Back in the late 80s I was an associate at a smallish law firm and, being an associate, had to take whatever shit work they assigned me, and some of that was matrimonial law, which I hated, absolutely hated. But it did produce one shining moment.
We, unfortunately, represented the husband side of a DINK — double income, no kids — couple who were splitting up. Agreement on asset division went well: each had their own financial accounts, the house would be sold, proceeds split 50/50. no argument about who got the Lazy-Boy, who got the sofa, etc., but like so many of these cases, there were some deep, angry emotions under the surface, and those eventually focused on one object: who would get the new Saab turbo convertible?
Many hearings were held on that car; so many that the legal fees must have eaten up any equity there might have been in that damned machine, but the parties were adamant, so we pressed on and finally, we persevered, and hubby won the car.
Now, our client was a demanding, arrogant, son of a bitch, and wasn’t the firm’s most popular client, especially not mine, since I had the most contact with him. So when the idiot went home with the keys to the Saab and handed them to his girlfriend, and she sped off on a test drive and promptly totaled it, and when it turned out that title and insurance were still in the wife’s name, a great cheer erupted in our office.