Chapter Six
Taxi
“Yasssssssssss!!!!!” Elijah offered in my ear as his strong embrace lifted me two feet off the ground. “That is the best thing I’ve seen in years!”
Once my feet again touched the ground, I looked up at him and smiled, “really?”
“Yes. Definitely. Yes,” he confirmed.
“I messed up,” I frowned.
“I couldn’t tell,” he responded. “And who cares. That was the highlight of the weekend!”
“You’re just being nice,” I suggested.
“Come on. That was fun. Wasn’t that fun?” he asked.
“Yes. That was fun. Nerve-wracking, but fun.”
“Come on. We need a picture,” he commanded. Seeing his friend heading our way, he motioned for Jeremy, our favorite make-up artist, to assist.
“That was crazy,” Jeremy offered me a hug. “Who knew Parker could dance like that?”
“I did,” Elijah chimed in. “Can you take our picture?”
“Sure,” Jeremy took Elijah’s phone and snapped a few shots.
“Send me those,” I directed my comment at Elijah and he obliged.
“Are you going to change before the social?” he asked.
“Yes,” I responded.
“You shouldn’t,” he suggested and I smiled.
I had no idea when the weekend began that I would end up on stage in front of thousands of people, and apparently, a few local publications and broadcasts, with a bare mid-drift, surrounded by seven fellow dancers and an international celebrity of dance known for her talented hips, performing a routine I had learned only forty-eight hours prior.
It felt a little like the annual championships I attended as a child, all eyes watching, competitors hoping for a screw up, parents on the edge of their seats and holding their breath until the finish, although I had months to practice and perfect those performances.
I looked around the room, nodded to a few of my fellow performers and then headed to the nearest fountain to hydrate. Continuing to scan the room as I sipped, Elijah looked at me with a frown, “no partner in crime?” He read my thoughts.
“He has a trial tomorrow,” I informed Elijah about James.
“But you hoped he’d still come watch?” Elijah inquired, to which I shrugged my shoulders. “I’ll get you the video. Jeremy taped it for you.”
“Thank you,” I smiled, although I knew I didn’t want to watch it.
I pulled out my phone and viewed the message from Jeremy with video attachment, but a different message caught my attention.
An unread series of text messages from Rosie had blown up my phone about an hour before the performance when my phone was resting untouched in my bag in the warm-up space next to the large ballroom.
“I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“I know you’re on vacation through tomorrow.”
“All four kids have the chicken pox.”
“And I just started breaking out.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Taking a deep breath and exhaling with a sigh, I looked up at Elijah.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Change of plans,” I responded. “I need to leave tonight.”
“What? No. Why?” he placed his hand on my arm.
“Looks like I’ll have to cover a trial on Tuesday,” I relayed.
“It’s Sunday,” Elijah offered.
“I know, but I’ll have to get into the office early tomorrow and work things out.”
“Stay the night and drive straight to the office in the morning,” he suggested. “You have the room tonight, right?”
“Yes,” I responded. “I originally only booked it for three nights, but when I got here, I extended it to four. That was dumb.”
“So why would you leave now?”
“I don’t know,” I shook my head and Elijah’s eyes pleaded with me. “Okay. You’re right. I’ll stay,” I confirmed.
“Excellent. Let’s go dance,” Elijah grabbed my hand and pulled me down to the Kizomba room.
“Not Zouk?” I asked Elijah as we took to the floor.
“Ladies choice. It’s the least I could do after that performance,” he smiled. “And I know you prefer Kizomba.”
He was right. Although I don’t think I realized how much I was falling for Kizomba before the weekend started, no other genres had a chance after that three days of training.
I’d arrived at the hotel around 8:00 p.m. on Thursday, having awaited the end of rush hour traffic before making the commute from my office to the City. I had packed and repacked the night before, too excited to really contemplate what was needed for my four days of dance. But I had gleaned some insight from that first Congress and then the Festival, so at least my clothes and shoes options made sense.
It was only a few miles from my office but felt like a different world. My work gear had been left securely in my office, as I had no plans to let the law interfere with my dance vacation. After checking in, once again able to pay for my accommodations with rewards points, I unloaded my bags, changed my clothes and headed back down to the lobby to scope out the event. Opening night performers were preparing themselves and I coordinated with Austin and Annabelle for a quick bite to eat at the hotel bar before we ventured to the bottom floor of the grand structure, where a maze of ballrooms filled the space.
While listening to the typical welcome speeches from the hosts, one announcement caught my previously distracted attention.
“Did he say Kizomba ladies bootcamp?” I nudged Austin.
“I don’t know,” Austin responded.
“That’s what I heard,” Annabelle confirmed.
I pulled out my phone, found the website for the event, scrolled through my confirmation and found it. “Kizomba ladies bootcamp with celebrity instructor. No experience necessary. Participants will perform a choreographed routine during Sunday performances.”
I had forgotten that I signed up.
Later that evening at the social, I informed Elijah that I was enrolled in the bootcamp. He pulled up a video of the celebrity instructor and showed me.
I responded to watching her hip movements with, “I can’t do that.”
“Yet,” Elijah responded.
“What?”
“You can’t do that yet,” he smiled. “Now I’ll have to stay for the Sunday performances.”
After a dance with Elijah in the Zouk room, I wandered into the Kizomba room and found a spot along the wall to watch. The floor was filled with extremely talented dancers and I was content to rest to the side and just watch. That is, until I heard familiar lyrics blast through the large speaker to my right and smiled. It was recognizable as a Davi Stone tune I’d all but memorized since Zeke provided me with a playlist. My back came off the wall and I looked around in search of an available partner.
He grabbed my hand and nodded towards the dance floor, “looks like you’re a fan of the song.”
I smiled and followed him into the crowded space. Immediately intimidated by his grasp, as it was a hold I’d never experienced before, I struggled to follow his initial steps. He wasn’t as fluid as my typical Kizomba partners; not like Elijah’s organic movements, or the gentleman at the Festival with his natural flow; or Zeke with his patient and strong lead. This guy was a little stiff and he kept trying little tricks and movements that I had certainly seen others do, but hadn’t actually performed myself. It was a strange experience because I wanted to be good at following this lead, but could not understand how to do it. It was as if he was dancing in a foreign language and I couldn’t translate. He couldn’t hide his frustration and I was beyond embarrassed.
When the song ended, which I hadn’t even realized thanks to the stellar skills of the DJ, the lead stopped suddenly, offered a sharp, “thank you,” turned and walked away.
Finding my way back to the wall, I grabbed my water bottle, took a few swigs, and then shook my head in disbelief.
“Are you okay?” a woman beside me asked.
Turning towards her I smiled, “yes.”
“You sure?” she looked at me quizzically.
“Just a little overwhelmed. I’m still just learning,” I offered a bit of a frown.
“You did fine. It was actually his fault,” she suggested.
“I doubt that,” I responded.
“Trust me. I’m an instructor. It wasn’t you. It was him,” she added.
“Really?” her status as an instructor suddenly peaked my interest.
“It’s his job to assess your skills and give you a lead that matches your skill set. He shouldn’t have tried to force you to do all of those silly tricks that you weren’t ready for. You shouldn’t have to be anxious. You should get to enjoy.”
“Thank you,” I chuckled. “I feel better.”
“Good,” she nodded. “Let’s go.” She grabbed my hand and took me out onto the floor and led me through a few songs.
“Thank you,” I offered when our dances ended.
“My pleasure,” she smiled. “I hope you can join my class tomorrow.”
“Definitely. What is your name?”
“Natalie,” she responded. “I’m teaching beginner Urban Kiz.”
“Urban?” I inquired.
“Yes. That’s what that first lead was trying to lead you through,” she responded.
“No wonder I couldn’t follow.”
“It’s just a different style of Kizomba. Come tomorrow and you’ll learn all about it.”
“Thank you. I’ll be there.”
“Have fun tonight,” Natalie offered as she headed towards her next follow.
“You too,” I responded. “Thank you again.”
Many hours of dancing later, I found myself back in my room, where I showered, checked the schedule for the next day, ate a snack and hydrated, then fell soundly to sleep.
Natalie’s class was my first of the day and she provided an informative and pleasant experience. I met several nice leads and follows during the hour, all new to me, and stuck around after the class to chat with Natalie about her available classes after the weekend’s event. She was a local instructor and had classes starting up in the next month at a studio within miles of my office. She provided me with her contact information and suggested I reach out with any questions about the classes.
My second class was scheduled to be taught by the same celebrity dancer who would be teaching the bootcamp and I was excited to get some insight into her style and instruction. When I entered the ballroom, it was more crowded than I’d ever seen a class at one of these events. I happened upon Zeke and Sarah, the only people I recognized in the room, and chatted with them while we stretched and waited for class to start. She entered the room with an entourage of sorts, although none of her people would be serving as a practice partner for the class. She asked us to form a circle, with her in the middle, so all could view the instruction. She ordered us to partner with the person standing next to us, alerted us she’d have us swap partners throughout the class and each of us would take a turn with her as either lead or follow, depending upon our preference. To my left, Zeke and Sarah predictably partnered up. Looking to my right, I cringed.
“Hello again,” he looked just as disappointed.
“Hi,” I feigned a smile.
“How was the rest of your night?” he asked and I could tell he was suggesting that the part of the evening we spent dancing was something to overcome.
“Great,” I answered sharply.
“Glad to hear it,” he responded.
“So, you prefer Urban Kiz?” I asked.
“You-,” he paused, “you know Urban?”
“As of this morning,” I looked him in the eye.
“Cool,” was his only response. “I’m Elliott.”
“Parker.”
Thankfully our conversation was cut short by the start to the instruction. Although her obvious celebrity bred intimidation, she was actually an incredibly skilled and patient instructor. She provided us with instruction on a series of movements, advising both leads and follows simultaneously, and even provided individual feedback each time a person took their turn in the middle of the circle. On my turn in the middle, I fared better at following than Elliott handled leading the master of Urban Kiz and I was a little elated at my slight success over my Thursday night nemesis.
The class excited me about the bootcamp later that afternoon, but with a break in workshops, I reached out to my brother-in-law for a quick lunch. He worked about three blocks from the hotel and had given me several restaurant suggestions before I started the long weekend. I suggested he pick one of his favorites and I’d meet him. We met for paninis and sat on a nearby bench in between his office and my hotel on a perfect Friday afternoon in the sun.
“How’s it going?” he asked as we enjoyed our sandwiches.
“I’m having fun,” I answered honestly. “I’m a little nervous about performing on Sunday, but I guess I’ll worry about that later.”
“You’re a pro. Nothing to worry about,” he suggested.
“We’ll see,” I chuckled. “I still can’t believe I signed up.”
“I can,” he offered. “You don’t shy away from challenges.”
“I guess that runs in the family,” I responded.
“Cheers to that,” he tapped his lemonade to mine.
Back at the hotel, I found the location of the bootcamp and couldn’t hide my excitement as I waited for class to begin. There were only a few participants, even fewer after the first session, but Sarah’s attendance put me at ease. Our instructor showed us the entire routine from a stage at the front of the room. I immediately liked the music but wasn’t sure I was capable of moving in a way that matched the melodies; I certainly couldn’t come close to looking like the instructor.
During our first bootcamp class, we learned the first half of the choreography. Specific guidance and instruction would be saved for our next class the following day. We did receive instructions on performance wear. Of the three mandatory items, I had one with me at the event. I decided to worry about the other items later. A kind participant named Maritza, Mari for short, “pronounced as if the ‘r’ is a ‘d’,” she explained, chatted me up during the bootcamp and asked me if we could meet up to practice. I asked Sarah to join us, realizing she had nearly mastered the choreography already and could likely help Mari and I succeed. We scheduled our first practice session after the next class of the day, which would give us a couple of hours before the performances and social.
I joined Elijah, Austin and Annabelle for a Zouk class.
“How’s the bootcamp going?’ Elijah asked.
“It’s hard,” I answered as I attempted to perform the footwork we’d just learned.
“You’ll be fine,” Elijah assured me.
“I wish I had signed up,” Annabelle chimed in.
“Me too,” I commented. “There are some nice ladies in the group.”
I picked up a few new moves in Zouk class, but honestly couldn’t wait to get back to the choreography and get an assist from Sarah. She had asked the instructor for a copy of the music and had brought her boyfriend, Mario, to the practice session to handle the audio for us.
We made a lot of progress in our two-hour practice session, but I still felt incredibly unprepared. We exchanged contact information and Mari offered to find the suspenders, while I’d search for the white tank tops, each part of our mandatory uniforms for the performance. That last item was a pair of jeans, which luckily, we all had with us for the weekend. We set up our next practice session for the same time on Saturday, and I copied the music from Sarah so I could put in a few extra hours on my own.
After such a long day, I decided to forego watching performances in favor of a nap and shower before heading downstairs for the socials. I entered the elevator to find it occupied by a kind-looking gentleman who smiled as I entered. Moments later, the elevator stopped. The doors didn’t open and we couldn’t tell if we had reached the lobby or were hanging between floors. My heart began to race and I could see a bit of anxiety on the face of the gentleman. He took two steps towards the doors, pushed a button and then stepped back.
I looked at him and asked, “should I push the emergency button?”
“Couldn’t hurt,” he responded.
A bell rang several times before a voice came across a speaker, “we’ll be right there to get you out.”
“Thank you,” I responded gratefully.
“Well, I guess we could take this opportunity to get to know one another,” the man suggested.
“I’m Parker,” I smiled.
“Jerome,” he responded. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too.”
“Are you here for the event?” he asked.
“Yes,” I responded. “You?”
“Yes. I drove in with my buddy last night.”
“From where?”
“Nashville.”
“Long drive.”
“It was. And my buddy inhaled at least five energy drinks in the last two hours of the drive. He was a little cabin feverish when we arrived. And then he got immediately out on the dancefloor, which was a mistake.”
“Why?”
“He was a jerk to his first follow. I think he should’ve calmed down first and gotten some of the excess energy out instead of taking it out on a fellow dancer.”
“Sounds bad,” I suggested.
“Yeah. He basically tried to force her to do a style she obviously didn’t know and then was kind of rude about it when she couldn’t follow.”
“Really?’
“Yep. And the worst part is, he was asked to taxi at this event.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“Taxi?” he inquired.
“Yes,” I confirmed.
“At these events, they know there are going to be varying levels of skill, so they have the more advanced dancers ask follows to dance during the socials to help them feel more included and make sure everyone is having a good time.”
“That’s smart,” I responded. “So, I guess your buddy failed last night.”
“Failed miserably. He found what he descried as a shy-looking woman on the sidelines, asked her to dance and then proceeded to show her how advanced he was. Another taxi saw what happened and let’s just say the hosts weren’t pleased.”
“Wow. Okay. I guess they take it pretty seriously around here.”
“It was his fault. He feels bad though. All he has been talking about all afternoon is trying to find that follow and apologize,” Jerome relayed.
“Sounds like he really is sorry. I hope he finds her.”
The doors finally opened and Jerome and I walked together towards the event.
“Which room are you headed to?” Jerome asked.
“Kizomba,” I responded.
“Me too,” he smiled. “Can I have the first dance?”
“Absolutely,” I smiled as we entered the room. We both set our bags on the floor, changed our shoes and walked onto the dance floor.
Jerome was an amazing lead and a perfect way to start my dance evening. He had a hold that partially resembled the hold I had experienced the night before in my first dance with a stranger, but he was gentle, smooth and perfectly timed his steps and actions with mine. At the end of the first song, I awaited the thank you, but he tightened his grip on my hand and said, “one more?”
I smiled and we continued the dance. Minutes later, he ended the dance with a spin and walked me to the side of the room.
“Thank you for the dance, Parker,” he nodded. “Oh, here’s my buddy. Let me introduce you.”
“No introductions necessary,” I looked at Jerome.
“We met last night,” Elliott informed his friend.
“Oh. Wait. This is the follow?” Jerome posed the question to his friend.
“I’m so sorry,” Elliott directed his apology to me.
“Geez, Elliott. You picked the nicest woman at the event to be a jerk to?” Jerome chastised his friend.
“I really am sorry. There is no excuse.”
“All is forgiven,” I responded.
“Can I make it up to you?” Elliott asked.
“How?”
He put out his hand, which I took, and he lead me onto the dancefloor. I turned to find Jerome offering a thumb’s up.
“Clean slate,” Elliott said as we stood face to face on the dancefloor. He took my left hand in his and placed it on his shoulder, then took my right hand in his and placed it on his chest with his hand covering mine. I felt his feet slowly begin to move, but it wasn’t the robotic or forced movements I had experienced the night before. It was softer, slower and matched the melodies permeating the room.
“You like Davi Stone,” he commented.
“Yes,” I confirmed.
“I remember from last night. I like him too,” were the last words he said during our dance.
It couldn’t have been more different than the night before. He made me feel like a pro and seemed to bring out the best in my amateur Kizomba skills. He even tried one trick and smiled when it worked, then moved swiftly back into that close hold that started the dance. At times, we were cheek to cheek, and but for the slight resting of the frame of his glasses on my temple, I felt no discomfort. I felt comfort. But it was more than that. I felt healed. His hand rested on my spine and I could feel the warmth where once I’d only felt pain. His movements, which felt like an attack the night before, now felt safe and protective. It was a beautiful dance and my favorite to date. No other dances that night, or any night after, matched its elegance. Connection. I finally understood.
Saturday brought another couple of classes, after which I accepted an invitation from Jerome and Elliott to join them for lunch. We found a busy pizza place a block from the hotel and chatted about dance, events, their travel from Nashville all over the country and our respective day jobs. Jerome was an IT professional, while Elliott enjoyed life as an architect. He explained how his love of Urban Kiz stemmed from his work. The precision, organization, planning and linear thinking required for designing buildings and properties played out in his dancing, or so he believed. I informed the gentleman about my conversations with Elijah, how he believed that the law impacted my dancing and physics his playful movements at any social.
We discussed upcoming events on the East Coast and they gave me recommendations.
“If we end up attending the same events, I have an idea for a game,” Elliott informed us.
“A game?” I inquired.
“Yes. Kind of. You’re a fan of Davi’s music, as am I,” Elliott started.
“Huge fan,” Jerome pointed to his friend.
“Yes. Huge fan. Thank you, buddy.”
“So, what’s the game?” Jerome inquired.
“I say we make a promise to each other,” he was looking squarely at me. “Any time we are both at an event and one of Davi’s songs play, we have to find each other and dance.”
“How often do they play his songs at a typical event?” I asked.
“I’d say two or three times,” Elliott responded.
“That sounds right,” Jerome confirmed.
“Okay,” I offered.
“You’re in?” Elliott asked.
“I’m in,” I put out my hand.
Elliott shook my hand, “beautiful.”
Leaving Elliott and Jerome after lunch, I walked through the City streets until I found the perfect shopping spot. I purchased five white tank tops in various sizes before heading back to the hotel for more dancing.
I spent the afternoon learning the second half of the choreography in bootcamp, followed by a few hours of additional practice with Sarah and Mari. I handed out tank tops and put the leftovers in my bag, while Mari handed out the black suspenders she found for us.
“Dinner?’ a text lit up my screen when I was back in my room, and had showered and changed for the evening.
“Yes. Starving,” I responded to James. His apartment was only a couple of blocks from the hotel and we had planned to meet for dinner before the performances and social.
“Meet you in the lobby in ten,” James relayed.
“See you there,” I responded.
The past two days of walking around the City in the summer sun had left my skin sun-kissed and the intensive physical activity and lack of sleep had somehow left my mood enlivened yet slap happy. I had left the dinner plans in James’ capable hands and as always, his choice didn’t disappoint. It was a fusion restaurant with impeccable views and refreshing cocktails that capped off what had already been an amazing day. I updated him on all of the event activities, the people, and, of course, the bootcamp.
“Sunday night?” James asked.
“Yes. That’s when we perform,” I confirmed.
“I have trial on Monday,” he said.
“It’s okay. Bad timing,” I took a sip from my cocktail and chased it with a sip of water.
“I wish I could but-” he didn’t finish his thought.
“No worries,” I assured him.
We took our time walking back to the hotel and my eyes lingered on the combination of historic architecture and neon lights. “You ready for some Salsa?” I asked as we approached the entrance to the event.
“Always,” he responded with a smile.
I’d spent much of my social time on Thursday and Friday in the Kizomba and Zouk rooms, knowing that when James joined me on Saturday, I’d be headed to the Salsa-filled spaces.
“I don’t mind trying the other rooms,” James added.
“Really?” I smirked.
“Sure.”
“Okay.”
We caught a few of the performances before the social began. I had yet another pair of new shoes to test out on the dancefloor, which I had purchased at the event to comport with the performance attire rules. They were a pretty standard Kizomba black with mirrored heel, although mine were at least two inches shorter than my fellow participants’ choices.
“Those are fancy,” James looked down at my feet as we walked onto the dancefloor.
“Let’s see if they help me dance,” I responded.
Although it had been a few weeks since we’d partnered, our first few dances went well. We each tried on another several partners, before taking a break and heading to the fountain.
“Let’s check out Zookie,” James suggested.
“Okay,” we headed down the hall to another ballroom. Upon entering, Elijah spotted me and rushed over.
“You mind?” he asked of James, who shook his head and grabbed my cup.
Elijah and I enjoyed a spirited round of Zouk, filled with comedy and smiles, and more than enough body rolls for my taste. He tried out a few of the sequences we learned at the workshop the day before and made sure we ended our dance with a dip right in front of James.
“Are you coming tomorrow night? She’s performing. I can’t wait,” Elijah asked of James.
“I don’t think I can make it,” James responded.
“Awww. Okay. I’ll video it,” Elijah offered.
“Thanks,” James nodded to Elijah. A moment later, he added, “we’ll see. Maybe it’ll work out.”
I looked over at James and offered, “we’re headed to the Kizomba room.”
“See you later,” Elijah said, then headed back on to the dancefloor.
“Kizomba?” James asked.
“Yeah. Then we can head back to Salsa.”
“No rush,” James smiled and we headed across the hall. “So, this is the style you are performing?” he asked.
“Kind of,” I responded. “The performance is ladies styling of Kizomba. So, no partners.”
“Interesting,” he took a final sip from his cup before tossing it in the nearest trash can.
I refilled my cup and asked, “what do you think?”
“I don’t get it,” he shrugged.
“How would you describe it?” I asked.
“Kind of boring. I mean, I know you said it’s called the walking dance, and that’s what it looks like. It looks like they’re walking, not dancing.”
“Let me see if I can spot a good pair. Maybe you can see some Urban,” I suggested.
“Urban? Is that different?” he asked.
“More movement. More tricks. More linear. Less fluid.”
“Okay.”
“Look at them,” I motioned towards a couple. “That’s Zeke and Sarah. They’re instructors.”
“Okay,” James acknowledged.
“Okay. So, the song playing right now is designed more for Urban style. Let’s see how they handle it,” I added.
James looked over at me as if I had acquired a breadth of knowledge he didn’t expect. I motioned for him to watch the dancers and he obliged.
“Okay,” he acted as if he was awaiting some grand epiphany that wasn’t readily forthcoming.
I held my cup up close to my lips and with my best sportscaster voice started, “Zeke goes in for the close hold. Sarah responds. Basic. Basic. And double time. He leads her into a saida. And there it is, basic half-time. Zeke is a stellar instructor who hosts several events in the DMV. He also serves as one of our favorite DJ’s, setting up the tunes we love and helping us make memories we cherish. Sarah is classically trained and can both lead and follow in any style. Zeke elegantly moves Sarah’s right foot to the side and wait for it, wait for it, here it comes, and there it is – the trick. Let’s play that back in slow motion. Watch as Zeke shifts his weight, forcing Sarah to lean, keeping the frame. Zeke steps to his right and Sarah falls elegantly against Zeke’s side. They stay in the hold. Sarah looks away and then Zeke shifts his weight again, Sarah shifts seamlessly onto her left foot. She’s now behind Zeke, walking around, walking around and boom – he stops her. One tap of the foot in front of her, a perfectly placed hand before her and his other hand, you don’t know it, but it’s alerted her core to halt movement. There you have it folks. Kizomba!”
I turned to find James staring at me incredulous.
I paused, looked him in the eye, took a sip from my cup, then looked back at the dancefloor.
“Salsa room?” I asked.
“Let’s go,” he couldn’t help but chuckle.
We danced a few more times until James left around 2:30 a.m. I headed back to the Kizomba room and enjoyed a few dances with Elliott and Jerome before heading to bed around 4:00 a.m.
I let myself sleep in and decided to focus on the performance instead of classes. Mari and I met up after lunch and practiced until Sarah joined us around 4:00 p.m. We all coordinated coming back together for more practice and to get dressed and ready at 8:00 p.m. We were slated as the last performance of the evening, which meant plenty of time to practice. Everyone except Sarah was nervous.
This wasn’t new to me. I had performed many times in my life and I guess, technically, I performed every day in Court. But this felt different. Perhaps it was that our instructor decided to tell me five minutes before we performed that I had been doing one movement totally wrong. Or perhaps it was that our instructor took scissors to each of our tank tops and insisted we all bare our bellies. I was uncomfortable in the attire and I hadn’t yet truly broken in my new shoes. But it was time.
The crowded cheered non-stop. First for our celebrity instructor who stood prominently at the front of the stage and shook her hips after being announced. Then at the timely and energetic music she selected for the number. Then for the fact that the bulk of the choreography required us to face the back of the stage before finally turning around with a smile. And finally, maybe it was the outfits. No matter the cause, it felt invigorating to hear the crowd cheer and clap and I was elated to see Elijah smiling back at me from the front row.
Despite my feelings of accomplishment and success on the stage, and the many dances I was offered when leads recognized the outfit that Elijah suggested I keep on after the performance, it was difficult to truly enjoy the rest of the evening when my mind was already planning for a trial.
Catching Elliott and Jerome on my way out the next morning, we chatted over coffee and croissants, and exchanged contact information before leaving the hotel.
Once in my office, Rosie and I contacted the client on a conference call and asked if she wanted a postponement, so that Rosie could handle the trial at a later date, or if she wanted to proceed with me as lead counsel. Worried about the delay, she opted for me to stand in and try the case.
Rosie had done a brilliant job with preparations and had left nothing incomplete. Since I had been supervising Rosie throughout the litigation and was involved in the preparation, I planned to spend my day reviewing all of Rosie’s preparation and adjusting it for my voice and demeanor.
I spent time with our client and expert witnesses, making sure they were familiar with my communication style and tone, but I spent the bulk of the time preparing for the cross examination of the Defendant. He was a self-represented attorney by profession, who hadn’t really practiced law in several years, but was more aggressive, obnoxious and arrogant than any lawyer we’d opposed recently. More arrogant than even Mr. Ivy League.
He had refused to provide my client with any financial support throughout the litigation, preferring instead to expend significant funds on his new girlfriend, a woman half his age who was gainfully employed, while my client who had been married to the man for thirty years and raised their three children, was now disabled and unable to support herself. She couldn’t pay us for our services, nor pay for the expert services that the case mandated. And so, in addition to asking the Court to order financial support for our client, we were asking for the Defendant to pay our fees and the fees of the experts.
Because of his grotesque behavior towards his wife, and his unconscionable behavior towards Rosie throughout the litigation, I didn’t just want to cross-examine him. I wanted to light him up.
I needed to engross myself in the case, to make sure I missed nothing, to over-prepare. So, I decided to pull an all-nighter, something I hadn’t done in years.
James was kind enough to bring my favorite lo mein and join me for dinner in my office around 8:00 p.m. He even helped me talk through a few anticipated evidence issues and we brainstormed on effective cross-examination techniques for the Defendant’s personality. He left me to my preparations around 10:00 p.m.
A little after 5:00 a.m., I headed to the office gym and spent an hour on the treadmill reviewing my notes before showering and getting dressed for Court. My proclivity for preparation meant I always had an extra suit, freshly dry-cleaned, in my office, and the bottom drawer of my desk housed a couple of pairs of comfortable flats.
Malorie arrived at 7:30 a.m. with fresh coffee and bagels. She handled a few last-minute exhibits I’d decided upon overnight and by 8:30 a.m., we were headed to Court. I asked Malorie to join and assist with exhibits and provide extra support for the client.
Our client handled the testimony well, even with the awkward experience of her husband cross-examining her, and our experts couldn’t have done better. But then came the part I was waiting for; it was time for the Defendant to take the witness stand.
It’s never easy having a person testify in their own case, without an attorney to help navigate the examination. But he was an attorney, so it should be fine, right?
“Sir, as I said, you need to actually address relevant facts,” the Judge instructed him.
“That’s what I’m trying to do,” the Defendant sounded exasperated.
“Your Honor,” the Judge added.
“What?” the Defendant asked.
“That’s what I’m trying to do, Your Honor,” she repeated.
“Your Honor,” he repeated making a face.
“Sir, you will address this Court with respect,” the Judge commanded.
“What I was trying to say is that she needs to get off her butt and get a job. I’m not giving her any money,” he testified.
“Well, that’s what we are here to decide. Whether you will pay her support,” the Judge instructed.
“No. You’re not hearing me. I don’t care what you do. I’m not paying her anything,” the Defendant stated matter-of-factly.
“Sir, do you have anything else to say?” the Judge inquired.
“I’m done,” he responded.
“Counsel,” she addressed me, “Cross?”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” I responded to the Judge.
“Sir, are you telling this Court that if you are ordered to pay support to your wife that you will not pay that support?” I inquired.
“Duh,” he responded.
“Sir, your response to my question is ‘duh’?” I repeated his word.
He didn’t respond.
“Does that mean yes?” I asked.
He touched his finger to his nose.
“Sir, you have to answer out loud,” the Judge stated.
“Yes,” he rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to let you women in this room tell me what I’m going to do with my money. It’s my money. I earned it,” he added.
“Sir, you’re a lawyer, right?” I asked.
“Better one than you,” was his response.
“How’s that?” I asked.
“I do real law. Not this crap you call law,” he responded.
“Watch it, sir,” the Judge warned.
“When you say real law, you mean real estate law, right?”
“That’s what I do.”
“Did,” I corrected him. “Because you just testified that you are refusing to work anymore, right?”
“I’m not going to work if I have to pay her.”
“So, you quit your job?’
“Not yet.”
“So, you’re currently a real estate lawyer, right?”
“Yes.”
“And with the exception of representing yourself in this case, you’ve never represented a client in court, right?”
“No. That’s not my job. I do the hard stuff.”
“The hard stuff. You review the paperwork for real estate transactions, right?”
“That’s not all I do.”
“That’s what you mostly do, right?”
He didn’t respond.
“Sir, you have to answer the question,” the Judge was frustrated.
“What was the question,” the Defendant asked.
“You spend most of your working hours reviewing paperwork for real estate transactions, right?”
“Yes.”
“And for that work, your annual salary is $560,000, right?”
“It’ll be more this year,” he responded.
“How much more?”
“I’ll break 6.”
“But you didn’t mention that in your Answers to Interrogatories, did you?”
“I didn’t know I had to.”
“Sir, I will direct your attention to your Answer to Interrogatory No. 2. I asked you your expected annual salary, bonuses and benefits for this and the next calendar year. Your response was quote none of your business end-quote. Do you recall that answer?”
He began chuckling, “yes.”
“Is refusing to appropriately answer discovery requests funny?”
“Yes.”
“Is it $5,000 worth of funny?”
“Maybe.”
“Because that is what the Court ordered you pay to me for attorneys’ fees based upon your discovery failures.”
“I’m not paying that.”
“Sir, again, are you saying that you a refusing to follow a Court Order?”
“You finally get it.”
“Do you still have your financial statement in front of you?”
“Right here,” the Defendant waived the paperwork.
“On that Financial Statement, you reported your income as $560,000 per year, right?”
“Yes.”
“So, that amounts to about $47,000 per month, right?”
“You do the math.”
“I just did the math. $47,000, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And after taxes and other deductions, that’s about $30,000 net, right?”
“If you say so.”
“Right?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve listed expenses of $15,000 per month, right?”
“I live in a good neighborhood.”
“Good for you. And it costs you about $15,000 per month to pay your monthly bills, right?”
“That’s what it says.”
“So, based upon your income, and subtracting your deductions, you can cover your own expenses and still have $15,000 extra per month, right?”
“I’m frugal.”
“Great. So you can provide that $15,000 per month to my client in support, right?”
“Not a chance.”
“And that doesn’t even account for the increased income you expect to receive this year, right?”
“I work hard.”
“And because you work hard, you’ve been able to put about $200,000 in savings, right?”
“Yeah. About that. I wish it was higher.”
“So even without your income, you have access to funds right now that you can provide to your wife for her support, right?”
“That’s my savings for emergencies.”
“You could’ve used those funds to hire an attorney in this case, right?”
“I’m not paying one of you dumb-“
“Watch it,” interrupted the Judge.
“I don’t need a lawyer. I am a lawyer.”
“And as a lawyer, you thought it was appropriate to send me and my associate approximately ten emails per business day, as well as a few on the weekends, for the past six months, right?”
“I’m a good writer.”
“Okay. Let’s look at some of those emails. I’m showing you what I’ve had marked as Plaintiff’s Exhibit Number Four. Is that your email to my associate?”
“Looks like it.”
“Sir, is that your email to my associate?”
“Yes,” he chuckled.
“Is your email funny?” I asked.
“I think it is.”
“Please read the email to the Court.”
“Starting with your associate’s email to me?”
“Yes.”
“I am writing to request that we attend mediation with a mutually agreed upon mediator to resolve the outstanding issues and avoid litigation fees. Please let me know if you are willing to participate in mediation and if you have any mediators you would like us to consider.”
“That was my associate’s email to you, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And your response?”
“Ummm,” the Defendant looked at the Judge.
“Sir, is there a problem?” the Judge inquired.
“Am I allowed to use expletives if I’m reading from an exhibit?”
“Why don’t you just replace the expletives with ‘expletive’ and I’ll read the exhibit myself.”
“Okay. My response was ‘Go expletive yourself you incompetent expletive.’”
“Okay. Thank you,” I snatched the exhibit from the Defendant. “Move to enter Plaintiff’s Exhibit Number Four,” I directed my request to the Judge.
“Received,” she responded.
“Now I’m showing you what I’ve had marked as Plaintiff’s Exhibit Number Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine and Ten. Are those your emails to my associate and I?”
“Yes.”
“And do those emails contain expletives directed at me?”
“No.”
“Those emails don’t contain expletives?”
“They do. But not all of them are directed at you.”
“Who else are they directed to?”
“Her,” he pointed at his wife.
“Let the record reflect that the Defendant is pointing at the Plaintiff,” the Judge chimed in.
“Thank you, Your Honor. Move to enter Plaintiff’s Exhibits Numbered Five through Ten.”
“Received.”
“Sir, now I’m showing you what I’ve had marked as Plaintiff’s Exhibit Number Eleven. Is that your bank statement for the most recent month?”
“Yeah.”
“So, you currently have $240,000 in your savings account, correct?”
“And some change.”
“And you have about $15,000 in your checking account, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you. Move to enter Plaintiff’s Exhibit Number Eleven.”
“Received.”
“Why does this matter?” the Defendant asked.
“Sir, I ask the questions and you answer the questions.”
“I can’t ask questions?” the Defendant added.
“No, sir. You had your chance to testify. Now it’s counsel’s turn to ask questions,” the Judge instructed.
“But her questions are dumb,” the Defendant responded. “She’s just jealous because I have more money in my account than she does,” he added pointing at me.
“For now,” I stated under my breath and I caught the Judge smirking.
“You won’t be getting any of my money,” the Defendant raised his voice.
I proceeded to grill the Defendant on his expenses, assets and liabilities, and the significant sums he expended traveling and buying gifts for his girlfriend while failing to provide any support for his wife. He was one of the worst witnesses I’d ever seen and it wasn’t remotely hard to impeach his credibility at every turn. An hour later, I concluded with, “Your Honor, I think I’m done with this guy.”
“Thank you, counsel.”
The Defendant gave me so much fuel for my closing argument, that I could’ve gone on for hours. But after directing the Court’s attention to what I believed was the most important testimony and evidence, I tried to sum up our requests and why they should be granted.
The Court promptly agreed with our requests.
“I will Order support of $15,000 per month, but it’ll be paid via garnishment,” the Judge ruled.
“You can’t do that!” the Defendant rose to his feet.
“I can and I just did. You told me that you wouldn’t pay. In order to ensure compliance with the Court’s Order, I’m taking it out of your hands. Sit down.”
“I’ll quit my job,” the Defendant directed his comment to me. “You women,” he began shaking his head. “You’ll all get what’s coming to you.”
“Sir, stop talking. You’re only hurting yourself. Your behavior in this Courtroom and your behavior towards not only your wife, but fellow members of the Bar, is contemptuous. The emails said it all but then your comments during this Trial, I believe, require me to notify Bar Counsel. Your license is in jeopardy. You should find a good lawyer. Because I’m finding you in contempt. And here’s your purge. I am Ordering you to pay to your wife $90,000 within the next ten days. That will cover the support you should have been paying her for the past six months. And I’m Ordering you to pay to your wife’s attorney $40,000 within the next ten days. That will cover her attorneys’ fees and expert fees.”
The Defendant sat shaking his head and mumbling under his breath.
“Do you have any questions, sir?”
“What happens when I don’t pay it?”
“Jail,” the Judge responded.
“You can’t do that,” the Defendant chuckled as he spoke.
“You have the right to consult with a real attorney,” she closed the filed on her desk and stood.
“Thank you, counsel,” she directed to me.
“Thank you, Your Honor.”
A door opened at the back of the courtroom and two Sheriffs entered. The Judge nodded towards them.
I turned to find James sitting in the gallery, then turned to face the Judge and wondered how long James had been there.
Turning to the Defendant, the Judge spoke, “sir, please stand.”
“You’re trying to lock me up now?” the Defendant looked incredulous.
“I’ve asked the Deputy to remove you from the courthouse. And just in case you were wondering, the second Deputy is ensuring Parker and her client make it safely back to her office.”
“I was just joking,” the Defendant stood and looked towards the Sheriffs.
“You’re not funny,” the Judge responded. “But I do see a criminal defense attorney in the gallery. Perhaps he will give you his card on the way out.”
“No thanks, Your Honor,” James stood and offered.
With a smile the Judge concluded with, “we are adjourned.”
After a brief chat with our client and a quick call to Rosie to tell her how it went, I declined James’ offer of a happy hour but accepted his offer to walk me to my car.
“How much did you see?” I asked.
“Cross and closing,” James answered.
“And?” I wanted his thoughts.
“It was good. Not as good as me, but good.”
“Thanks.”
“And it definitely wasn’t as good as that performance on Sunday night.”
“What?” I stopped walking and looked at him. “Oh, right. The video.”
“The video was alright, but I liked it better live.”
“You were there?” I stood stunned.
“Yep. But I couldn’t stick around afterwards. Besides, you looked busy with admirers,” he rolled his eyes.
I began walking again, “I can’t believe you were there.”
“You sure you don’t wanna grab a drink?”
“I can’t. I need sleep. Raincheck.”
“Okay.”
“But I will give you a ride to your office.”
“Least you could do,” he commented as he opened the passenger-side door.
I awakened the next morning to several messages across social media, including photos and comments about my performance (dance not court), new acquaintances attempting to connect, and an invite from Natalie to sign up for her next Kizomba class series.
I recalled my conversation with my niece, Victoria, just a few weeks prior when I expressed my goal of finding balance. She joked that I talked balance while simultaneously coordinating a private lesson with Zeke, which only added to my overwhelming schedule. But honestly, she couldn’t expect me to overcome that ever present overachiever mentality overnight, right?
I poured myself a large cup of coffee and as my head spun wildly with memories of the past few days’ events, I twirled a spoonful of sugar in my cup, weaving it in and out of the dark roast like steps from the many dances I’d enjoyed.
Grabbing my phone from a nearby counter, I found Natalie’s class information on a website, booked a series of classes that would start in a few weeks, and wondered if I’d ever master any version of Kizomba. “We shall see,” I said to myself with a smile.
Time to meet the Sailor.