This is a love story of sorts. Stephen Grant has just celebrated his anniversary. No card. No flowers. No box of chocolates. It's been 29 years since he first stood before a judge in divorce court, and ever since he's been wedded to his work--longer, Grant notes, than the sum of his three marriages. Every day a soap opera of tears and despair. And yet, he's able to maintain a cool detachment. Understanding that the financially jilted need a champion. And racking up more than $1 million in billings a year. What's not to love about being a divorce lawyer?
On a muggy June morning on the ninth floor of a downtown Toronto divorce court--that's family law court, officially--the hallway is thick with middle-aged disillusionment. Men and women whose hereafters were once knit together now stare at their feet, hoping to elude the glares of their former lovers. They seem oblivious to the small clutch of lawyers huddled nearby, slick-combed and sputtering with laughter. Something about a CEO in a bathhouse. A little harmless gossip as they wait their turn. The billing meter is already switched to full-tilt.
At the end of the corridor, inside a tiny courtroom, Grant is hunched over a mahogany table, his usual growl now a low rumble as he confers with his legal partner, Gerald Sadvari. To long-time regulars in the court, it's a remarkable sight. For years, the two top-seeded divorce lawyers fought like jackals on opposite sides of the courtroom. They have since joined forces at McCarthy Ttrault to form the nucleus of one of the most formidable divorce practices in the country--a blue-chip destination where the rich and famous flock en route to splitsville. Clients have included a veritable who's who of Canadian business royalty, including members of the Thomson, Black and Eaton clans.
They're an unlikely pair. With his lumbering gait, Grant has the bearing of a grizzly. Those who have come under the fire of his cross-examination admit to feeling mauled. Seated next to him, Sadvari looks like a choirboy, with his ginger-hued hair neatly side-parted and a sweep of freckles across his lightly tanned face. He conceals a fiercely competitive streak beneath an elegant poise.
The two have been plotting this day for months. Their client, Miriam Graham, a 52-year-old, drawn-looking blonde, has been locked in a death grip with her former husband since 1996. It's little wonder. Millions are up for grabs. Grant and co-counsel Sadvari believe they can wrest control of between $3 million and $12 million for their client.
"This is a real battle royal," Grant says of the case, which has gained some notoriety in legal circles--partly due to its complexity but also because both parties have gone through several high-profile lawyers over the years. "A knock 'em down, drag 'em out slugfest is what you're witnessing here," Grant reiterates. It's the Toronto divorce court's equivalent of Jarndyce vs. Jarndyce in Charles Dickens's Bleak House. Everyone hopes to live long enough to see how it turns out.
The case is typical of those that come to trial these days: big and messy. The unravelling of the relationship has been a tale of greed, neglect, tawdry affairs and slipshod financial disclosure: A Revenue Canada lawyer is on hand to hear today's testimony. Against this backdrop, divvying up the marital booty has proven more difficult than splitting the atom.
No one knows better than Graham that the costs of divorce go well beyond the emotional toll. The price tag so far: $1.6 million on lawyers' fees and forensic accountants and valuators.
And they're not the only ones reaping the spoils of the burgeoning divorce economy--there's also the divorce coaches, therapists, and experts and valuators in everything from coins and antiques to pensions, options and shares in privately held companies (see sidebar below). And where would the real estate business be without divorce? One breakup? Ka-ching. It usually means the sale of the matrimonial home, plus the purchase of two others. The list of spinoffs is never-ending. After all, you can't slice the toaster in two, although these lawyers know ex-couples who will spend money trying. And all that cash you've kissed goodbye in dividing the family assets? It doesn't include what you've shelled out for healing balms--the Jaguar, the Botox and new boobs.
Canadians say divorce is now the most expensive event in their lifetimes. According to a 2003 Canadian Lawyer magazine study that compiled the average costs of the purely legal aspects of divorce, even an uncontested breakup will set you back $1,070; a child-custody-and-support agreement costs $7,670; and if you're headed for trial, you can expect to fork over $10,680. In a survey conducted by Decima Research this past spring, 35% of respondents said they had gone into debt in the wake of a marital breakdown; 28% were forced to sell off household items and personal assets; and another 22% borrowed from family to cover the costs of their divorce. That's a lot of financial hardship--and money changing hands--when you consider that more than 70,000 Canadian couples divorced in 2002, nearly twice the number of splits 30 years earlier.
This morning in the Toronto courtroom, however, Miriam Graham appears to be worrying about more than finances as she gets ready for her close-up. She pulls nervously at her crisp blue suit, smoothing her shoulder-length hair into place, hoping to look her best at certifiably the worst of times. Her ex-husband, David DeBora, the chairman of a global, multilevel marketing company specializing in herbal supplements, slumps in a chair on the opposite side of the courtroom. He steals furtive glances at the woman who once shared his dreams, eventually abandoning him. It's a bitter pill. There are no holistic cures here.
Following days of testimony detailing arcane accounting practices, offshore bank accounts and tales of millions won and squandered playing short positions in the markets, DeBora's lawyer appears to become unhinged.
"Your Honour," interjects Gary Joseph of MacDonald & Partners, bolting from his chair and rousing the court commissionaire from her light slumber, "I have serious concerns about the drama that is being manufactured here. Both Mr. Sadvari and Mr. Grant have said astonishing and inaccurate things every time they get on their feet. Their whole strategy is to throw enough mud that they hope some of it will stick."
Joseph detects a smirk across the room. "You think that's funny, Mr. Sadvari?" Joseph snaps, his black robe aflutter as he paces beneath the judge's glazed stare.
Sadvari arches his eyebrows and nods in an exaggerated gesture. Grant, who has been busy with his BlackBerry for the past half-hour, stops and cocks his head in mild bemusement.
The two are clearly relishing their roles in this bit of legal theatre. It's not surprising. Both are at the top of their game. Thanks to recent record-smashing settlements, divorce lawyers have become major players in the legal trade. It's a stark change from 30 years ago, when this was a game of dirty tricks. Divorce law was based on fault. A spouse had to prove cruelty or adultery, or be separated for at least three years, before being able to legally call it quits. Lawyers got a reputation for being scoundrels, by working closely with private eyes to gather enough evidence to construct a courtroom narrative that would vaporize the moral integrity of their clients' soon-to-be-ex-spouses.
Sweeping changes to laws affecting divorce in the mid-'80s changed all that. The new laws aimed to put an end to pitched courtroom brawls by making the process more predictable. They were also an acknowledgment that women in all income brackets were getting squeezed out of their fair share of marital assets. There were two fundamental changes: Couples no longer had to prove a partner was at fault to dissolve the relationship; and the definition of matrimonial assets was broadened to encompass business holdings, instead of just the family home and cottage. Property would be divided based upon the increase in the couple's net worth over the duration of the marriage. From Air Miles to funds in secret tax shelters, everything was now subject to the cleaver.
Suddenly, divorce law became respectable. As family lawyers shrugged off the seamier side of their business, they also were forced to bone up on real estate, securities, and corporate and tax law. But it was the money involved that really elevated the family lawyer's stature within the profession. Divorce was now big business, and firms large and small clamoured to get on board, hoping to turn the flood of tears into a stream of revenue.
A box of tissues sits beside Gerald Sadvari's desk. "There have been a lot of tears in this office," he explains. For $550 an hour, Sadvari acts as confidant, negotiator and unlicensed shrink. The story lines are stock--boredom, cruelty, addiction, infidelity. Maybe that's what makes it all so painful. Your life has become a clich. "It's a terrible, terrible tragedy," Sadvari continues. "Your hopes for the future are in ruin. The partnership that you thought would last forever--it's over."
Certainly, Mariellen Black believed in forever when she married George Montegu Black III, brother of Conrad Black, in a resplendent ceremony in 1964. So it wasn't surprising that the audit clerk-turned society matron would get emotional that day in December, 1986, when she stepped into Sadvari's office at McCarthy Ttrault to explain how it had all gone wrong. How business and money had become more important to Black than his family. She pulled herself together and explained that she wanted her share of the family fortune. Would Sadvari help her get it?
The case was manna to gossip columnists: a very public airing of a very private mogul's life. It was also the first big-business valuation case under Ontario's new Family Law Act--a test case of Canada's new divorce laws and their impact on the very wealthy. It pitted Sadvari against Grant, who had been retained by Montegu Black, in what was to be the most sensational divorce trial of the decade.
By the time the case came to trial in 1988, there were gaping disparities in the value attached to Black's holdings, which included interests in Massey-Ferguson Ltd., Iron Ore Co. of Canada and Dominion Stores Ltd. Mariellen's accountants pegged the value of Black's holdings at $24 million. Black volleyed back with his own valuation--a mere $14.7 million. At the beginning of December, Mariellen got an early Christmas present--a $6-million-plus-costs court award for her share of the matrimonial assets. All things considered, both sides viewed the decision as a win.
The case thrust the two lawyers into the spotlight, earning them both a public name and their mutual respect. It also ignited a litigation war, matching them up on as many as half a dozen battles at a time. Twelve years later, Grant and Sadvari called a truce. They considered creating their own boutique firm, but McCarthy Ttrault was reluctant to lose Sadvari, its star divorce lawyer, and was happy to welcome Grant. He joined the firm in 2000.
"It was manifest destiny. It was an inevitable pull that made sense on every level," says Grant, 57, seated in an office festooned with family pictures and a smattering of old Hollywood movie posters.
Though most of his clients are members of the social register, some are nouveau riche, or even overnight riche. His Rolodex is flipped open to a card for Canada's most notorious lottery winner, Raymond Sobeski. The sometime farmer took nearly a year to claim his $30-million prize--the biggest in Canadian history--in April, about three months after being granted his divorce. When asked about his marital status the day he collected his Super 7 win, Sobeski told reporters there was no significant other in his life. He then proceeded to a motel, where he spent the night with his ex-wife, Nynna Ionson, a former stripper now living on social assistance.
Sobeski never said a word that night about his newfound fortune. The next day, Ionson saw his picture on the front page of the local paper. She promptly launched a lawsuit, claiming half the loot. Sobeski maintains that Ionson isn't entitled to a penny, because she promised to sign a prenuptial agreement when they married in 1998. (She never did actually sign.)
The media are having a field day. Does it bother Grant to represent a man so vilified in the press, and around the water coolers of the nation? He shrugs. "There's always another side to the story."
After a few years in the business, most divorce lawyers are expert at sizing up clients and their quandaries. They make Dr. Phil look like a wide-eyed neophyte. "I think any idealism you might have had gets stripped away early on," Grant says. "We see too many situations of naked truth."
A divorce lawyer often recognizes that his client bears at least half the responsibility for a breakup--and sometimes more than half. Clients typically don't see it that way. Following a judgment, when they're still spoiling for a fight but lacking an adversary, it's not unusual for clients to turn on their advocates.
"The hallmark of divorce law," explains Phil Epstein, the "emperor" of the Canadian divorce bar, "is that no one is happy at the end of the case. That probably means it's a fair outcome. . .Getting a divorce is a lot like going to the dentist, only the pain lasts longer and there is no anesthetic. Let's just say, we don't get a lot of thank-you notes."
They also get stiffed. And bad-mouthed around town. Even to their governing bodies.
"They are routinely reported to the Law Society because people get unfairly pissed off," says University of Toronto law professor Brenda Cossman. "One of the problems with family law is that people take the raw emotion from their divorce battles and translate it into anger against their lawyer." That may help explain why there's such a high burn-out rate in family law. The lawyers who have stayed on are not only smart and streetwise, they've figured out how to compartmentalize the emotional upsets of their cases, as well as their clients' vitriol, Cossman says.
To top it all off, divorce lawyers also get blamed for driving the divorce economy. Their public relations battle certainly wasn't helped by Arnie Becker, the morally bankrupt gouger played by Corbin Bernsen on L.A. Law. But real-life practitioners say it's the spiteful ex, uttering one of two stock phrases lifted straight from prime time ("Take him to the cleaners"; "Screw the bitch"), who makes things worse.
"We don't stimulate the fight. We resolve it," says Patrick Schmidt of Thomson Rogers in Toronto, who has a reputation for working long and hard on cases. "I fight for my clients. There's room for that in family law litigation. It's my job to hold people's feet to the fire and make them prove their cases."
It means stress, of course, but it's not borne by just the parties to the case. Lawyers tell of their clients' ex-spouses lunging at them in court, of menacing telephone calls in the dead of night. Grant says he's still chilled by the death threat he received early in his career. "I'd have liked to have had the bravado to say, 'Take a number.'"
Epstein, who runs the country's largest boutique divorce practice (22 lawyers), admits the work exacts a levy. After a hard day of histrionics, Epstein often finds his work follows him home--to the garage, where he hammers out his frustration by woodworking, or to the kitchen, where he relaxes making cakes and pastries. "Doing this kind of work has made me very, very cynical," says the 5-foot-5-inch dynamo. "It's hard to hear a new story. But sometimes, I'm still taken aback by the cruelty. Unlike Anne Frank, I don't believe that people are good at heart. I like individual people, but I have no use for mankind."
He also confesses he has no use for marriage, despite being wedded for 38 years. "There was a time when everybody died in their 40s or 50s--then it made some sense. I no longer believe humans are suited to marriage."
So what makes him do this work? It fulfills his own inner need to act as a rescuer, he says. Lawyers all want to save the damsel from the dragon, he adds. And the dragon is whoever is on the other side. He chalks up his own drive to an unhealthy relationship with his father. Arguing all the time, he says, prepped him for cross-examination in the courts.
Epstein believes he performs an invaluable social service that makes people's lives better. His wealth and prestige have allowed him to do what he really loves--working pro bono on special cases. "I'm a true chameleon," he says. "I can be the most reasonable person on earth. And I can be the meanest son of a bitch, too. You just cross me and watch out." Yvonne Choquette doesn't disagree. "It felt like it was Rambo on the other side of the room," explains the petite 49-year-old, who found herself on the wrong side of the courtroom from Epstein in her lengthy divorce battle with her ex-husband, a high-flying banking analyst at Scotia Capital Markets. "I felt totally chewed to shreds by the end of it. I've never recovered," she says tearfully. "What do I think of divorce lawyers? They're a cliquey group who have no concern for the people whose lives they've destroyed."
Does that seem a little harsh? Perhaps. But Choquette is right when she asserts that there's a kind of matrimonial mafia. In Toronto, for example, the city's coterie of divorce lawyers constantly kibitz outside the courtroom--they lunch together, dine together, even holiday together. Epstein is the social convener of the elite squad. An August weekend at his Muskoka cottage is an annual ritual of waterskiing, swimming and bridge, attended by Grant and Sadvari, among others. Over a dinner of Tuscan-style steak and wild mushroom risotto, it's not unusual for them to thrash out settlements on some of their most intractable cases. And, at the end of it all, to fetch a fine vintage and toast one another, their bickering clients and their swelling fortunes.
Some might consider that sort of fraternity a conflict of interest. Not Sadvari. "We're always objective. Some people might disagree with that sort of familiarity. Honestly, it doesn't hurt that we're all friends. I think it greases the wheels toward a reasonable settlement."
A reasonable settlement is, so far, proving elusive in the DeBora case. It's the second week of trial, and Sadvari is leading his second star witness, forensic accountant James DeBresser, through the financial minutiae of Lifestyles International.
DeBresser, a partner at the Toronto accounting firm Marmer Penner, looks to be in the hot seat. He has turned the colour of a beet, glistening under the fluorescent lights and the glower of the opposing legal team. The pressure has been mounting for years, and now it's showtime. Not just for the lawyers and judges, but for Graham, who has spent hundreds of thousands of dollars for DeBresser's expert opinion.
His firm isn't the only one reaping the riches of a house divided. DeBresser says business is exploding. "These days, it's not unusual for lawyers and clients to seek our help as they try to put together the financial picture," he explains. "It's often extremely complex and can take years to sort it all out."
Case in point: His work in trying to piece together the DeBora file spans eight years. He traced documents across the globe, from the Czech Republic to Malaysia, Korea and Norway. What does it take to do the job? "You've got to be more than a little suspicious and be willing to be yelled at by the other lawyer, your own lawyer and sometimes the client."
The valuation business has grown, in part, due to changes in the divorce laws, giving more teeth to disclosure rules. Today, it's much more difficult to escape disclosure. By DeBresser's tally, the increase in the value of assets over the life of the DeBora-Graham marriage is $10 million. Not so, argue DeBora's own bean counters. They peg the number at $2.7 million--in the hole, that is. The one thing that everyone agrees on in this business is that valuation is more often an art than a science. Or worse. "It's junk science," says Schmidt, the Toronto lawyer. "There are 12 different valuation methodologies, so it's a bit of a crapshoot. And sometimes, I think business valuators believe they should be advocates for their clients."
Linda Brent, president of Toronto-based Brent Valuations Inc., says valuators can come up with staggeringly different numbers for intangible assets such as goodwill or a business's location. "It's similar to what was happening in the stock market with the dot-coms. People were paying huge premiums for the potential. Sometimes you have to look beyond the present to the prospects of a business."
Disputes also often arise because one client has tried to conceal assets, or has charged up illegitimate expenses on the business's books. On other occasions, it might be because one lawyer has instructed the valuator to take an overly aggressive stance on a file. DeBresser says he has been instructed, on occasion, to do so. "Once in a while you'll get a lawyer who wants you to prostitute yourself, although the good ones never do. It's not worth it. All we sell here is our opinion and that opinion has to be able to withstand scrutiny, or my name is mud."
This morning, DeBora looks as though he's wilting from the scrutiny of his accounting system, occasionally throwing up his arms in mock outrage as DeBresser explains the details of Lifestyles' slapdash bookkeeping, as he sees it. Documents have gone missing; income hasn't been reported; and, in some cases, figures have been whited out.
The defence's position? "He stumbled along and his business took off like a rocket ship," Gary Joseph says, while his client stares blankly. "He's a salesman and when it comes to figuring it all out, he doesn't have a clue."
Grant leans back in his chair and smirks. He's heard the argument many times before. Still, he refuses to muse on how the case will unfold. "Hubris is a very bad thing in this business," he warns.
By definition, the files that make it to a long trial are the biggest jackpots for divorce lawyers. Although fees can run into the hundreds of thousands, a more typical high-water mark for a contested divorce is $150,000, according to Canadian Lawyer.
Two trends are reducing the importance of the courtroom. First, because of refinements to divorce laws, outcomes are far more predictable, and not especially disputable: More than 90% of all cases settle before they get to trial, lawyers estimate. If they do get to court, it's often because couples can't resolve issues relating to their children, or because of the size of the fortune at stake.
And that--a fortune--is where the other trend comes into play. If it's fabulous money, that spells a fabulous amount of public attention too. Take the case of fashion tycoon Peter Nygard. He dragged Kaarina Pakka, the mother of his 16-year-old son, through four years of legal hell. Or so the judge thought: She accordingly slapped him with a $1-million tab for court costs. In her judgment this past May, Madam Justice Ruth Mesbur of the Ontario Superior Court blamed Nygard for what she called his "scorched earth" policy in dealing with his former paramour and the courts. "Mr. Nygard fought everything every step of the way," she wrote. "The proceedings were difficult because he made them so." Soon after, Nygard negotiated a settlement with Pakka, who was asking for $5.5 million in retroactive child support and $68,000 monthly. The details are hush-hush, but Pakka is reportedly "very happy" with the outcome. Nygard, for his part, launched a constitutional challenge to the Divorce Act, claiming that the child-support guidelines infringe on men's rights.
These days, most high-profile executives appear to have learned from the mistakes made by Montegu Black and Nygard. They are loath to risk the public scrutiny of court. Matthew Barrett, Belinda Stronach--these people may have had divorces that the public is dying to know about, but you don't see them satisfying that curiosity by battling things out in a public forum. After his behaviour was itemized for all to see, no less a business guru than General Electric's Jack Welch advised, "The last thing you want to do is be in court. Settle it and get on with your life."
The story in divorce law circles is that Bay Street firms learned a pricey lesson during their rapid expansion into divorce law throughout the '80s and early '90s. One by one, they saw the chieftains of industry flee their firms in horror at the conclusion of a particularly nasty divorce battle. "You mean she gets half of everything?" the CEO could be heard shrieking as he stormed out the door, taking his corporate business with him.
Is it true? "Sure, that's the story, but I can't think of one example where it actually happened," Epstein says. Ditto for Grant. What is certain is that after nearly two decades of expansion, most corporate law shops have quietly shuttered their family law practices, leaving the field to boutique firms. (McCarthy Ttrault plans to wind down its family law practice when Grant and Sadvari retire.) Epstein says that divorce law simply doesn't fit the corporate model: The big firms don't like waiting for years to collect on receivables. The net effect of the overall courtroom ebb is that the bulk of lawyers' fees is generated from out-of-court settlements. Time is juggled among less adversarial tasks than courtroom jousting--advising clients, accompanying them to meetings, acting as mediators on other lawyers' files. There's more work on prenuptial agreements, and on palimony and child custody cases.
"Movies like Irreconcilable Differences really characterize the old style of divorce law, when it really was about going to war," says U of T's Cossman. "There was always a sense that lawyers were taking advantage of a terrible situation. Today, if they do go to court, it's still war. But that's not the bulk of what family lawyers do now."
As one era fades into the twilight, another appears to be taking root. It may well prove to be even more lucrative for the lawyers and the legions of others who make their money in the divorce economy. Consider, for example, the growing spate of lawsuits cropping up across the country involving "sports babies"--the children of the heroes of professional hockey, baseball and basketball who are now being sued for support for the children they conceived out of wedlock. Wealthy grandparents are also coming into the crossfire. There are currently a half-dozen cases before Canadian courts in which Grandma and Grandpa are being sued for support to help fund the Branksome Hall education, summers at the yacht club and winters skiing in Switzerland.
"These days, liability is limited only by a lawyer's imagination," chuffs lawyer Schmidt, who believes there's even nastier litigation in the pipeline. He sees a day, for example, when children will turn on their parents. "Once they get to 18 they're going to be saying, 'What happened to all that money? Where's the $30,000 a month you got from Dad for child support?'"
Where will it all end? Grant shrugs and sighs. For him, at least, there appears to be no end in sight. The DeBora case has just finished its first leg of trial, and the court has shut down for a summer break. Good thing, too, because there's lots of other work to be done. Grant has just finished drawing up a second prenuptial agreement for a client now starting his third marriage. It reminds him of a joke, although he typically doesn't like jokes about divorce lawyers, because they're so crass and demeaning. But this one always gets a big laugh when divorce lawyers swap stories. It's the one about the woman working her way through her fifth marriage. It's not a series of mistakes, she says. It's a lifestyle. Grant can't help laughing too. Perhaps he finds it funny because it gets at the heart of what his work is all about. "Till death do us part?" It seems only to apply to divorce lawyers and their clients. What's not to love?
snoop, sob, start again
As couples falter, these companies prosper
Parting is such sweet sorrow--and not just for lawyers. With the number of divorces in Canada doubling in the past three decades, many companies find, by design or by happenstance, that divorce is big business. From movers to condo salespeople, those in the divorce trades say the keys to client relations are a sympathetic heart, strict confidentiality and the donning of kid gloves. Here's a sampling of the providers
Private investigators
Lawrence Dolson, head of Lawrence Dolson & Associates, is a whiz at nailing cheating spouses. For about $1,200, clients will benefit from all the tools of the trade, including global positioning technology, to track marital infidels. Dolson and his 16-person team also coach clients on watching out for such things as illicit e-mails and hang-up cellphone
calls, and how to trace them. Around 70% of his cases are matrimonial, with women bringing in 85% of that business. "Women are the best investigators: 80% of the time they think someone's cheating, they're right," he says. And men? Only 30% of the guys who come to him are right to be suspicious of their partners.
416-399-7526
Forensic accountants
Zysman Forensic Accounting is a boutique firm that specializes in tracking down hidden assets and investigating businesses. In other words, when things get messy, they can find out whose dough is where. These fortune hunters bill at up to $260 an hour; some cases have chalked up tabs of $50,000. On one job, investigators had to root through 20 court-obtained boxes to find a single sheet of paper--which, once trailed, led to a $1.5-million vacation property a husband was hiding from his ex-wife to-be.
416-410-8880; http://www.zfact.com
Furniture rental
When a sudden move is necessary, Dominion Furniture Rental can haul in furniture so a new abode isn't barren. With three days' notice, they'll bring in full living room, dinette and bedroom sets for between $250 and $450 a month.
416-469-5175; http://www.domfurnrent.com
Real estate
You don't need to watch The War of the Roses to scare yourself silly about the prospect of dividing up your home with your spouse-no-longer. Heather Heaps of Royal LePage in Toronto applies a don't-ask-don't-tell policy when selling houses for couples who are parting ways, which accounts for 20% to 25% of the market. "Nobody wants their private affairs being known in the marketplace, so we try to keep it quiet and get the best price," Heaps says.
If the value of the property is disputed, or if one partner needs to buy the other out, an independent appraisal expert is usually summoned. A rock-bottom-priced appraisal is $300. They're also often called to testify if litigation occurs; their court time starts at $150 per hour. "The saddest cases are the ones where one partner can't afford to buy another out and the house goes on the market," Heaps says. "That's the worst-case scenario because you can tell they don't want to go." Royal LePage 416-424-4900;
Appraisal Institute of Canada's on-line guide: http://www.aicanada.ca/e/index.cfm
Divorce coaching
Cinnie Noble isn't just any divorce coach. She not only boasts two law degrees--one of them in alternative dispute resolution--but she has received the Order of Canada. Noble's guidance runs at $260 per hour, and it's not psychiatry on offer. "I'm not there to be a therapist, which often focuses on emotional responses to what has happened in the past," she says. "A coach is forward-looking." Most clients use the service for between two and six months. "There's a stigma about going to therapy that doesn't really exist so much for coaching," says Noble. "Half of my clients are women and half are men. Having a coach is a way to ensure they aren't bogged down in what they've gone through."
416-686-4247
Therapy
At Toronto's Psychotherapy Institute, 40% of the clientele are tackling marital difficulties. Appointments can be booked for individuals, couples or families. Some therapists will even go to clients' homes if there are youngsters involved. "No one wants to yank children into an office," says institute director, Larry Nisan. "When we go to clients' homes, we can work on getting to know a child before interviewing them, and convey that the parents' divorce may be unfortunate, but it's not bad." The six accredited counsellors all work part-time to avoid what Nisan terms "neurosis by osmosis." Fees are on a sliding scale: $59 to $179 per hour, depending on the client's means.
416-968-0640
Self-help books
A retailer of mental health books, Caversham Booksellers carries more than 45 titles on matters post-divorce, and can special-order many more. The most popular titles include Divorce Damage Control and How to Get the Most out of Your Divorce Financially.
416-944-0962; http://www.cavershambooksellers.com
Image consultants
At her image-consulting firm Here's Looking at You, Anne Sowden finds that "at least 30% of my business comes from people just out of a marriage who want to revamp their appearance." Sowden's services typically involve at-home wardrobe analysis and auditing, as well as etiquette courses for singles back on the dating scene. The hourly rate is between $150 and $200, but Sowden puts together complete packages for $1,000 to $2,000 for clients in need of serious attention. "The one thing I am not is a dating service," she says. "I can help you look good and feel sharp, but I had one client who simply couldn't believe that I couldn't find him a girlfriend straight off the bat." 416-429-8028; http://www.hereslookingatyou.ca
Finding love again The Bay Street-focused firm Executive Life Partners takes on only 12 to 20 handpicked clients each year, 80% of whom were previously married. President John Brownlee spares no expense in finding the right matches, nor do his clients: They pay a minimum of $10,000 to retain his services for a year. "This is not a mass-market Lavalife-style venture," Brownlee says. "My clients are highly choosy and have a very specific idea of what they want, so I'd rather have quality of applicants over quantity."
416-703-1212 (ext. 201);
http://www.executivelifepartners.com
--Gabrielle Giroday