Send Lawyers, Guns and No Money

I did not involve an attorney this time. (Note: In the future, invest ten very expensive, excruciating minutes with any pompous matrimonial attorney to avoid hours of humiliating, marginalizing public torture in the future. More on THAT later.)

I did not involve an attorney because the decision is based on numbers, and as they say, "Numbers don't lie." (Note: They fib just a little if all of the numbers don't stand up to be counted.)

I did not involve an attorney because I don't have one, to be perfectly frank.  I didn't exactly fire the last one, at least not in the machine gun fire of obscenities I'd used on the prior one, who clearly had graduated last in her class from law school.

No, this last lawyer I parted company with in a few steps. Not very graceful steps, I'll admit.

A week or so after Lars and I had gone to court, I got a bill from the law firm who'd run the numbers for me.  The calculations the "associate" Steve had prepared, the same calculations performed by my friendly judge, at the bench, in about 3 1/2 minutes in a software program possessed by everyone even remotely involved in the business of dissolving marriages, were evidently worth eight hours of billable time to Steve-O.

Eight. Hours. Eight hours!

I call him. Being single has given me balls of steal. Two sets.

He answers the phone cheerfully enough.  That is until I dare question the billed time. Then he Jekyl and Hydes into a Royal Asshole.

"It was a very complicated calculation, Mizzzz Patrick," he says with all the snarky condescension he can muster.

"Eight hours of math, Steve?  Did you do it on an abacus?"

Audible huffing. "There was significant research to be performed in your matter," he explains in his most I-have-a-law-degree-and-you-don't tone.

"Steve, unless you went back to law school to get your head around this "matter," there is no way on God's green Earth you spent eight hours doing anything for me."

Amping up the high-and-mighty attitude, he asks, "So YOU want to dispute your bill with ME?"

"No, actually, I'll dispute the bill with your boss." Click.

I redial, getting the name partner on the phone before Steve-arino can put his loafers back on and scramble to her her office.

I dial back my rage and calmly tell her my problem in one breath.

Maybe I was right.
Maybe she was not in a fighting mood.
Maybe she'd heard from one too many clients about Stevie-poo's heavy handed billing practices.

Whatever the case, she told me to pay what I thought was fair. I thanked her and promptly wrote and mailed a check for one our of billed time.

And then proceeded to receive collection letters for the next year.  Each of which I returned unpaid, with the same story scrawled across the bottom, explaining the arrangement I'd reached with the partner in charge.

And a few disparaging remarks about Stevie Weavie, just to entertain the Accounting Department.

That's why I have no lawyer.