IN THE MIDDLE OF MY schadenfreude over Doug’s firing, I took Joey to court. I didn’t have enough money to get a divorce—I couldn’t afford counsel or court fees—so I had to figure it out on my own. I learned I didn’t need a lawyer in family court. A social worker helped me file papers for spousal support. Joey and I didn’t have assets, so it wasn’t a messy process. At the hearing, I didn’t ask for anything specific. The judge asked how much I wanted, and I answered, “However much you think is appropriate.” I was humble—maybe too humble. I could have dragged it out, but I just wanted it to be over. The judge ordered Joey to pay for my health insurance and rent for three months, until we worked out a deal, as well as $13,500 divided into bimonthly payments. That got his attention. Despite his six-figure salary, he acted like I was taking him for everything he was worth.
Under the terms of legal separation, as long as Joey and I lived apart for more than a year, our divorce automatically became final. He had already moved out; we just had to keep it that way. Technically we were still married, and I kept his name—most people in the business knew me as Dorothy Carvello, and it was just so easy to pronounce. Joey still lived across the street from me with his new girlfriend, but I accepted our new arrangement. He tried to retaliate by threatening to sue for custody of the dogs, but I called his bluff and gave them to him. He returned them the next day.
In December 1995, I went through a more painful separation. Bob Buziak announced he was leaving Sony. He’d grown tired of the internal politics and was especially disgusted over losing the fight to sign Capricorn Records and Kenny Chesney. I understood his feelings and didn’t begrudge him for leaving, but I had three months left on my contract and didn’t know what Bob’s departure would mean for my job at Relativity. We had no boss until March 1996 (a month after my divorce became final), when Sony appointed Sal Licata as the new president of RED Distribution, which included Relativity. I didn’t know Sal, and I never got the chance. Before he started, I got a call from Jim Cooperman telling me that Sal was going to drop me and didn’t want to pay the remainder of my salary. Jim was appalled but told me not to worry—Sony had a legal obligation to pay off my contract.
I felt grateful for Jim’s loyalty and his assurance that I’d be paid. I also felt grateful to Bob. This was the best firing I had experienced. I didn’t leave in shame or anger. No one fucked me over. In fact, I left Relativity feeling better about myself than when I came in. That was a first. The past two years had been uneventful ones for my career, but momentous ones for my personal life. I now understood that there were men in the business who would treat me with respect, and I could return that respect. I understood that there were workplaces where I could feel safe, where I didn’t have to live in constant fear of being fired or harassed. I had Bob to thank for that.
None of it changed the bottom line, though. I was out on my ass again, in need of a job. I stood at another crossroads in my career. I had lost four jobs in nine years and was running out of places to go in the music business. I looked ahead to my thirty-fourth birthday (for some reason, I always needed a job around my birthday) and began thinking those familiar thoughts: Do I want another job in music? Should I find a new career? What comes next? I went to church and prayed for a sign.