Park Avenue Divorce Tales

"For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbors, and laugh at them in our turn?"  On this, the 235th birthday of Jane Austen, I thought there could be no better illustration of that wonderful line from Pride and Prejudice than a divorce anecdote showing human folly in all its glory. 

Most lawyers I know loathe getting involved in a discussion of the division of a divorcing couple's "stuff" (a technical legal term for the crap that fills most of our houses and apartments).  We're not talking about the valuable art work or priceless antiques or oriental rugs here (those are significant assets and are usually valued by neutral appraisers and then divided in some fashion between the parties), but rather the sofa from Crate and Barrel in the basement rec room, the kitchen paraphernalia, the old TV set in the guest room, etc. etc.  As one of my partners says, "I'm not a furniture lawyer; figure it out yourself."  So, except in the bitterest of cases the couple does just that -- they don't bother the lawyers (at, let's face it, ungodly hourly rates) with their disputes over these issues.  Occasionally, however, we DO have to step in.  About ten years ago I had a case where the other lawyer and I had to go the couple's beautifully-appointed Fifth Avenue apartment.  The distribution of the Bosendorfer piano and the Aubusson carpets had already been agreed upon, but they couldn't come to an agreement on -- get this -- the pots and pans and other kitchen things.  The apartment had been the husband's prior to the marriage (a relatively brief, childless union between two older people), so the wife was shortly to vacate the premises.   One evening after work the other attorney and I schlepped up to the apartment to referee the division.  After hours of excruciating debate over the fish poacher and the broiler pan, etc., the wife (not MY client I hasten to add), went into the pantry and began going through the FOOD, including opened boxes of breakfast cereals, indicating that she was going to take them.  My  client was embarrassed, but said "yes, yes, fine."  However, when she got to an unopened jar of white asparagus, my client wouldn't budge.  "NO.  That's it.  No more."  Tears, screaming, etc., but the wife finally relented.  A few months later at Christmas, I sent my long-suffering adversary a jar of white asparagus.  And to this day, whenever we see each other in court, we ask each other if it's asparagus season. 

Comments

[Odette]

I'm going to think of resistance of an inevitable loss as "hanging on to the asparagus" now. :)

Just curious - did your client want the divorce more than the wife? People forced to reach advanced stages of grieving before they're ready (the acceptance stage) probably turn into little kids a lot. "It's mine. MINE!"
I'm beginning to be surprised divorce lawyers don't have therapists on call & require your clients to see them as a condition of the divorce proceedings.

[Karen]

Hi Odette: I'm delighted that I was able to add to your lexicon. To answer your question, as I recall that case they were both pretty well sick of one another, and I don't remember one wanting out more than the other. However, your insight about some people in this situation turning into children is very apt! As for therapists, not only do I see one (a patient long-suffering man), my colleagues and I often joke that we really need an "in house shrink" to help manage the stress. And many, if not most, of the clients are also in therapy to help get them through this tough time.

[Short Story Slore]

Love the Jane Austen quote! In high school, Ally McBeal was my favorite show (love anythng by David E. Kelley), but I always felt that show and Boston Legal were a bit exaggerated. Reading your snippets makes me want to rethink that :)

[Karen]

Hello Short Story Slore: Yes, Miss Austen had a suitable quip for many a situation.... As for legal-based TV shows, there is much about them that IS exaggerated -- the extreme attractiveness of the lawyers, for example, or the poorly-paid district attorneys wearing Armani and living in lofts in Tribeca, or (my pet peeve) how cases go to trial within six weeks, when in fact they literally take YEARS to get to that point. However, as to the the actual situations they depict, let's just say that truth is stranger than fiction.