I Asked My Divorce Judge Out

When Carmen joined me on this business adventure in 1994, there was no roadmap — no visibility into the future and absolutely no guarantee it would lead anywhere.

She jumped in anyway.

She carried her share of the weight, pushing through the growing pains of a startup that didn’t even know what it was yet.

I was genuinely impressed.

* * *

We got married ten years later.

And divorced twenty years later.

* * *

At the time, she lived with her parents in South Plainfield. Every morning she got up early, drove to Jersey City, walked into our home office with total professionalism, and dove straight into a mountain of work that somehow managed to grow every single day.

When I showed up one morning with the first batch of subscription cards and spread them across the desk in front of her, she quit her day job on the spot. No hesitation. I was the cautious one.

I had a mortgage, and all the money so far existed only in theory. I couldn’t afford to quit yet.

So every morning, I drove from my townhouse to my day job, while she drove to that same townhouse — our first office and, unofficially, our headquarters.

* * *

That brings me to the most remarkable thing about Carmen.

From the moment she quit her job to join this startup — and through more than thirty years of knowing her — she never once brought up money.

Not once.

We never talked about it.

Ever.

She had bills, a car payment, rent, and a baby daughter at home, yet she never asked:

“How much are you going to pay me?”

Two decades later, when she filed for divorce, I had a bulletproof prenuptial agreement.

Both lawyers agreed on that.

Legally, I didn’t owe her a dime.

Still, I told the attorneys:

“Listen. You both drafted this agreement ten years ago, each representing one of us. But Carmen was with me from day one. She worked as hard as I did. It’s only fair we split everything equally.”

* * *

The night the divorce was finalized, I heard she threw a massive divorce party at my mansion in Upper Saddle River — the house I left for her and moved on from.

It was a brand-new French-style home.

Eight thousand square feet.

A matching swimming pool.

A movie theater.

A wine cellar.

His-and-hers bedroom suites.

I even designed the pool myself.

I should also mention this:

On the final day of our divorce, the judge threw me out of the courtroom.

She never liked me.

From the very first hearing, every time she saw my face, she’d say:

“Mr. Kircaali, you don’t have to come to your hearings in person. You can call in from Bodrum, which you seem to be living in full-time.”

Carmen immediately jumped in.

“I don’t want to come either.”

The judge replied:

“You should appear in person.”

* * *

On the day we received our golden divorce seal, the judge and both lawyers were arguing about appraisers.

They wanted to send people to value every property we owned in New Jersey and Florida.

My lawyer wanted his appraiser.

Her lawyer wanted his.

I raised my hand.

“Your Honor, give me three minutes and we’ll finish this divorce today. Let me talk to Carmen and the two attorneys in the next room — the library — and we’ll be done.”

The judge leaned back.

“Is that so, Mr. Kircaali?”

“Yes.”

The four of us walked into the library.

I said the entire process was ridiculous and costing money by the minute.

“Here’s what we’re going to do. Carmen and I will split everything fifty-fifty. Cash, cars, all assets. I’ll move to our Florida home. Carmen keeps the New Jersey house.”

Then I added:

“Carmen, I’m going to step outside with my lawyer. You and your lawyer stay here and decide.”

Her lawyer didn’t hesitate.

“You don’t need to wait. We agree.”

We were back in the courtroom in under sixty seconds.

The judge looked at me with a condescending grin.

“So, Mr. Kircaali, did you finalize your divorce?”

Carmen’s lawyer answered:

“Yes, Your Honor.”

The judge signed the decree, stamped it with the golden seal, and that was it.

Now here’s the part I didn’t know at the time.

* * *

One day at the office, a woman pulled me aside.

“Fuat, I need to talk to you. Your divorce lawyer is my uncle — my mother’s brother. And your judge is the girlfriend of his son.”

Then she added:

“They were all together at our house for Christmas. My cousin broke up with her during Christmas dinner. She’s very upset.”

With that information — and perhaps influenced by too many courtroom scenes on television — after the judge handed our divorce papers to the attorneys, I said:

“Your Honor, may I approach the bench?”

She looked annoyed.

“What, Mr. Kircaali?”

In a voice loud enough for the entire courtroom to hear, I said:

“Now that we’re divorced, may I take you out to dinner?”

I was escorted out of the courtroom.

Then out of the courthouse.

By two security officers.

* * *

The next morning, the women in the office were buzzing about Carmen’s massive divorce party.

I turned to Carmen and said:

“Why wasn’t I invited?”

She looked at me.

“I picked you up for every hearing

 and drove you back. I hear there was a private chef, a party tent attached to the living room, an open bar, and waiters in white gloves passing drinks and hors d’oeuvresto hundreds of guests — and I didn’t even get an invite.”