Sheila had taken off by the time I got to the office. A stack of mail waited for me. I hauled it upstairs, separating wheat from chaff as I went. I spied an envelope with the divorce interrogatories. Flipping through the pages, I groaned at how often the defendant refused to answer a question—and on the flimsiest of grounds. I tossed them onto the desk and rubbed my temples. Ahead lay the torturous process of negotiating with Slippery Steve—making a “good faith” effort to work out our differences—before we took our dispute to the judge. Judges enjoy resolving discovery disputes—especially in divorce and custody cases—about as much as scrubbing toilets with a toothbrush. There has to be an easier way, I thought.
On the plus side, I’d gotten a decent offer to settle the “bruised knee” case.
