California Breakup : ‘Divorce is...

DRESSED IN A BLACK LEATHER-TRIMMED SUIT and clutching a court order, Arlene Colman-Schwimmer picks her way through a junkyard of scrap iron inhabited by a couple of shabby-looking dogs. It is drizzling, and the high heels of her Bruno Magli pumps sink in the mud. But she presses on toward a lonely tin shack.

As one of Los Angeles’ priciest and most powerful family-law attorneys, Schwimmer knows her way around mud--at least the kind that is slung between acrimonious spouses. Today, she is the point woman of a divorce platoon bent on exhuming ammunition from the dusty cartons and metal filing cabinets that clutter the shack’s back room. Trailing behind her are two men in blue jeans and one in a business suit, armed with the weapons of modern divorce war: microfilm machines and calculators.

Schwimmer, an imposing woman who garnishes her conversation with Yiddishisms and off-color humor, reaches the shack first. She turns to the man in the business suit, Jim Cohen, a $185-an-hour forensic accountant she’s retained for this high-profile case. “Can you believe this schmutz ?”she says, flinging open the door.

What Colman--Schwimmer needs to find in this ratty hut is proof of hidden income to which she believes her client, Laurie Fisher, is entitled. (The names of all the divorcing couples in this story have been changed.) The way Colman--Schwimmer has it figured, Fisher’s husband, David, is in partnership with his brother in the scrap-iron business and, therefore, his share of it should be divided under California community-property law. But David Fisher claims that the money he’s received--hundreds of thousands during more than 20 years of marriage--has all been loans, not partnership draws. Although the brothers have been stonewalling Colman--Schwimmer for weeks, her court order means they can no longer prevent her access to company records.

Colman--Schwimmer and Cohen sift through the unruly pile of papers, passing some along to be copied by the men in jeans, who have set up their microfilm machines on two rickety wooden desks. The other side has been either truthful or careful: Though there are numerous canceled checks made out to the husband, they are all stamped “Loan to David Fisher” in the memo portion.

Late in the day, a bleary-eyed Colman--Schwimmer sucks in her breath and calls Cohen over. She waves a $5.95 bill from a nearby stationery store. “For one rubber stamp,” it says, “to read, ‘Loan to David Fisher.’ ” The date of purchase is after the filing of the divorce action. The brothers had taken out all the pre-divorce checks and imprinted them with the post-divorce stamp.

“This was a piece of evidence that turned everything around,” Colman--Schwimmer says. “You’d never dream that some moron would just let it stay in a file. We’d hit the brass ring.”

From Bedroom To Balance Sheet

MARITAL BEHAVIOR BECAME IRRELEVANT as the basis for the awarding of property with the California Family Law Act of 1970. The Year of No-Fault shifted the locus of legal snooping from bedroom to balance sheet, making the business of family law--once regarded as only slightly less sleazy than criminal law--both fashionable and intellectually appealing. Today, adultery is only germane if it can be linked to finances. “Now if a man pays his chickey-poo a $30,000 salary and claims she’s his secretary,” Colman--Schwimmer says, “and the wife’s lawyer can prove that Chickey-poo can’t tell a typewriter from a piano, you call it ‘misappropriation of funds,’ and you use it to jack up spousal support.”

In high-stakes cases, lawyers function like film producers, assembling a skilled crew to put together the financial picture. They hire accountants to trace, inventory and price property; actuaries to value pension plans and life insurance; appraisers for real estate, fine arts and furniture; specialized appraiser-accountants to estimate the value of a spouse’s business; tax experts to determine the tax consequences on each transfer of property, and psychiatrists and private investigators for child-custody disputes.

“In the past, you’d spend two days in court on who was sleeping with whom, and one day on property,” says Colman--Schwimmer. “Now when a lot of money is involved, you’re talking about 10 to 15 days--and it’s all about numbers.”

It’s not just tangible assets that are considered--the de Koonig, the IBM certificates, the million-dollar Trancas Beach lean-to. The future must also be price-tagged. Officially, the concept is called executive good will and defined by the courts as “the expectation of future public patronage.” It’s what Colman--Schwimmer calls “old-fashioned Schisselgelt-- key money. A little something extra just for being in place.”

Let’s say you own a grocery store. Calculating the value of the canned goods, the cash registers, the shopping carts is one thing. But how do you measure the worth of the 100 customers who can be expected to come in each day because yours is an established business?

Celebrity good will is a corollary. Had the first Nancy Sinatra stayed married to Frank all these years and then filed for divorce, she could have argued entitlement not just to half the community property but also to some proportion of Ol’ Blue Eyes’ future--his ability to go out any time and earn half a million for a performance (an ability that she presumably helped nurture).

Things can get tricky even with the tangibles. Suppose you earned a salary as a policeman during your marriage and wrote a novel in your spare time. After the divorce, you sell the novel. What you’ve written is community property, and your ex should get half of the proceeds. But if you’re asked to revise it, what percentage of the revision is the property of the marriage, and what is separate, since you’re now divorced?

More complications arise from co - mingling--legalese for the merging of separate and community assets. You buy a house before you get married and put $10,000 into it. You’re married for 20 years, and the house is now worth half a million. Is the house your separate property because you were the initial source of the acquisition? Are you entitled only to what you put into it, and if so, should you be reimbursed for the return on your investment? Or has the property lost its separate identity entirely, meaning you get your 50% and nothing more?

These are some of the conumdrums typically confronted by the dozen and a half family--law specialists who are in constant demand in Los Angeles’affluent enclaves, where both the assets and the acrimony make for the bloodiest and most Byzantine divorces, there are maybe a dozen and a half family-law specialists who are in constant demand. Superb negotiators as well as litigators (the vast majority of cases are settled out of court), these attorneys command base retainers that generally start at $10,000, and hourly rates of $250 to $500. Most are sole practitioners or members of small firms devoted to family law; this is not only because of their independent, entrepreneurial natures but also because of the constant one-on-one contact required by emotionally distraught clients. It is a profession that combines theatrical flair, pugnacity and pragmatism, with a strong sense of gallows humor.

Arlene Colman-Schwimmer, 47, is one of the few women in this elite crowd. The Brooklyn-born daughter of a cabdriver and a seamstress, she’s a street fighter with the tenacity of a pit bull. Though many of her fellow lawyers aren’t particularly enamored of her sometimes obnoxious and often outrageous tactics, she is accorded at least a grudging respect by those who come in contact with her. A few days in Colman--Schwimmer’s life is a crash course in the real game of L.A. Law--divorce division.

Drawing Up Plans Of Attack

BY 8 MOST weekday mornings, the spacious booths lining the perimeter of Otto Rothschild’s restaurant in the Music Center across from the Los Angeles County Courthouse are occupied by divorce lawyers awaiting the 8:30 opening of Department Two, which handles family-law matters. You can feel marriages rolling up like window shades all around you as the phrases “restraining order,” “separate bedrooms, separate entrances” and “phony good-will figures” co-mingle with the scent of crisp bacon and brewed decaf.

At her usual table against the restaurant’s back wall, Arlene Colman-Schwimmer orders a poached egg on rye and talks numbers with her only associate, Linda Gross. Gross, who is trying to settle a case for a doctor’s wife, runs some figures by Colman--Schwimmer: the assessed value of the medical practice, the Keogh, the retirement, the cars, equity in the house. The husband has borrowed against the Keogh plan to pay taxes each year, so there’s about $22,000 in community property debt, and attorneys’ fees to date are about $15,000. He’s paying her $4,000 a month under a temporary support order, plus picking up the debts.

“Can she live on what he’s giving her?” Colman--Schwimmer asks.

“Yeah, as long as she doesn’t have to give him any money to equalize anything.”

“So offer for him to give her $5,000 a month, and take $4,000,” Colman--Schwimmer says. “She gets the write-off on the house, which is bubkus (nothing)--$350 a month. Does she want lifetime (spousal support)?”

“At least for the next three or four years,” Gross says.

“What’s their posture? Are they waiting for you to make an offer so they can say, ‘Oh, (expletive) you,’ or do they really want to talk?”

“No, they want to settle. This man is not a family-law attorney. He took the case because of the guy’s uncle, who is a business client of his.”

Colman--Schwimmer’s delighted that the opposing counsel is on unfamiliar ground. “Great. So tell the lawyer first of all that on a 10-year marriage, his client is gonna get stuck with a lifetime support order.”

“Is that really true?” Gross asks.

“Depends,” Colman--Schwimmer says, cackling. “The thing is, the guy’s in Orange County, and it’s probably not true there, but I can tell him it’s true in L.A. He may not know the difference.” (Knowledgeable divorce lawyers with female clients prefer to file in the downtown L.A. courthouse, which tends to award larger support orders for longer periods of time. Torrance, Van Nuys and Orange County courts are known to favor husbands.)

Colman--Schwimmer rips open a packet of Sweet’n Low and pours it into her third cup of coffee. “Let’s move on to that bicoastal custody case,” she says to Gross. The father, who lives in Los Angeles, gets the 10-year-old son during summer and Christmas vacations, according to the custody agreement; during the school year, the boy lives with his mother in New York. Instead of sending the child home after this Christmas holiday, the father asked the court for a change in custody. The mother retained Colman--Schwimmer to fight her ex-husband.

Question: Does California still retain jurisdiction over the child, since the divorce occureed there, or does New York, now the child’s home state?

“Maybe we should try an end run--have our client file her own custody order in New York immediately,” Colman--Schwimmer says. She drums her long fuchsia fingernails against the edge of the table. “Of course, it could backfire. Who knows what kind of judge we’d get back East? But I’m inclined to risk a sneak attack.”

Gross, a 41-year-old South Dakotan, sighs happily. She switched from tax to family law two years ago and has never looked back. “I used to be addicted to soap operas,” Gross says. “Now I practice family law.”

The Dance Of Divorce--Act One

THE SOAP OPERA being waged this afternoon within the soothing mauve walls of Colman--Schwimmer’s Camden Drive offices is a subtle one. In the intimate conference room, with its soft lighting, three women sit along one arc of a round table. Colman--Schwimmer and Gross flank their client, Jane Donnelly, a chic, composed woman wearing a slim skirt and large jewels. Opposite them, surrounded by empty chairs, is Jane’s husband, John, a well-fed middle-aged man in Gucci shoes. John has requested this unorthodox meeting; his motive is to win Jane back. Colman--Schwimmer’s is to find out how far he’ll go to get her.

“I’m here to show my wife that I have nothing to hide,” John says in a deep Texas drawl. “I’m not saying that I haven’t hidden things in the past, OK.” His eyes dart to his wife, whose face betrays no emotion. “But now--” He looks back at Colman--Schwimmer, who smiles encouragingly. “I realize the importance of our marriage. If I show how I’m not gonna hide anything, maybe she’ll change her opinion about me.” He points to three large cartons of documents that he’s lugged into the office. “Here they are, all the records. I’ll work with your accountants. I’ll give them whatever they need.” He even agrees to sign a statement on penalty of perjury that he is making a complete disclosure of his assets.

Donnelly is an investment counselor and a lawyer who has chosen to represent himself in this divorce case. He is also very wealthy, thanks to the diversified businesses he’s set up, for which he takes management and attorney fees from his limited partners as well as a percentage on the gain in each investment. There is a maze of property trust accounts, law-office accounts, income-generating corporations, partnerships and rental properties to untangle before a settlement can be negotiated.

As Gross and Jane Donnelly scribble on yellow legal pads, Colman--Schwimmer asks John Donnelly a series of deceptively innocuous questions. How are expenses paid in your business? Do you have an associate? Do you share a secretary? What percentage do you hold in each of the corporations? Who are your partners? Was any of the property yours before the marriage?

“I will give you the true facts,” he says solemnly. “I don’t want my wife to be upset with me, and I know she will be if I mention my brother. But I had property before we were married, and I sold it and gave the funds, $410,000, to my brother in trust for my kids, not in my name. That’s separate property. But if you guys try to hang me on this,” he pauses for effect then locks eyes with Colman--Schwimmer, “I want my wife, and money won’t separate us. If she wants that money to be community property, fine--even though it’s not.”

“The muddying of lines between what is and isn’t yours, your clients’, the community--” Colman--Schwimmer’s tone drops almost to a whisper--”that’s the biggest point of contention I see.”

“No,” says John firmly. “No, it’s not. Because if she wants it, it’s all community. And I say that knowing I’m taking the risk of her divorcing me anyway.”

Gross keeps her head bent down over her legal pad; Jane remains poker faced; Colman--Schwimmer nods understandingly. No one fails to recognize that John Donnelly’s agreement not to contest the character of the funds has eliminated a major issue.

Donnelly leans towards Colman--Schwimmer. “Listen, I want you to know that I’ve seen an attorney.” Colman--Schwimmer feigns ignorance; she not only knows that he has but also who it is. “And this attorney said, ‘Let’s fight her.’ And I said, ‘If I’m going to give away money I’d rather give it to her than to lawyers.’ ”

He shoots one more meaningful look at Jane, who finally rewards him with a thin smile. When he gets up to leave, Colman--Schwimmer rises with him, shaking his hand warmly and thanking him for his candor. She walks him out, schmoozing about the real estate market, and then returns, closing the door behind her.

“Whatever it is you’re doing with him,” she says to her client with a salacious wink, “keep it up. We’re exactly where we want to be right now. We’re at a place where everything will be considered community property, no matter what you decide to do about the marriage.”

Colman--Schwimmer’s silver bracelets jangle as she pats the top carton of documents that John has lugged in. “Tootsies,” she declares, “we’ve won the first round.”

About That $37,000 Fee

AT THE EDGE OF Arlene Colman--Schwimmer’s carved oak desk rests a crystal ball, which is what she points to when clients ask how much it’s all going to cost. Here in her office, she kicks off her shoes and settles into a dusty-rose armchair to take a call from a prospective client sent by another lawyer. Colman--Schwimmer gets several referrals each week and turns down an estimated 95%, primarily because the assets at stake aren’t impressive enought to warrant Colman--Schwimmer’s involvement. This case, however, sounds promising.

“I want you to gather up whatever financial records you can find around the house,” Colman--Schwimmer instructs. “Put them in your car now and get them copied and return them before he notices. Copies of deeds on the house, bills, tax returns, bank statements, whatever you can find.” She pauses, listens, then shakes her head impatiently. “No, no, no. Forget about being forthright with him. Don’t tell him what you’re doing. Don’t tell him you’ve spoken to a lawyer. Now, do you have any friends or family you can call on for cash if he tries to starve you out?”

Although the case intrigues Colman--Schwimmer, she’s conscious of a current client roster that is top-heavy with women. She tries to keep the balance at 50-50, but now it’s running 60-40. “Some lawyers refuse to take on women clients,” she says. “If you represent men, you can be a hero much more easily. Men are still the ones with the resources. They know where the bodies are buried; they have the relationships with the business advisers. They’re the ones who can say, ‘Don’t let the other side see these records.’ In most divorces, it’s the husband who gets custody of the accountant.

“In my experience,” Colman--schwimmer adds, “most women don’t recognize the realities of doing business. They’re trained from childhood to shop, to bargain-hunt--OK, to chisel. They certainly do it with their divorce lawyers.”

But collecting from men has its little traumas, especially when their egos are on the table. One Friday morning not long ago, Colman--Schwimmer got a frantic call from a surgeon who was four days into his divorce trial when he realized he’d made a serious mistake by using his business lawyer instead of a family-law specialist. Would Colman--Schwimmer attempt an emergency operation?

Colman--Schwimmer knew that the odds of turning the case around in the doctor’s favor were slim to nil without time to prepare. And there was no guarantee that the judge would grant a continuance to give her that time.

“There’s only one reason to take this case,” Colman--Schwimmer said to him, “and that’s money.” He said that wasn’t a problem and agreed to bring in a $25,000 cashier’s check later that day to serve as a retainer.

“Then I composed the biggest CYA (Cover Your Ass) letter of my career,” Colman--Schwimmer says. “I said how risky it was to substitute another lawyer, how unlikely it was that the judge would grant a continuance--anything I could think of to stave off a malpractice suit later.”

After a weekend of ‘round-the-clock brainstorming with her accountants, Colman--Schwimmer decided to pursue a rather innovative strategy. Because the doctor had several malpractice suits pending against him, she decided to counter the inevitable good-will argument by claiming bad will . “I’d never heard of it before,” Colman--Schwimmer admits, “but it sounded like a good concept.”

Thanks to Colman--Schwimmer’s gambit, the doctor escaped financial ruin. “At the end of it, he’s hugging and kissing me, crying, thanking me over and over,” Colman--Schwimmer says. Then he received her $12,000 closing bill. He refused to pay. “He said, ‘I only make $20,000 a month. I don’t think you should make $37,000 a month.”

Colman--Schwimmer, it turned out, was the one who sued.

Untangling Misery

ARLENE Colman--Schwimmer cruises down Olympic in her bronze BMW sedan. Her destination, as usual, is the downtown courthouse, but today she’ll be working for free in team mediation. It’s an experimental offshoot of the pro bono mediation program of the Los Angeles County Bar’s family-law section, in which each day a different lawyer volunteers his or her services to resolve cases and avoid the cost of their going to trial. In team mediation, which takes place only on Thursdays, two highly experienced family-law attorneys are appointed by supervising family-law judge Frances Rothchild to try to settle a single difficult case.

When Colman--Schwimmer arrives at 8:30, the wife, Sandra Boyd, is already in the courtroom with her lawyer (we’ll call him Lawyer W). A tall, 40-ish woman with a sharp face, she twists a wad of Kleenex and looks straight ahead. Kirk Boyd, who has dark circles under his eyes and an air of defeat, slumps next to his own attorney (Lawyer H), several rows back and across the aisle from his wife.

Colman--Schwimmer and her fellow mediator, Marvin Gross, who has his own firm in West Los Angeles, sit at a table and greet their audience of four, all of whom seem to be in different stages of anger, ennui and hopelessness. This case has been dragging on for a year, and the acrimony has spread from the clients to the lawyers. Though most of the battles requiring team mediation involve large and varied assets, this one turns out to be one with large and varied debts, plus the impending bankruptcy of Kirk Boyd’s dental practice.

“Mr. Gross and I have more than 25 years’ experience in family law,” Colman--Schwimmer begins. “We are volunteers, and we have no vested interest in this case other than to settle it today.”

Lawyer W smirks. “If you can do that,” he says, “you are both geniuses.”

The mediators ask Kirk and Sandra Boyd to leave the room and call their advocates to the table. “Why don’t you outline the community debts and assets,” says Gross. Immediately the lawyers begin to squabble over whether or not a $300 May Company charge is a community debt since it was incurred after separation.

Colman--Schwimmer cuts them off. “How many days in trial do you estimate for this case, and what are your hourly fees?” At 12 days in court at $175 an hour for each of them, not counting the cost of expert witnesses and other contingencies, the trial will cost at least $50,000. “What’s the difference?” says Lawyer W. “Our clients owe us at least that much already.”

Gross calls the Boyds back into the room. “You both should know,” Colman--Schwimmer says sternly, “that if we can’t settle this today, you’re looking at a trial that will cost a minimum of $50,000.”

“It’s already cost me my future,” replies Kirk Boyd glumly.

“Then think about your son’s future,” Colman--Schwimmer says.

“We will recommend what a fair settlement will be, based on how we think a judge would resolve this,” Gross continues, “which means that each of you will have to compromise. Let’s talk about custody first.”

Sandra Boyd announces that her husband is an alcoholic and their 13-year-old son doesn’t want to spend weekends with him. Kirk Boyd counters that his wife is a cocaine addict who is bankrolling her “gigolo” on the $2,500 a month Boyd pays in temporary spousal support.

Lawyer W throws up his hands in disgust. “These people can’t even talk about the weather, let alone custody,” he says.

“In the event of failure to agree, the wife decides,” Colman--Schwimmer says curtly. “The 13-year-old doesn’t.”

Miraculously, in 15 minutes they have hammered out a custody agreement: days, times of pickup and return, how holidays will be handled.

The Boyds are sent out again and the mediators ask about the bankruptcy. Lawyer W contends that the husband is skimming cash and refusing to pay the payroll taxes in order to drive the value of the practice down, minimizing the extent of community property to be divided. Lawyer H disagrees. “The guy is a loser,” he says of his client, “and his business is a loser.”

Though no formal appraisal of the dental practice has been commissioned, Lawyer H claims it’s worth $80,000; Lawyer W estimates $250,000 to $300,000. They agree that the home on Lake Arrowhead is worth about $200,000, and the equity on the family home on Midvale in Westwood is about $150,000. Her Mercedes and his Jeep are Blue-Booked; no dispute there. But when it comes to valuing the personal items within the family home (Sandra claims that 75% is her separate property and Kirk says only 10% is hers), Lawyer H claims $90,000 and Lawyer W $27,000.

“Forget about the dollars,” Colman--Schwimmer says. “Talk about the items. Have him check what he concedes is hers.”

“He concedes nothing,” says Lawyer H.

“Well,” Colman--Schwimmer says, “how do you suggest we resolve this?”

“We can’t,” whines Lawyer W. “Unless our clients agree.”

Lawyer H has a sudden epiphany. “Let’s settle on a dollar amount, and she can have it.”

After further debate, they narrow the value of the items considerably, and Colman--Schwimmer starts writing. “OK, all personal items go to wife, in the $14,000 to $20,000 range, not including the contents of Arrowhead; the money to be taken from her share of the assets.”

“He keeps the gun and camera collection,” Lawyer H pipes up.

“Then she pays nothing,” responds Lawyer W. “The gun and camera collection is worth $15,000, so they’re even.”

“Seven thousand dollars,” says Lawyer H.

Now Gross interrupts. “Let’s move on to the Arrowhead property.”

Lawyer H has a proposal. His client gets Arrowhead and the dental practice; the wife gets Midvale and the artifacts. He pays all community debts for the first year, including the two mortgages on Midvale; after that year she will assume all debts except for the first on Midvale and will agree to refinance the second, which is now at 18%. Kirk Boyd will cross-collateralize the second mortgage with the Arrowhead property. He’ll pay $600 a month in child support and no spousal support.

The mediators are not impressed. “Then,” Colman--Schwimmer says, “he’ll walk into a bankruptcy court and wipe out all the debts. If she waives support, he walks away clean with no obligations.”

“You’re dreaming if you think she’ll waive support,” Gross adds. “She’s not that kind of lady, and this is a 16-year marriage. Let’s take a break, and then we’ll talk to your clients alone.”

It takes 45 minutes to argue Sandra Boyd down from her insistence that her husband continue to pay for her $800 a month lease on the Mercedes. “He’ll take care of a car for you,” says Gross. “But you can get something for $400 a month. You don’t need a Mercedes.” Sandra Boyd pouts, but finally agrees. The spousal support issue is also resolved: Boyd will pay his wife $2,000 a month plus $600 child support for the first year, and then it will go to jurisdiction--spousal support will stop, but she reserves the right to seek reinstatement of support.

By 2 p.m., the Boyds’ attorneys begin to write up the terms of the agreement while Colman--Schwimmer and Gross grab some lunch.

“Naturally,” Gross says over seafood Louie at Otto Rothschild’s, “he’s been hiding capital. His practice is worth far more than he says.”

“Naturally,” adds Colman--Schwimmer, “she’s gouging him to feed her boyfriend. None of it has any relevance to a settlement.”

At 3 p.m. the mediators return to the news that Sandra Boyd won’t sign. She claims she didn’t understand that spousal support went to zero after one year, although everyone present knows she understood this perfectly well an hour ago. Colman--Schwimmer instructs Lawyer W to take her out of the room and tell her that she is about to blow the whole deal. They end up modifying the agreement slightly, giving the woman a little more but also placing a cap of $1,000 a month on the spousal support she can request after jurisdiction.

“I want one last weekend at Arrowhead,” Sandra Boyd demands.

“Forget it,” Colman--Schwimmer says.

At 4:54 the papers are signed. The soon-to-be-ex Boyds and their lawyers are stunned that it is all over, and so relieved to be rid of each other that they offer effusive thanks to Gross and Colman--Schwimmer. In eight hours, they’d saved at least $50,000 and 12 days of courtroom torture.

“Can you imagine how incredibly boring and wasteful it would have been,” Colman--Schwimmer says, “to have a trial over that case just because the people were mad at each other and their lawyers were idiots? The judge would’ve had to listen to every May Company charge and would’ve ended up telling them to sell the properties to pay the debts. Then that couple would really have lost everything.”

The Worst Enemies

Negotiating her way west on Beverly Boulevard toward her home in Benedict Canyon, Colman--Schwimmer talks in exasperated tones into the microphone hooked to the sun visor. She’s on the phone with a client, Sarah Jones. Yesterday, Colman--Schwimmer obtained emergency restraining orders against Mr. Jones, who had threatened his wife with violence. The restraining order specified that he had to remain 100 feet away from the house--and now Colman--Schwimmer learns that her client let him in to see the kids.

“Sarah, you wanted a court order; we got you one. Now you’re undermining it. You can’t have the court saying how scared are you of this man if he’s there or having dinner with you guys. That’s (expletive), lady.” She listens for a minute, then snaps, “He tells you he’s gonna change, and you’re dumb enough to fall for that line? Gimme a break. Don’t trust him; trust us. We know what we’re doing.”

She concludes the conversation on a warm note, but gets off the phone annoyed. “Really unbelievable. If you don’t drop everything and run like meshuggah (crazy) and do whatever they want, you’re not representing them right. So you do it all, and then they negate what you do.

“Sometimes,” Colman--Schwimmer says, “your client can be your worst enemy. And if it’s not your client, it’s your client’s therapist.”

Recently, Colman--Schwimmer represented a woman in a multimillion dollar case between a mutually hostile husband and wife who resisted compromise. But Colman--Schwimmer and the husband’s lawyer managed after months of complicated haggling to nail down a deal.

The husband, a plastic surgeon, signed the settlement papers. Before the wife did the same, the opposing lawyer called Colman--Schwimmer and told her the deal was off. Apparently, the wife was walking down the main street of the small community in which she lives and saw her husband coming toward her, engaged in conversation with another doctor. The wife waited until she was abreast of her soon-to-be-ex husband. “And then,” Colman--Schwimmer says, “she yelled, ‘Hello, (expletive)!’ and walked away,” leaving an embarrassed and irate spouse in her wake.

When Colman--Schwimmer asked her client why she did it, the woman said that her therapist told her to “get rid of her anger” by telling her husband what she thought of him.

Colman--Schwimmer rolls her eyes. “Now,” she says, “if only the therapist can figure out how to re-settle this case.”