I love my attorney. He is shrewd and smart and ruthless. I’m lucky to have him in my corner. He moved into a new office a few years ago, forced to upgrade when his old office flooded. Cracked leather executive chairs have been replaced with floral tapestry arm chairs, the office sprinkled with silk plants.
I have many memories of coming to his office.
In 2005, I met with another lawyer in his practice that guided me through my divorce. He leaned back, kicked his crossed ankles up on the desk and said, “Alright, tell me what the bastard did.” He was hired that instant.
In 2008, I was here again again, this time to defend against a ridiculous motion for a change of custody. When we won the case, my lawyer’s eyes watered up a mine poured out a sigh of relief.
This is my third time making trips to his office. Every instance was an act of defense against my litigious, deep-pocketed exhusband. Between what we have paid in legal fees and what he has been ordered to pay in damages, we could have sent our soon to a state university for four years.
I recollect the panicked, scared feeling I have had in the past… This time though, it’s different. I’m not scared. I’m ready. I have my game face on and I am just waiting for the circus to begin.