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Initial Attorney Appointment

Mike Schneider

    I had to park three blocks away due to “Avengers: Endgame” showing in a neighborhood theater, and although I had only walked a hundred or so yards, I could already feel the perspiration trickling down my chest and stomach from behind my prosthetic breasts, that lay beneath the dark gray burka I had chosen to wear. My mother had the same complaint about her prosthesis following her bilateral mastectomy and stopped wearing it after only two months.
    “They’re so hot. You can’t get milk from them, can’t get pleasure from them, what good are they?” she would say. “Not only that, they tend to shift around. That time I stumbled on the sidewalk in front of the library, when I finally caught my balance one was on my chest, the other on my side. A mother with her 8 or 10 year old son saw me and they both laughed. It was embarrassing.”
     By the time I got to the attorney’s office my chest was soaked. This was late last July when that one hundred year heatwave hit, and even though my appointment was at 7:30 in the evening it was still 96 degrees. Due to the late hour there was no receptionist but the man saw me enter the outer office and motioned me into his office.
    “You are Ayesha Hudek I take it,” Attorney Justin Albright said as he got up, walked around his desk and, as a gentlemanly gesture, pulled the chair out a bit from the front of it, held it for me as I sat down.
    “I hope you don’t mind my casual dress, Mrs. Hudek. Our A/C is on the fritz and the HVAC company has their technicians working around the clock. They’re not expecting to get to us until 4 in the morning.”
    He was a tall man of about 6-foot-2 with an athletic build, rather triangular face, broad nose, full lips, blue eyes framed by huge black rimmed glasses, and had medium-long blond hair, neatly combed. His casual dress included a Terry Desmond designed Gear UP Sportswear pullover golf shirt, khaki Highland Tour golf pants, and the latest LeBron James Nikes, the white ones covered with raised rectangles, many of which were decorated with multicolor, psychedelic swirl patterns. A heavy, 18-karat gold bracelet that would have easily suited Mr. T, encircled his left wrist, while a diamond the diameter of a Skittle on his right ring finger topped off the image of an extremely successful 38-year old divorce lawyer.
    They said he had a way of winning divorcing wives nearly all their husband’s assets, which was precisely why I wanted to see him.
    “It’s not a problem Mr. Albright. I am just thankful you could stay over, or come back, tonight as it’s the only time I can get away without my husband knowing about it. He keeps close tabs on me but Wednesday nights he plays Texas Holdem in a high stakes game in Avon Lake, where they keep professional, bonded, armed guards at the front door, back door, and rec room door.”
    “My goodness! That must be high stakes!”
    “Yes, $100 ante, $200 to open, no limit on bets or raises.”
    “My goodness!”
    “Rught. The most he ever lost in one evening is $35,000. The most he won, $84,500. At least that’s what he tells me.”
    “I didn’t realize there are games of that caliber in the Cleveland area.”
    “He says it’s the most expensive one around—a real estate magnate, former professional basketball player, hedge fund manager—those types.”
    “Excuse me a moment,” he said as he got up and walked to a counter and small refrigerator in the back right corner of the room. His swagger radiated confidence bordering on arrogance, which did not surprise me. After all, disgruntled wives throughout the state vied to retain him so he could extract their revenge upon their rich husbands, while at the same time setting themselves up, financially, for the rest of their lives.
    “Would you like something to drink, Mrs. Hudek?” he called. “I have coffee, tea, Cutty Sark, Jack Daniels Black, Courvoisier VSOP, and chilled bottled water.”
    “Yes, please. How about a bottle of water and a cognac. I have to keep myself hydrated, these pretend breasts are so hot, I perspire constantly in this heat.”
    Looking around his spacious office the whole place had an air of wealth and success, from the massive cherry wood partners desk that gave himself and a client plenty of room to lay out whatever size papers they had, up to and including plat maps, to the walls decorated with a couple Hudson Valley School oils, to the Hepplewhite mahogany buffet at the far end of the room, a leaded stained glass lamp sitting atop it, the dragon flies so finely detailed and stunningly beautiful that there was no need to ask who made it. An open door to another room off to the side revealed a long, dark, black walnut conference table with six chairs down each side and one at the head, the long wall displaying several Vanity Fair “Spy” prints of judges and barristers from the late 1800s, by Sir Leslie Matthew Ward.
    “You mentioned your surgery in our phone conversation, said the cancer is gone but your husband treats you quite shabbily now that your breasts are gone, too?” he said as he brought me the water, turned and went back to get the Courvoisier, plus an old-fashioned glass with Cutty over ice for himself.
    I took several swallows of the water, and when he returned tasted the cognac. It was soothing and wonderful, just as I remembered it.
    “You’re the first Muslim I’ve seen drink alcohol in my office.”
    “It’s allowed if it’s only one or two drinks. It was illegal when I lived in Pakistan but here it’s alright. Omar Khayyam was probably our most famous imbiber, wine plays large in his poetry,” I said with a smile.
    “Yes it does. He’s one of my favorite poets.”
    “One of my mine, too,” I replied.
     Then we fell silent for a moment as I took some more water.
    “You said your husband is a stockbroker?”
    “Yes, a phenomenally successful one, broker and investor. He has amassed a fortune of $23-million and I want as much of it as I can get. I hear you are the best attorney to do that for me. A friend calls you ‘a husband’s worst nightmare.’”
    He broke a prideful smile.
    “I do have a rather amazing record of success. I can’t talk about settlement amounts, of course, except for the Lindsey case that became public knowledge last year. Veronica Lindsey’s husband had a manufacturing business with 226 employees, an 18-room mansion, yacht, a couple Lamborghinis, and a nicely swollen bank account. Now she has the factory, house, boat, cars, and money, while he’s living in a $900 a month two bedroom apartment and driving a five year old Ford Fusion.”
    “That’s exactly what I want you to do to my perverted, abusive husband,” I said.
    “Has he always been abusive?”
    “No. The first six years things were fine. We had good times. Out on the boat a lot, romantic dinners at the best restaurants, two or three vacations every year, a wonderful intimate life. Then last year I had the operation and things changed as soon my breasts hit the medical waste barrel.”
    “How so?” he asked.
    “He became reluctant to take me anywhere, said all his friends knew I was no longer a complete woman. He began treating me like a servant in the living room, a prostitute in the bedroom. He demands satisfaction at least four nights a week, and instead of being loving and kind like he used to be, he’s rough and belligerent, goes into every opening I have while calling me a slut, whore, and says other gross, disparaging things I would only repeat in a sworn deposition, or on the witness stand, because they literally make my stomach turn.”
    “That’s disgusting! What else does he do?” he asked with an eagerness that suggested he saw some handsome attorney fees in his future.
     “He must think I’m cheating on him because he checks my phone constantly, hardly ever lets me go anywhere without him. When he does it’s just to the store and back, and I better be home in about 20 minutes or he punishes me.”
    “Punishes you? How?”
    “With rougher, more sadistic sex than normal. The kind that always leaves bruises, and sometimes scars.”
    “Scars? Really?” he asked in an excited tone.
    “Yes. On my back and buttocks where they don’t show, even when I’m not wearing a burka.”
    His smile broadened.
    “Well, you have an excellent case, and I’ll make it even better for you. But first you will have to agree to my fee. On these large settlements it’s 40-percent, and you will need to sign a contract allowing that.”
    “That’s not a problem. How will you make it better?”
    He flashed a malevolent smile.
    “I have several ways. My detectives will see that he is lured in and will secure pictures of him with several different women, including some known street walkers with long arrest records for prostitution, and make sure the newspapers get them. A drunk driving charge will be forthcoming, and eventually a drug charge, too. Is all that ok with you?”
    “Is that legal?” I asked. “I don’t want everything to blow up in my face and end up with zilch. There is nothing that would please him more.”
    “Whether it’s legal is immaterial as long as it’s between you and me. Does that bother you, Mrs. Hudek?”
    “Not as long as you can swing it. It’s exactly how I want it to work.”
    “Believe me, it will.”
    I swallowed the remaining Courvoisier and, figuring he would be anxious to get home, got up to leave.
    “I guess we have a deal then,” I said.
    “We do. I will have my secretary draw up the contract and call you when it’s ready to sign. It’ll take three to four months for my people to work their magic. We’ll file papers after that. Is that suitable?”
    “Yes, that will be fine.”
    “Good, and please allow me to see you out,” he said as he arose and came around the desk.
    When he did I said, “Oh, there is one more thing I wanted to ask you.”
    “Of course, anything. Answering questions from about to be rich divorcees is what I live for, Mrs. Hudek,” he said as he came face to face with me.
    ‘And now you’re going to die for it,’ I thought as I pulled the knife from the arm sheath in my left sleeve, and brought it straight up under his solar plexus, shoving it in, slightly to the right, where its razor sharp blade didn’t pierce his heart quite as deeply as I intended. He held on, staring at me helplessly for about four seconds, before falling down in a heap on the floor, rolling over and dying, the look of astonished terror on his face for the briefest of moments.
    With Albright dispatched I donned latex gloves, washed my fingerprints and DNA from the Courvoisier glass, wiped them off the doorknobs and chair, put the water bottle and cap in my pocket, and poured the rest of the Cutty Sark down the drain, before leaving the empty bottle on its side in the sink. After that I rifled through the drawers of his desk and the Hepplewhite buffet, keeping what money I found, including the cash in his wallet. I left the bracelet and ring as they could tie me to the murder.
    Then I exited his office as quietly as I had come in.
    A few minutes later I was safely seated on a bench in the windowless back of my rusted out 2005 Chevy cargo van. The burka, wig, breasts, mascara, eye shadow, make up, and lipstick all came off as I transformed back to Jonathan Goodby, one-time closet crossdresser and former owner of the Goodby Toy Company, before my ex-wife hired Timothy A. Shackleford, Boston divorce lawyer extraordinaire, to take it all away from me three and a half years ago, by outing me, and creating a false trail of iniquity in the same manner Albright had been setting up his victims.
    Once back in the driver’s seat, dressed in my time faded and worn blue jeans, with an old Kiss concert t-shirt, I said, “Damn, that felt good! Number 4!” in my natural voice, as I set the GPS for Vail, Colorado and stepped on the gas.
    There was a lawyer out there I had heard about who met my criteria by cultivating trophy wives of rich husbands in the lodges, while their men skied the slopes. I would get a job, probably in a convenience store, truck stop, or restaurant, to hold me over until the base and powder were perfect, then introduce my alter ego to Anthony J. Oswald III, Attorney at law.
    Driving westbound on I-80 with Cleveland in my rearview mirror, I said aloud in my woman’s voice, “Number 5, here I come,” for no other reason than to hear the beauty of the words as I spoke them.

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