Big Law (19 page)

I
DUG THROUGH MY
top drawer for my industrial-size bottle of Advil. It had been a week since Oren commanded that no one could eat, sleep, or shit and I’d made a healthy dent in my emergency stash of pain relievers. I popped two in my mouth, chased them with warm Diet Coke, and began scanning my to-do list for the day ahead.

“So what do you think?” Alex asked, walking into my office and flopping down in my guest chair. The bags under his eyes reminded me I wasn’t the only one working late nights.

“Of?” I slipped off my shoes and sat cross legged in my chair, thankful for the opportunity to chat.

“Look under your desk.” He grinned.

I eyed him curiously and peeked under. “Where did this come from?” I squealed.

Alex held a finger up to his lips. “Keep it down. People aren’t used to joyful noises around here.” He stood up to close the door before explaining, “I heard Sadir is out of the office today at a closing, so I figured he wouldn’t miss his prized foot massager. You have until tomorrow morning to sneak it back in there.”

“How did you know that at this very moment I was dying for this?” I was so excited that I clapped. “I’m surprised Sadir doesn’t have this thing alarmed.” I put my feet on the massager and selected “slow pulse” mode.

He looked pleased. “That contract you sent me was the perfect precedent for the deal I’m working on. You saved me hours of work.
Just figured I’d return the favor. Another late night for the Project Mojo team?”

I nodded. “It seems Ben likes to celebrate his birthday by working all night.”

“It was his birthday?”

“Yup, I overheard his kids singing him happy birthday over the speakerphone when I walked by his office. It was like he was hiding from his family or something.”

“Well, you would too if you had to go home to that crazy woman.”

“True.” I nodded, pondering for a moment. “But I thought Ben was actually one of the happier partners.”

“Oh, honey.” He looked at me in the same way you would look at a sad child who’d just lost her puppy. Alex was the one person in the world who could call a woman “honey” without sounding like a lecherous misogynist or the gay friend in a bad romcom. “Please don’t tell me you’re still living in the land of gumdrop houses where you actually think that happiness and working in Biglaw are NOT mutually exclusive.”

“You really think there’s no way to be happy working here?” I asked, eyeballing him curiously.

“Wake up and smell the Prozac, Mackenzie. No one in Biglaw is happy. Not even the guys making the biggest money. We work for morally bankrupt clients who squabble over pedantic bullshit, and the firm throws booze and money at us so we don’t notice the fact that we have no personal life.”

“Geez, don’t try to sugar-coat it for my sake.” I snickered. “Well, this isn’t Prozac, but it’s sure helping.” I leaned back, relishing my twelve hour window with the Brookstone X180.

“Just make sure to get it back to Sadir’s office by tomorrow morning,” he called on his way out.

My day was already looking up. With any luck I would be left alone for the morning so I could review the work done by Gavin last night. Hopefully he wasn’t too coked up when he did it. I settled back in my chair and began flipping through the summaries he’d put together.

“Knock, knock!” Ben poked his smiling face into my office, his two young daughters in tow, dressed in Girl Scout uniforms. “I’ve brought a couple of saleswomen who wanted to ask you a question.” He looked down eagerly at his fresh-faced girls. “Alyssa, Rachel,” he prompted in the friendliest tone I’d heard him use. In sync they sing-songed, “Do you want to buy some Girl Scout cookies?”

“That sounds delicious,” I said with as much enthusiasm as I could muster with only a couple hours of sleep and a full day ahead of me. “I’ll take two boxes!”

“Oh, I’m sure you could use more than that,” Ben responded with a wink. “Alyssa and Rachel are gunning for the lead in their troop for the most cookies sold.”

“Yeah, Mariah Williams is in first place right now, but we really, really,
really
want to be first!” Alyssa exclaimed in a voice that veered close to whiny.

I looked down at their eager, determined faces. I felt like I could see into their future—it starts with wanting to sell the most Girl Scout cookies, and the next thing you know it’s wanting to bill the most hours. I had to resist the urge to grab them by their little shoulders, look them square in the eyes, and advise them.
You don’t always have to strive for the highest dangling carrot. Put down those cookie boxes, girls, and go enjoy your childhood!

“You’ve convinced me.” I gave my best saccharine smile. “I’ll take four boxes—two Thin Mints and two Samoas.” I hoped the gesture might garner some goodwill from Ben in return.

“See how persuasive you can be, girls! I think I see a career in law in your future,” Ben said, giving me another wink while leading Alyssa and Rachel out the door.

“Oh—Ben, did you get a chance to look at those distribution sections I sent you last night?” I asked, seizing my opportunity to get some feedback so I could make any revisions he needed and avoid another late night.

“What distribution sections?” He looked puzzled.

Um, the distribution sections I worked most of the night to get to you because you needed them ASAP? The ones that kept me from
getting a decent night’s sleep (for the umpteenth time) because you simply
had
to see them? Those distribution sections?

“Oh, yah, yah.” Ben clued in, as if reading my mind. “I won’t get a chance to look at those today, too much on my plate. You’ll need those to keep your energy up, Mackenzie.” He pointed to my boxes of cookies. “It’s going to be another late night tonight! But make sure you don’t eat them all in one sitting or you’ll wind up looking like one of the secretaries.” He inflated his cheeks like a blowfish and made a face at the giggling girls as he pulled the door shut behind him.

So much for goodwill.
Twelve hours and two rows of thin mints later, I was still in my office when I heard the familiar
bing
indicating a new email. Stuffing a cookie into my mouth, I nearly choked when I saw it—an email from Vincent Krieder. An email
directly
to me from Vincent. Vincent
never
directly emailed an associate. Frankly, I was shocked Vincent even knew who I was (even though I’d been in multiple meetings with him, his office was right next to mine, and we shared a secretary). “Junior associates are like Oompa Loompas,” Vincent had once drunkenly uttered at the Christmas party. “How am I supposed to tell the difference between them?”

If Vincent was emailing me directly instead of going through Ben, it had to be a major fire drill. Above all, Biglaw associates feared the fire drill. They always had completely unrealistic demands and even more unrealistic deadlines. They’re sort of like those reality TV shows that involve ridiculously impossible challenges.
You have four hours to plan a wedding for one hundred guests using the following products … a weed whacker, a wicker basket, two chairs, and a tube of lipstick. Go!

After a year and a half at F&D, I was used to the intensity and insanity that came with the fire drill. At least, I thought I was used to it. I held my breath and clicked on Vincent’s email.

My grogginess burned off in a blaze of panic. ASAP didn’t exist in Vincent’s world. It was NOW. As in “If you’re still looking at this email you’re already behind.”
Oompa loompa doompadee doo, I’ve got another puzzle for you.

The joint venture agreements had only been made available at Highlander’s lawyers’ offices and were not permitted to be photocopied due to their extremely confidential subject matter, so Gavin had spent three days summarizing them in a conference room at the offices of Wexler & Reed. Which meant our only source of information about these agreements was his notes.

Gavin was asleep in his chair when I burst in to his office. “GAVIN!” I went over and shook him.

“Get awwwf!” he groaned. I could tell he was more than just fatigued—he was crashing from whatever high he was on.

“Gavin, where are your notes on the JV agreements you reviewed at Wexler?” I asked clearly and slowly, hoping that would help him understand, but he just stared at me, bleary eyed, and mumbled something incoherent. “Gavin!” I grabbed his shoulders. “Listen. Please.” Somehow I mustered my calmest tones. I knew my ass was on the line if I could not get this information to Vincent quickly. Getting through to Gavin was my only hope. “Vincent needs the details
of a joint venture agreement you reviewed. Where are your notes?” My eyes darted around his office.

He pointed to a pile on his desk and I frantically started thumbing through it.

“The spiral one, the spiral one,” he groaned.

I pulled out the spiral notebook and flipped through it. His handwriting was atrocious. I couldn’t tell which notes were for which agreements. I couldn’t even tell if it was English. “Gavin, I need the summary you did for the JV with WorldRes Europe. Can you point to that one?” I asked him in the same tone Margaret uses with Evan when he hides her car keys.

Gavin grabbed the notebook and pointed to a page of scribbles.

I squinted at the page. “Gavin, I have no idea what that says.”
Shit! Shit! Shit!
I felt a surge of panic. Then I had an idea. “Okay, Gavin,
you
type your summary into an email for Vincent.” I picked up the keyboard, which had been moved off to the side for him to rest his head, and slammed it in front of him. “Like now!” My voice was getting louder and more aggravated.

Gavin turned to his computer, put his hands on the keyboard, stared at the screen for a moment, and his eyes fell shut.

“GAVIN!” I yelled, as my frustration bubbled over.

“I’m awake, I’m awake.” He sat straight up, threw his shoulders back, and started to type. After a few words, his eyes closed again.

I was in full blown panic mode. It was like I could hear a giant clock in my head. “Tick, tick, tick.” I was MacGyver and the bomb was about to blow.

Without thinking, I whirled around and grabbed the canister of compressed air from his shelf. It’s normally used to dust keyboards by gusting out a hard blast of air to blow out the dust in between the keys. The warning on the side of the canister says not to spray directly on skin, as it can cause frostbite. With the eyes of a crazy person, I turned and pointed the canister at the back of Gavin’s neck and pulled.

Pssssssssst. The powerful burst of air startled him awake.
Oompa loompa doompadah dee, if you are wise you’ll listen to me.

He jumped in his chair. “Geez, Mackenzie, what the hell was that?”

There was a time when I treated people with dignity and respect. A time when I would have put a blanket over Gavin so he could sleep it off, checking his breathing every fifteen minutes to make sure he was still okay. Now here I was, using an air canister as a weapon. The way I was morally spiraling out of control, I was going to wind up the F&D “fixer” à la Michael Clayton. But I was so relieved that Gavin was talking in full, comprehensible sentences that it didn’t matter what method I was using. The only thing that mattered was that Vincent got his answer ASAP. The ends justified the means.

“I’m just helping you stay awake, Gavin. Now write,” I ordered, pointing towards the keyboard. My heart was pounding, my conscience quietly rubbing against my self-preservation.

He sat up straight and began pecking away at the keys as I loomed over him, keeping the air canister strategically pointed at the back of his neck. Anytime his eyes closed I pulled the trigger again. Psssssssssst. “Keep writing, Gavin.”

Walking back to my office after Gavin had sent the email to Vincent, my heart rate started to return to normal and my heavy breathing lessened. I silently congratulated myself for getting the job done. My method may have been unconventional, but what choice did I have? I could hear Ben’s voice in my mind.
Those who distinguish themselves in my eyes go above and beyond.

I
TOOK A SIP
of my sparkling water and looked around the restaurant. Barbara Walters was two booths over, and Henry Kravis, founder of the powerhouse private equity firm KKR, was in the booth behind us. I was pretty sure I spotted John Kerry in the corner. The Four Seasons Grill Room was a plethora of white collar pseudo-celebrities. As the restaurant of choice for power-lunchers in New York, the annual income of the lunch crowd was probably bigger than the GDP of a small nation, making it the perfect place to recruit potential candidates to F&D.

“The restaurant selection for the interview lunch is paramount,” I remember the Head of Recruiting preaching at the “Successful Recruitment Techniques” seminar last year that I, along with many of my fellow associates, was required to attend. We needed to learn the fine art of courting law students before we could be released into the wild to spread the word about F&D. We were the select “normal ones,” I’d realized, looking around at those attending the seminar. They hadn’t invited Cheese Boy or the associate that spontaneously fell asleep during conversations. They’d conscripted a select few to fulfill the warm, friendly, female quota that was evidently lacking at the partner level. “We’ve provided a list of appropriate restaurants in the packet I’ve passed out.” He’d held up the recruiting packet the way an evangelist would hold up a bible. “You’ll recognize the names Le Cirque, Four Seasons, and the like. Don’t go off the list without consulting me first,” he’d warned us before moving on to the
last page of the packet, “Be Truthful, but Don’t Overshare.” “Look,” he’d started. “Everyone knows lawyers work long hours, but you don’t need to
dwell
on that. Everybody wants to eat the sausage, but nobody wants to see how it’s made, if you get my drift.” I remember writing that sentence down and underlining it twice, not entirely sure I got his drift.

“So, Spencer, what else can we tell you about F&D?” Ben asked the prospective summer associate he was attempting to woo, bringing me back to the present.

I stabbed at my endive salad with my fork and struggled to focus on the conversation. Normally I would’ve been thrilled to be treated to a lunch that cost the equivalent of my monthly food budget, but when Ben asked me to join him on a recruiting lunch this morning my first instinct was to decline. With my mile-high to-do list, the last thing I could afford was a two hour lunch. But I quickly realized Ben wasn’t asking me, he was telling me. So here I was—having a long lunch while the pile of work sitting on my desk haunted me.

Even with the free food, these interview lunches bordered on painful. The recruits always fell into one of three categories: (1) the painfully awkward introvert, whose red face and stuttering makes you even more uncomfortable than him; (2) the pretentious overachiever who only takes a break from telling you about her list of volunteer work to ask you your thoughts about an obscure court decision she just read about in law school; and (3) the well-connected, naturally intelligent frat boy who spent much of law school hung over, but still managed to wind up top of his class. This last guy usually had a Wall Street job lined up, but still wanted to be taken out for a free lunch by each Biglaw firm hungry to recruit him. But the most exasperating part about these lunches wasn’t the personalities of the recruits; it was how phony it all was. I was an integral part of preventing people from seeing how the sausage is made, meaning whenever I opened my mouth lies came out.
Yes, the partners are very approachable! Of course pro bono work is always encouraged!
I always felt like I was chanting the mantra of some wacky cult. But it’s the circle of life, I suppose—I was fed the lines and now I was feeding them to the next generation.

I put a forkful of salad in my mouth and chewed while looking up at the sparkling chandelier hanging from the cavernous ceiling, blinking my dry eyes in an effort to keep them open.

“Well,” Spencer responded. “How would you describe the atmosphere among the associates?”
There’s a question straight out of his law school interview brochure
, I thought, sneaking a surreptitious peek at my watch. Spencer fell into category number one, which made the lunch even more excruciating. I chewed fast to clear my mouth to answer, but Ben had already started.

“Our associates are extremely supportive of one another. Other firms may cultivate an overly competitive, ‘kill or be killed’ environment”—which he air quoted—“but that’s not F&D.” I nodded in agreement, playing along, and started to tune out his rehearsed answer. “Instead of hoarding the work, our associates look out for each other. In fact, Mackenzie and I are working together on the kind of deal that any corporate lawyer would kill to be involved in. And instead of resenting her for her opportunities, another associate advocated for Mackenzie to work on the two biggest deals in the firm simultaneously.”

Wait a second. Rewind. What did he just say? Another associate
advocated
for me to be on the deal with Saul? The one that had my ruined my anniversary dinner, jeopardized my chances of impressing Ben, and put my mental stability at risk?

“Wow, sounds like a great opportunity,” Mr. Introvert responded eagerly, looking at me. My smile was pasted on my face, and I think there may have been a piece of lettuce dangling from my mouth.

“Yeah,” Ben continued. “I was worried Mackenzie had too much on her plate.” Ben grabbed my shoulder in praise. “But you balanced both deals handily, just like Sarah said you could.”

Back in my office two hours later, my mind was in overdrive. I picked up the phone to call Jason, but after I dialed the first number I hung up. Unloading on him about this now would probably just annoy him and I didn’t want another wedge planted between us. I fired off a quick IM to Alex simply saying, “Can you come by?” and waited.
He’d become my personal Buddha when it came to work issues, keeping me grounded and centered. When I was berating myself for crying about a public dressing down at the hands of Saul, it was Alex who explained it was
normal
to cry when someone yells at you. “I’d worry about you if you
didn’t
cry — it would mean you’ve become a robot,” he’d reassured me. And when Ben demanded that the deal team pull back-to-back all-nighters to prepare for a contract negotiation meeting after coming off a week when I’d billed over one hundred hours, it was Alex who brought me Advil for my caffeine-induced headaches while patiently reminding me the worst would be over soon, like I was in treatment for some terrible disease. He would know how to handle this. At the very least, he could be a craziness barometer and keep me from going down to Sarah’s office and scratching her eyes out.

When I still hadn’t heard back an hour later, I called his secretary, who informed me that Alex was out of the office at the Financial Printer. “Said he won’t be in all week!” she exclaimed. That explained why I hadn’t seen him today. This was the third time Alex had worked on a large stock offering requiring him to be at the Printer, and each time it was akin to falling off the face of the earth. Lawyers, bankers, and clients hunker down in conference rooms of cavernous Financial Printer offices for weeks, sometimes months at a stretch, banging out what will be the final copy of publicly filed documents.

“It’s like being in purgatory,” Alex said after the first stock offering he worked on, requiring him to spend six weeks at the Financial Printer. “Once you enter, they might as well seal the doors behind you because you’ll be there for an eternity.” Apparently these Financial Printers have developed ways to keep you from noticing the long wait for the revised proof. “They’re staffed with a cast of characters whose only job is to cater to your every whim,” Alex explained. “You want a Häagen-Dazs bar at 2
A.M
.? Done. Too cold and need a sweater? Someone will run to Saks and buy you one. Need to be entertained while the workers reset the printer for a new proof? Just play a game of billiards or Grand Theft Auto on the sixty inch plasma screen. Not pleased that the Red Bull isn’t diet? Then diet Red Bull you’ll have!”

It sounded completely bizarre to me, but, as with most perks, it was done to keep you happily working around the clock, giving you
no need to stop, fuelling you with as much caffeine and aspartame as you needed, and all of it, of course, charged back to the client. Nothing in Biglaw is free.

With my Buddha stuck in purgatory, I was going to have to handle this latest crisis on my own. I attempted to force myself to concentrate on the director’s resolutions I needed to draft. I shook my head.
Focus, focus,
I repeatedly commanded myself, but the lunch conversation kept playing like a movie reel in my head. There was no way Sarah had advocated for me to work on the Saul deal out of the kindness of her heart. Her motives were obvious. She was trying to sabotage my chances with StarCorp.

Six hours of stewing later, at just after eleven o clock, with my director’s resolutions nowhere near done, I’d formulated a plan for dealing with Sarah. I’d casually asked Sadir what Sarah was working on these days and he’d launched into a lengthy description of an asset purchase deal that Maxwell was running that was keeping her in the office late every night. I knew Sadir’s clandestine data collection on the work habits of his co-workers would come in handy at some point. I decided to wait until after midnight, go down to her office, and confront her face to face. Because of the late hour, there would be fewer curious ears to hear if things got loud, which was a very good possibility. I wasn’t going down without a fight. Or at least a catfight.

I took a deep breath and picked up the phone to call Jason on his cell phone. I wasn’t going to unload on him, I promised myself. But I’d decided I didn’t want to do this without him. He wouldn’t be in the office this late, but maybe if I could just hear his voice it would feel like he was here beside me. It went straight to voice mail, which meant there would be no craziness barometer to consult—I was going rogue.

The theme song to Rocky played loudly in my head as I silently rehearsed what I was going to say: “Sarah, I’ve wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt,”
(Risin’ up, back on the street; Did my time, took my chances …)
“but I now realize that this is personal.”
(Went the distance, now I’m back on my feet, just a man and his will to survive …)
“And it has to end. Now.” (
It’s the eye of the tiger, it’s the thrill of the fight; Risin’ up to the challenge of our rival …)
“Because if it doesn’t, you’re going to have a full blown catfight on your hands.” (
And the
last known survivor stalks his prey in the night, and he’s watching us all with the eye of the tiger!)
Determination was coursing through my veins as I headed down to her office ready to finally have it out with the Ice Queen.

Standing outside her closed office door, I hesitated for a moment. Was this really the right thing to do? Was it really the right time? Maybe I should just do this over the phone or email. Or at least wait until I’ve run it past an appropriate craziness barometer, rather than the theme song to a 1980s Sylvester Stallone movie. A muffled groan coming from Sarah’s office interrupted my self-doubting thoughts.

It sounded like she might have been crying.
Maxwell probably just chewed her out,
I deduced.
Maybe I should come back later.
I turned to leave, but my feet wouldn’t let me.
No, I need to do this now! I need to have this out with her or this will never stop.
This is it. I took a deep breath and turned the handle of her office door.

My bleary eyes had trouble deciphering exactly what I was looking at—a headful of messy brown hair, the flash of a side of butt cheek. Oh. My. God. There was a naked man on top of Sarah! A naked man! She wasn’t moaning from frustration, she was moaning from … oh, it was too gross and terrible to think about. I quickly closed the door before I could be noticed.

And then I froze. Time seemed to stand still as my mind caught up to what my eyes had just seen. My heart fluttered in my chest.
I know that hair … I know that butt cheek
. I knew with sickening certainty what I had just walked in on. Now my pulse was thumping in my ears. I opened the door again.

“Jason?” I sputtered.

“Mackenzie!” Jason jumped up and attempted to get to his feet, frantically pulling up his pants, which hung down on one ankle. I could feel tears rising up in my eyes. I backed out the door, turned, and quickly started down the hallway.

Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God
. I couldn’t produce a cohesive thought. Jason. Naked. Sarah.