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Volume 25, Number 1 & 2 (2001) reprinted by permission Legal Studies Forum THE DIVORCE OF PETRA GODIC LOWELL B. KOMIE Jonathan Kiefer hadn’t paid her the fee for representing him in his divorce, so she’d filed a petition to award her the fee and enter a judgment against him. He’d paid her a $1,000 retainer and had agreed to pay the balance of her charges when the decree was entered. When she handed him the decree in her office, he’d said he’d forgotten his checkbook and he’d mail her the check for the balance. Instead, she received a letter saying she’d done a poor job for him, she’d been too lenient in negotiating the property settlement; instead of filing a claim against her for malpractice, he was withholding the $2,750 balance of the fee. So she’d learned a lesson. Never hand a client a divorce decree, or even have the decree entered, until you’ve been paid in full. She learned the hard way. Now she needed the money desperately to pay her office and household bills. She had two children and Jonathan Kiefer with his $50 haircut and tailored suit and immaculate white linen handkerchief owed her the money. She knew he had no intention of paying her. She would have to force him by winning this motion. Kiefer had instructed her to settle his case and now, having settled with his wife, he wanted to have the courtroom battle he had carefully avoided—but with her, his lawyer. It would be particularly satisfying for him to have it with his own lawyer as the defendant. He was a game player and a sadist and this morning’s exercise would be fun for him. Petra Godic wasn’t afraid of him. She’d met men like Kiefer before. She’d been a paralegal in a large Chicago law firm filled with sadists in black suits. That’s why she’d gone to night law school. Now, six years later, she was a lawyer and had opened her own office in a centrally-managed office suite, three floors of lawyers, all solos or small partnerships, and she was just barely getting by. In her first year of practice, she’d had five divorces. Three were referred from the bar association, one from a woman friend, and then Jonathan Kiefer, sent to her by her former firm. When she first met Kiefer, she thought he looked like a wary ostrich. The way he moved his head, carefully twisting his neck from side to side, reminded Petra of an ostrich she and the children had seen at the zoo. He was dark-bearded, with tiny black eyes, about 46, aristocratically slim. He looked something like Franz Kafka, if Kafka had been a vice president of a Michigan Avenue advertising agency. But no, Kafka had been a poor, lonely Czech lawyer working for a government agency in Prague and living in a garret, a lawyer by day, writing stories and novels at night. He died in 1924 at the age of 41. Kiefer had the same, haunted dark face, but there the similarity ended. Petra Godic was Czech, raised in Berwyn just outside of Chicago, and she loved all things Czech. Particularly Kafka, who had been a Czech Jew. She loved his diaries and his letters to women, to Felice and to Milena. Petra was married to William Morris Jacoby, a painter she’d met at college in San Francisco. He’d followed her back to Chicago. She called him William Morris and he was Jewish and she loved him much more than she loved Kafka, much more. They had two boys, 4 and 2, with red cheeks and blonde hair and blue eyes like Petra. William Morris stayed at home with them. They lived in a large loft, filled with his huge paintings of owls and flowers, on the near West side across from the golden domes of St. Katerina’s church. Petra was the wage earner in the family. She wasn’t going to permit Jonathan Kiefer’s paranoia to enfeeble her this morning. Au contraire, she would just beat him with her cross examination. She smiled as she waited for the motion call and impatiently swung her leg and opened her briefcase. Some of the lawyers glanced at her as they passed. She wasn’t a regular and she was a beautiful woman, in her gray suit with a coral silk blouse and gray stockings. She had long, blonde hair and she wore tiny reading spectacles, thin-rimmed in silver. She didn’t even want to look at the people on the benches outside the courtroom when she passed them in the corridor. One man sat with his head in his hands between his legs. Four or five thick-necked men sat on the window ledges behind their wives, who were waiting on the benches. Sad-faced lawyers with darting eyes argued profanely in front of the courtroom door. Clerks came pushing carts piled with files, women lawyers pushed past her, their heels clicking as they walked to their hearings. And then the ostrich, the dark-bearded, pale Jonathan Kiefer stood there with his half smile looking out the windows at Chicago’s skyline. She remembered the first day he’d come to her office, entering cautiously, not looking at her, looking just over her. He’d been married before, he told her, and had three children, two boys and a girl. His first wife had custody, but the children came every other weekend for Friday and Saturday overnight visitation. They were young teenagers and Suzanne, his second wife, hadn’t bonded with them. She hadn’t even tried. When the children came, she’d stay down at the bank where she was a commercial lending officer. She was in her late twenties, almost 20 years younger than Kiefer, and she’d met another man. He worked at the bank in the trust department, a man in his thirties, a bachelor. They’d been having an affair She began coming home at 1 or 2 in the morning. He no longer waited up for her. They slept in separate rooms and communicated by notes they’d leave for each other in the morning on the hall table. Kiefer wanted out of the marriage, but Suzanne had little money of her own. She wanted her property back, her mother’s “heirlooms” and a lump sum—$25,000—to start her life again. If he gave it to her she told him she would waive alimony. Jonathan Kiefer told Petra all this without expression in a flat voice, his only movement with his hands. He picked up a decorative glass ball on Petra’s desk, a Christmas tree ornament made in Prague. As he spoke, he crushed the ornament in his hand and he began bleeding. She ran out and got the key to the men’s washroom and gave him some tissues. He ignored his cut hand. “I won’t give her a cent,” he said. “Not a penny. She deserves nothing. Only my contempt. I’m sorry I broke your ornament. I’ll buy you another.” The clerk rapped her gavel three times. “All rise . . .” There was a shuffling as people stood up. The clerk rapped again, a hollow wooden sound. “Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye. This court is now in session. The Circuit Court of Cook County, Illinois, the Honorable Sylvia Gomez-Castillo presiding. No talking.” She banged the gavel again and everyone went silent. The clerk called out, “Sheet one, line four. In re: the marriage of Mark and Marian Sobolewski, 96 D 19732.” She handed the judge the file and disappeared behind her computer. The male court reporter at the left of the bench looked up with his fingers poised on his machine. A male bailiff in a black shirt and black trousers and a shiny black holster with a pistol and handcuff pouch carefully looked over the people seated in the court room. Judge Gomez-Castillo sat down in the large judge’s chair beneath two flags, the American flag over her left shoulder and the City of Chicago flag over her right shoulder. On the right wall, there was in neat incised brass lettering, “In God We Trust.” Judge Gomez-Castillo was petite, about 32, with flashing dark eyes and black hair, one of the few Hispanic judges on the bench. She was extremely polite and very confident and direct. She sipped her morning Coke from a paper cup and waited for the litigants. Below her nameplate was a scotch-taped, crudely lettered cardboard sign: “Lawyers—State Your Name and Case Number Clearly. Speak Up So The Court Reporter Can Hear You.” Petra Godic thought about her argument. This was a tough, young, female judge. Not some old political hack. Petra would just lay it out for her. She’d word-processed the petition and attached her time sheets detailing every hour, all the phone calls, meetings, expenses. Her hourly rate was $125 and she’d spent 30 hours. She’d been paid $1,000. He owed her $2,750, and she wanted a judgment. If he didn’t pay her immediately, she’d file a garnishment. She wondered if his Michigan Avenue advertising agency had ever had a garnishment against an executive. She remembered standing in the corridor of the Daley Center, on the seventeenth floor, on the day of the hearing and settling Kiefer’s case just before it was called for trial. If she hadn’t settled it, the judge would have entered orders dividing the property and that was a risk even Jonathan Kiefer, filled with spite, wouldn’t want to take. The judge had the nasty habit of constantly zipping and unzipping his robe as the lawyers addressed him. He looked like a wedding cake figure, tiny, pasty-faced, bald head shining. She would have loved to push the cake into his face but instead asked for leave to meet with Kiefer’s wife and her lawyer and the hearing was postponed for an hour. She’d paced the halfway corridor, back and forth, the length of the corridor, trying to settle the case. The wife was with one of Chicago’s name divorce lawyers, tall, dark-haired, a tic at the corner of his mouth. He never looked her in the eyes. He’d reduced their demand from $25,000 to $15,000, that and all the “heirlooms.” She negotiated them one by one. First the mother’s silverware, then the mother’s glassware—even the jam jars, allegedly crystal and embroidered with flowers. She would walk down to Kiefer who was hidden around the corridor and extract the silverware from him, like tearing meat from an eagle’s talons. Then she’d walk back down, past the elevator, past all the people waiting on the benches, to the wife and her lawyer, also hidden by a bend in the corridor, and offer up the mother’s heirlooms, piece by piece, until finally the wife brought her lump sum demand down to $10,000. Petra told Kiefer that if be didn’t accept it, the little judge with the angry zipper and wedding-cake pallor might give the wife whose face was streaked with tears $25,000, maybe $50,000. Who knows? Also there was a waiver of alimony offered; why not get rid of her for $10,000 and walk away? And that opportunity Jonathan Kiefer finally accepted. He didn’t even stay for the entry of the order. He asked her to messenger the order to his office and he would sign it. Petra barely listened to the next case. She got her petition with the time sheets out of her briefcase. She was ready for the hearing. Milena Jesenska, the Czech woman writer and journalist, had been in love with Franz Kafka. She died in a concentration camp, not because she loved Kafka, but because she was a Christian woman who loved freedom and refused to be silenced by the Germans. Milena Jesenska with her beautiful spirit. Petra would not let Jonathan Kiefer play Kafka. Milena would have had nothing to do with him. Kiefer was sick and playing foolish games with Petra. She wasn’t Milena Jesenska; she was Petra Godic, and she had two children and a handsome artist husband who was a house father and they all depended on her. She shook her long hair and removed her glasses and waited for the clerk to call the case. There were two no-shows before her and now her case would be called. “In re: the Marriage of Jonathan and Suzanne Kiefer.” Petra stepped forward and looked at the judge. “Good morning, your honor.” “Good morning, judge,” Jonathan Kiefer said. “Good morning, sir; good morning, counsel.” Petra could sense him standing to her left just behind her. “Do you have a lawyer, sir?” “No, I don’t, your honor.” “Will there be any testimony?” “Yes, your honor. I would like to testify,” he said. “OK. Swear the witness.” “Raise your right hand,” the clerk said. “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, so help you God?” “I do,” Kiefer said. “All right, sir,” the judge pointed. “Take the witness stand.” “Do you have a preliminary statement, counsel? “Yes, your honor.” “Let me hear it.” “Your honor, Mr. Kiefer came to me and engaged me as his lawyer in his divorce case. It was a contested case. There were no children. I had several office conferences with Mr. Kiefer. Contested motions. Telephone calls. Additional conferences. Preparation of pleadings. Finally the case was settled and the decree entered.” She could feel herself growing warm under her silk blouse as if she were flushing and she sensed the color rising to her face. “I have attached to my petition a statement of my time and detail of my services for each time entry. It’s a total of 30 hours, your honor.” “At an hourly rate of $125, the total, including costs, that I ask I be awarded is $2,875. Mr. Kiefer has paid me $1,000 as a retainer. So the total charges including costs would be $3,875. He refuses to pay the balance. I am asking this morning for you to award me a judgment for the balance of attorney fees in the amount of $2,750 and $125 in costs as detailed in the petition.” Petra stepped back from the bench. She could feet her heart pounding. She was so angry at this man. “All right, counsel. Mr. Kiefer, do you want to make a preliminary statement?” “No, your honor. Just that I don’t owe her anything.” “Well, that’s the issue here, isn’t it,” the judge answered. “All right, counsel. Proceed with your examination. “Your name is Jonathan Kiefer?” Petra asked. “Yes.” He was looking away from her as if he were detached from all of this. “And you engaged me as your attorney in the divorce proceeding that your wife, Suzanne Kiefer, filed?” “Yes.” “Ultimately that divorce resulted in a decree of a dissolution of marriage, did it not?” “Yes.” “And it was with your agreement.” “No, it was not.” “But, sir, you signed it as agreed, did you not?” “I don’t remember signing it.” “I’ll ask the court reporter to mark this document as Petitioner’s Exhibit 1 for identification.” Petra waited. After the order had been marked, she walked to the side of Kiefer and handed it to him. “Is that your order of dissolution of marriage?” Kiefer took out his glasses from his jacket and hooked their tortoise-shelled rims over his ears. He inspected the document. “It appears to be.” “Now, sir, look at the last page where your signature appears above the word ‘approved.’ I ask you, sir, is that your signature?” “Yes, it is,” he said, still inspecting the document. “It looks like my signature.” “Well, is it or isn’t it?” “It is.” “So you did approve your decree, didn’t you?” The minute she asked him the question, she knew she’d asked one question too many. She knew that she’d violated the lawyer’s rule against asking one more unnecessary question. “I approved the decree only because you told me that if I didn’t pay my wife $10,000 the judge who was susceptible to political influence might possibly award her more, possibly $25,000 or $50,000. Do you deny saying that?” “Objection.” “Sustained. You can’t cross examine counsel. If you want to examine, you can later call her as your witness.” He’d thrown a wild punch at her and it had landed and she felt dizzy and angry. She told herself, Stay calm. You are as tough as Milena, and this is a neurotic, selfish man who is trying to have his trial now and is putting you on trial instead of his wife. “That decree also provides that each party shall pay their own attorney fees. Does it not? Look at page three, paragraph four.” Kiefer slowly turned the pages, snapping each one as he turned them, and then put his glasses back on. “It says that.” “And you have received a statement from my office with a detailed compilation of time and expenses. Will the court reporter mark this as Petitioner’s Exhibit 2 for identification?” Petra handed her statement and the time sheets to the court reporter and they were marked. Then she walked over to Kiefer and handed the exhibit to him. “You have received that statement before, have you not?” “I have.” “Have you made any payment beyond the initial $1,000?” “I have not.” Here she was again. Should she ask him why? She knew if she asked him, he would throw another wild punch at her. The first one had hurt, but she’d recovered. OK. She could take it. She’d been a paralegal for years with men just like Kiefer manipulating her and ordering her around. “Why haven’t you paid it?” “Because it isn’t reasonable.” “You’ve read the summary of hours?” “Yes.” “And they’re not reasonable?” “Not under the circumstances. My wife wanted to settle. I instructed you to settle the case immediately.” He had a little smile on his face. “But no, you insisted. You insisted on dragging it out. Hour after hour. Confrontations. Unnecessary confrontations and accusations. All unnecessary and over-charged. The whole thing could have been handled with one conference right at the onset. And that part about the judge being politically corrupt. I couldn’t believe that the judges in this court would be acting under corrupt influence and favoritism. I knew it wasn’t true. But you were my lawyer. You were sworn to represent me; I believed in you.” “Like you believed in your wife?” “Yes, like I believed in my wife.” “And she deserted you.” “Yes.” “And you also think that I deserted you.” “Yes.” “Yes, but I was not your wife, was I? I was your lawyer.” She turned her back on him and walked away. Then she turned back to him. “By the way,” she asked, “what is your yearly salary at your company?” “My salary?” “Yes, how much do you earn?” “$250,000,” he answered. There was laughter in the courtroom. The clerk gaveled for quiet. There were mostly poor people here. Most of them were unemployed. The judge intervened and held up the petition. “Counsel, I have read your petition and I have heard the testimony. I don’t have to hear anything further. I enter judgment for the full amount”—she peered over her glasses—“$2,875, which includes costs. The judgment will be effective today. Mr. Kiefer, you may step down.” “Your honor, as a citizen, do I have the privilege of appealing your order?” “Yes, Sir, you do. However, you will have to put up a bond. If you want me to set bond, I will do so today. Otherwise I suggest that you get a lawyer and be advised of your rights. I cannot advise you. Call the next case.” “Sheet two, line 12. In re: the marriage of Alice and Martin Reynolds.” In a moment, Jonathan Kiefer was gone. “Thank you, your honor,” Petra said. The judge nodded curtly and sipped from her red paper cup of Coke. “Counsel, prepare your order.” He had 30 days to file his appeal. Even if she filed a garnishment, he could get a stay of the judgment if he put up a bond. She wouldn’t let up on him. She could see the sheriff walking into his paneled reception room with the garnishment summons. She had to pay for day-care now because her husband was not selling paintings and he’d taken a part-time teaching job. Kiefer’s money would take care of that. She would file the garnishment. Still, he could toy with her like a cat with a mouse in his paws, a wealthy, neurotic cat. On the thirtieth day following entry of the judgment, an elderly messenger knocked on Petra’s door. He handed her a pale blue box from Tiffany’s. Had someone sent her a gift? She slit the box open with her stationery knife. There was a silver Christmas tree ornament nestled in the white tissue, a beautiful glass ornament with silver stars. Also a card, Jonathan Kiefer II, engraved in black on pale ivory. “I always keep my promises, even to those who deceive me.” She could see that there was something else inside the ornament. It was a tightly rolled piece of paper in a rubber band, but to remove it she would have to break the ornament. She took the heart-shaped golden paperweight her husband had given her when she opened her law office and broke the ornament open. She was careful of the shards of glass. She removed the rubberband and opened the scroll of paper. It was a check written in red ink. At the lower left, “Payment in full.” He had smeared a red line across its face. Was it a line of blood? Had he written the check not in red ink but in his own blood? Had he purposely cut himself and written the check with his blood? So what? It would clear and she was through with Kiefer v. Kiefer. “The Divorce of Petra Godic,” first published in 25 (6) Student Lawyer 43 (February 1997). Lowell B. Komie © [1997] |
