Chapter 3: Community Property
Renata Silva’s office was on the ninth floor of a glass building downtown, and she had a jar of black licorice on her desk that she pushed toward me before I’d even sat down.
“Nobody likes it,” she said. “That’s why it lasts.”
She was fifty-eight, with a silver pixie cut and black glasses, and she’d been doing divorces in Sacramento County for twenty-six years. My friend Dana from work had used her. She won’t make you feel better, Dana had said. She’ll make you smarter.
I’d brought everything. The statement with the yellow highlights. Screenshots of the deleted messages, which I’d emailed to myself at 2 a.m. before putting his phone back exactly where it had been. A spreadsheet of our assets that I’d built at the kitchen table, because building spreadsheets is how I stay upright.
Renata read the screenshots without any expression at all. Then she read the spreadsheet. Then she took off her glasses.
“Okay,” she said. “I’m going to tell you some things you’re not going to like, and then I’m going to tell you what we can do about them.”
“Go ahead.”
“California is a community property state. Everything either of you earned during the marriage belongs to both of you equally. Your salary. Your bonuses. Your 401(k). Your stock grants that vested after the wedding. The equity in the house.” She tapped the spreadsheet. “On paper, Derek owns half of this.”
“He had an affair. He took money out of our account to pay for it.”
“I know. And it matters, a little. I’ll get to that.” She folded her hands. “But California is also a no-fault state. The judge won’t care who cheated. Adultery doesn’t change how the property is split. It’s fifty-fifty, whether he was a saint or a scoundrel.”
I sat very still in the leather chair.
“So he cheats on me,” I said, “and I pay him for the privilege.”
“You pay him his half of what the two of you built while he was home with your kids,” Renata said, not unkindly. “That’s how the law sees it. I’m not saying that’s how it feels.”
“And the eighteen thousand?”
“That we can fight. Spending community money on an affair is a breach of his duty to you. If we can prove it, and with those messages we can, the court can order him to pay back your share.” She held up a finger. “Your share. Half. About nine thousand dollars. It’s real money. It’s not a win.”
I did the math anyway. I always do. Half of the house equity. Half of my retirement. Half of the stock. I’d built the spreadsheet; I knew the number before she said it.
“Somewhere around four hundred thousand,” I said.
“Somewhere around there, once we net it out. Plus his own half of the joint accounts.” She nodded. “We can take most of it from your 401(k) without a tax hit, through a court order. You could keep the house if you refinance and buy out his share. You’ll come out okay, Claire. You earn well. You’ll rebuild.”
“That’s the good news?”
“That’s the good news.”
She slid a thin stack of papers across the desk. “This came in from his attorney this morning. I think he filed the same day you found the statement. Maybe the day before.”
The top page was a petition. Derek’s name, typed. Mine. Dissolution of Marriage.
Under it was a second form. Renata had flagged a line on it with a yellow sticky note.
“He’s not just asking for half,” she said quietly. “He’s asking for temporary spousal support. Because he hasn’t worked in nine years, and you earn what you earn.”
I looked at the number on the line.
“Nine thousand dollars,” I said. “A month.”
“Starting now,” Renata said. “While the case is open.”
