thinks he’s going to keep me in mind for. It doesn’t. Nothing more could be gained by continuing this conversation. The goal was to settle my business with the mobster and then get said mobster out of my office. My assistant would have to be on her own once he got out there. So, even though it seemed like he was close to leaving my office, I inexplicably ask: “Keep me in mind for what?”

“Well, I’m saying that you can just owe me,” he says, and then shrugs. “I could use a lawyer on retainer. My usual guy’s been giving me trouble lately.”

“Um, no, thank you,” I say.

A lawyer for the mob? Somehow I just know that when my parents sent me to law school, this was not what they had in mind. And at any rate, who really remembers the lawyer in The Godfather? I think I’d actually rather be Jimmy Caan, if anything. Not that I want to be on retainer for a mobster in any capacity. And more importantly, does this mean that Jay’s been promoted from soldier? I didn’t hear anything about that from my father. Is there, like, a Facebook for the Five Families you can look stuff like this up on?

“Why wouldn’t you want to be my lawyer?” he asks. “I can introduce you to friends. Drum up some business.”

Great, I can just see it now in my law school’s alumni newsletter:

Brooke Miller—promoted to consigliere of a prominent New York City crime family. Next year, she’s hoping to make underboss. We’ve got our fingers crossed for you, Brooke!

“I don’t—” I say, only to be interrupted by Jay.

“And I’ll be your photographer on retainer,” he says. Visions of beautiful Kennedy-like portraits of me and my family for the rest of my life fill my head…. Only, I’m not going to have family any time soon, since I just called off my wedding. “So, we’ve got a deal?”

“No. No deal.”

“Great,” he says. “I’ll be in touch, then. And you do the same.”

“There’s nothing to be in touch about,” I say. “I don’t need any pictures and I certainly won’t have any dirt on Monique and Jean Luc.”

“Just keep your ear to the ground,” he says, standing up and putting his fedora back on his head. “You never know what might happen. Your life can change in an instant. You know who told me that?”

“Who?”

“Mr. John Gotti.”

Why did I even bother to ask?

27

“So, counselors,” Judge Martin says, leaning back in his big leather chair, “are we ready to settle?”

“My client is not, your honor,” I say, and Jack says the same. We’re both in Judge Martin’s chambers for our final discovery conference—the last conference before the trial is set to begin—and it’s taking all of my energy to not look at Jack. Even Miranda Foxley isn’t there to break up the tension, having been unceremoniously shipped over the George Washington Bridge to a massive document production in a warehouse in Parsippany after she was discovered with the head of the bankruptcy department. Gilson, Hecht is notoriously scandal-averse, and to hear Vanessa tell it, they had Miranda out of her office and knee-deep in documents for a most unglamorous client, Toilet-Cleen, before word of the scandal had even reached the seventeenth-floor real estate department. They didn’t want to fire her, since the only thing worse than a public scandal was a sexual harassment lawsuit, so instead, they sent her to the one place where even Column Five wouldn’t deign to go—New Jersey.

“You know these cases don’t go to trial,” Judge Martin says, rubbing his forehead with his hand. “So, what are we doing here?”

“My client misjudged the way her husband would treat her in this matter,” I say, clearing my throat. “She thought that they’d be able to handle this small business matter amicably.”