A Court Date Is Still a Date: The Divorce Lawyer with a Love Potion

A courtroom. To most people, it is a mundane place: fluorescent lights, wooden benches, stacks of paperwork, and people waiting for their names to be called. But I have always found the courtroom magical. On one floor, two people who, against all odds, found each other are getting married. On another, paperwork, yes, boring paperwork, is being signed to give a child a family. An adoption is occurring. What was once merely a fact in two people's hearts, I belong to you and you belong to me, is being legally announced to the world. It is a beautiful thing.

I have always been deeply romantic which is how I ended up here: I am unofficially the world's worst divorce lawyer. Why? I have been gifted with the ability to make people fall in love, and I use this power multiple times a day. Why am I not a marriage counselor or relationship therapist? Partially because I discovered my magical abilities just as I was about to graduate from law school. More importantly, people who come to a therapist still have hope. I target the quitters. Am I broke? Quite the contrary. I collect a substantial retainer, and my clients, obviously, leave satisfied. Have I considered putting only opposing counsel under a spell so my client can take their deadbeat husband for everything he has? It would be disingenuous to say I haven't. There is a lot of gray area in both the study of law and the study of love, but there doesn't have to be. At first, I did it for the children involved, but then I became hooked on being Cupid.

I owe my gift to my background as a scientist. Before attending law school, I double-majored in chemistry and anthropology. During my anthropology years, I began studying a tribe in uncharted territory. I have a right not to disclose the name of the people or their location, both out of respect for their nomadic lifestyle and because the knowledge they have accumulated is not safe in irresponsible hands. I refuse to let elites capitalize on love. They have already done enough damage with Valentine's Day. Ironically, like love itself, the tribe had been hidden in plain sight. The tribe fascinated me because they seemed to possess many of the characteristics associated with what scientists call "Blue Zones," places where people live remarkably long lives compared with populations elsewhere. They had no war, but instead held many agreements and always kept their promises. There was no class divide. They did not seem particularly wealthy by twenty-first-century Western civilization's standards, but from my perspective, they were rich beyond measure. Their music was unlike anything I had ever experienced. When the sound reached my ears, I briefly, and fearfully, wondered whether I had heard the trumpets of the Second Coming. The accompanying lyrics were even more extraordinary. My brain is incapable of reproducing them for documentation, but I can tell you that they contained some of the most profound philosophy humans have ever produced. I remember sitting there, surrounded by people I barely understood, thinking that perhaps I had spent my entire life looking for answers in the wrong places. Then I noticed the mushrooms. The elders seemed particularly fond of a foaming black liquid brewed from roots that looked remarkably similar to lion's mane. I filed the observation away then went to law school.

Years later, while studying feverishly for the bar exam and struggling to remain conscious, I remembered the drink. Hericium erinaceus coffee had become mainstream, so I began wondering whether other mushroom species might have similar properties. Naturally, I returned to the tribe. I realized the root was not chemically similar to coffee at all. It was a love potion. Love, as it turned out, was what kept these people alive.

I wish I could tell you there was some elaborate scientific explanation. I cannot. People who drank it did not become obsessed with the first person they saw. They did not become mindless. They did not suddenly declare their love for strangers. Instead, the potion seemed to uncover something already buried. I brought the mushrooms home. I have never used the potion on myself nor would I ever give it to someone I was romantically interested in. As I said, I target quitters. I am not a quitter and if I am ever going to find someone, I intend to do it the hard way. Apparently, discovering a mysterious civilization in the age of global positioning systems and acquiring supernatural abilities are both easier than finding true love naturally.

Which brings me back to the courtroom. Every morning, I walk through those doors and watch people do what I have never been brave enough to do. They promise forever and ask the state to recognize what they already know to be true. And then, a few floors away, I meet with people who, like my uncle, who has a Tasmanian Devil tattoo left over as a gift from his sixteen-year-old, undeveloped brain, decided that forever was a mistake. My clients come to me with custody schedules, bank statements, and stories they have told themselves so many times that they no longer remember which parts are true. I listen, question my client, and wait. I am waiting for a small moment: a joke about something their spouse did twenty years ago, the continued use of we when they mean I, or some minuscule indication that what they need from me is not my legal expertise, but my supernatural help. When I know they are destined to reunite, after a long evaluation, I offer them coffee. Just an ordinary cup of coffee. I know you cannot see me, but I am winking. And then I watch as a new chapter begins in the book that both parties intended to burn. Eventually, the paperwork changes. The divorce petition that seemed so inevitable is withdrawn.

Perhaps that is why I remain in awe of the courtroom. For all the statutes, motions, signatures, and stamps, the real magic is happening in the people. A courtroom is where love intersects with legality. Divorce law is where love sometimes gets one last chance. It is the final Hail Mary as the clock runs out, the buzzer echoing through the stadium, and everyone already assuming the game is over. But sometimes, somehow, the ball goes in. I just give the ball a little extra push. And tomorrow morning, I will walk to my office, take my place at my desk, open a file marked DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE, and ask my client why they came to see me. Then, if I'm lucky, I'll pour them a cup of coffee. After all, a court date is still a date.