Big Law (2 page)

My computer pinged with Alex’s response.
Still here and you’re going to need a boatload of caffeine
.
I just heard Russ tell his secretary to have breakfast delivered to the war room at 5
A.M
.

I groaned, suddenly reminded of why I never liked working with Russ Tornelli. He lived at the office. “Literally,” Sadir had emphasized when he’d passed on this tidbit of gossip. When his lease ran out a year ago, Russ had apparently slept in his office for two months because he was too cheap to rent another apartment. He was currently sleeping on his parents’ couch when he wasn’t at the office and still had no intention of getting his own apartment.

As part of my preparation for hunkering down I reluctantly sent an email to Jason, who I knew was waiting patiently for me at my apartment, as he was most nights when he left the office before me.

A wide smile broke across my face. 1:
I
. 4:
Love
. 3:
You
. It was a special code we had developed early in our relationship, a way to secretly connect at work. Sometimes Jason would tap out the code on the table when we were in the same meeting, other times I’d arrive at work to find a yellow sticky note on my monitor with the code. It still felt unreal that I was the girlfriend of such an irresistible guy. Not that I was inclined to ever resist him.

1-4-3,
I wrote back, wishing I was snuggling up with him on the couch instead of holed up in my office.

“I’m going to grab some caffeine,” I announced to Sadir. “Need anything other than Red Bull?”

“Just get me the Red Bull,” he mumbled without looking up.

I pecked out a quick IM to Alex.
Wanna join me on a coffee run?

See you at the elevator
, he wrote back.

I grabbed a random file, ensuring I looked busy, tucked it under my arm and made my way down the corridor. Despite the late hour, lights were still gleaming in offices, phones were still ringing, photocopiers still whirring. F&D, like all Biglaw firms, ensured its lawyers could work twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. There were night time secretaries that could be reserved when your own secretary went home and a round-the-clock photocopy and document support center to ensure that the marked-up drafts lawyers dropped off before leaving for the evening were retyped and waiting for them in their inboxes first thing in the morning. The full-service cafeteria, complete with a salad bar, sushi bar, grill station, and sundae bar, was available for all three meals. If you didn’t have time to leave your desk a cafeteria worker could bring it right to your office, piping hot. Prefer food from the outside world? No problem—simply place an order (or have your secretary place an order) with Seamless, an online food delivery service offering any type of food available in the city. A uniformed deliveryman would bring it right to the lobby. Dinners were always billed to the client automatically, so no need to bother with cash. If you were one of the lucky ones leaving for the night, you simply emailed the firm’s operation center and they ordered you a Town Car home. Pantries were stocked with snack food and toiletries for those spending the night at the office. There was even a fully stocked medicine cabinet should you require … oh, I don’t know … three Advil and a swig of Pepto-Bismol at 3
A.M
.? All of it set up so that associates never had to stop working. There might as well have been a large neon sign erected outside that blinked “Open 24 Hours.”

I pushed through the glass doors to the elevator bank, expecting to see Alex. Instead, there stood Sarah, looking hostile and unpleasant with her arms folded and her brow furrowed. Shit.

The earliest sign that Sarah and I weren’t exactly going to be Oprah and Gail was when she’d stood me up for the mentor/mentee introductory lunch. Giving her the benefit of the doubt, I’d gone to her office to introduce myself and discovered, behind a meticulously clean desk, a woman so full of tension that even the air around her seemed to emit stress. One look at her and I knew I wouldn’t be picking her brain for advice on surviving in the male-dominated Corporate group or “leaning in,” as they say. The crease in her pinstriped pants was so flawlessly pressed it could have been used as a paring knife, and her pointy-toed Jimmy Choos could’ve doubled as weapons. All in all, she’d expertly cultivated a look that screamed,
I can crush you
.

I grinned tightly at Sarah now, nodding what I hoped was a friendly hello. She glared in my direction before facing the elevators, not even acknowledging my presence.

Taking her cue, I stood stiffly in silence, keeping my distance, gripping my hands around my file. I couldn’t help stealing a surreptitious peek at Sarah out of the corner of my eye. Everything about her was rigid and taut—from her long blond hair pulled back into a severe pony tail, to her pointy hip bones that looked like they might poke out from beneath her skin at any moment. Even the sides of her squared manicure looked razor-sharp. Every part of her was precisely in place, but precariously so. I imagined that if you pulled out one bobby pin from her perfectly slicked back hair, she would completely unravel.

What little I knew about Sarah I’d learned from Sadir. He’d given me the run-though of all the senior associates in my first week. Derek Boyle, he explained, was an eighth year associate who was “riding his ponies to partnership,” which meant he staffed deals heavily with junior associates, had them do all of the work, and then took all of the credit. Brian Gambrill, on the other hand, was a seventh year associate famous for emailing associates while they were on vacation and demanding an immediate response. According to Brian, vacation was no excuse for not continually checking your BlackBerry. “I was responding to emails while on the Matterhorn ride at Disney World with my nine-year old daughter during our
only
family vaca
tion all year,” Brian would brag. His daughter will be telling
that
story to a therapist one day, I’m sure. Although something tells me she won’t be hunting for material.

“What about Sarah?” I’d asked, figuring that while Sadir was dishing I might as well get some information on my mysteriously bitchy mentor.

“Never worked with her. I try to avoid working with women. No offense,” was his response. “But I know she’s a fifth year associate who graduated top of her class from Columbia, is supposedly brilliant in a diabolical kind of way, and is gunning for partnership. Which means she’ll throw anyone under the bus to save her own ass. You definitely gotta watch your back with that one.” He made a stabbing motion with his hand to emphasize the point.

I was shivering at the memory when, to my surprise, Sarah broke the chilly silence.

“So what’s keeping my mentee here so late?” she asked icily, her eyes still fixed forward.

My body jolted, startled not only that she’d spoken, but also that she’d remembered she was
supposed
to be my mentor.

“I’m just working on a merger that’s signing tonight,” I answered, a little too manically. “For uhh … a client of Maxwell’s.”

She turned her head slowly to face me, giving me a frigid once-over.

I was suddenly aware that after being at the office nineteen straight hours, I was looking as disheveled as I felt.

“Well, I hope it’s
work
keeping you here and not something else, Mackenzie.” Her overly glossed lips curled into a smirk. “Rumor has it you’re hooking up with another associate.”

Hooking up with?
That sounded so tawdry. “I’m in a relationship with another associate.” I struggled to keep my tone as pleasant as I could. Suddenly realizing neither of us had pushed the button for the elevator, I pressed the down button three times, hoping the high speed elevator lived up to its name.

“I guess you didn’t get the memo on how unprofessional it is to engage in a romantic relationship with a work colleague.” She raised one overly plucked eyebrow, and with her thin nose and slight sneer,
I swear she was a dead ringer for the evil witch in
Wicked
. “I hope you don’t end up like my last mentee. She got married after ten months at the firm, pregnant immediately thereafter, and was never heard from again. It’s women like
her
that put the women’s movement back decades. Why would any firm promote us if they think we’re just here to meet men and make babies? I choose to counteract that stereotype by putting my
career
first. I suggest you do too.”

As if on cue, the elevator doors opened and she stepped inside and turned around, facing me.

“Oh, go … go ahead, I’m just waiting for someone.” I pointed at the glass doors to the elevator bank.

“Of course you are,” she said frostily as the elevator door slammed shut.

T
RUTH BE TOLD
,
MY
fondness for crossword puzzles wasn’t the reason I chose the corporate department. In Biglaw, the corporate department was a mark of success and I’d been fixated with success ever since I saw my sister, Margaret, draped in four first place medals at the regional swim competition when I was ten years old. Mom had signed Margaret and me up for the swim team at the community center that summer after reading an article on the importance of sports in building girls’ self-esteem. Margaret had groaned, but I was excited—I loved swimming. When the season started, it didn’t take a stopwatch to tell me that Margaret was easily the fastest swimmer on the team, often finishing races a full length ahead of everyone else. And I would know, being that I was usually the one bringing up the rear. “I think you just need to practice more,” Mom would gently instruct when I complained to her about being last. “You can achieve anything with hard work.” So I spent the summer in the pool, with Dad dropping me off early on his way to work while Margaret was still in bed, and stayed long past when Margaret skipped out to head to the beach with her friends. I didn’t mind, though, because I couldn’t wait to show my parents how good I’d become in the final match of the summer—the All East swim competition. But things didn’t go exactly as my optimistic ten-year old mind had planned. Margaret won four first place medals, and all I walked away with was a cruddy participation ribbon. Watching my sister standing on the makeshift podium, the medals draped around her neck, nodding
humbly at the rousing applause, somewhere deep inside I was filled with a burning, pulsing
need
to be up there. But so long as I embodied the athletic ability of Charlie Brown, it wasn’t going to happen.

I didn’t want to just be a hard worker. I wanted to be a winner. And in that moment, I knew what I would be plagued with for the rest of my life if I embraced the same things Margaret, a year older than me, did—new coaches looking at my last name on the roster, certain they had a gem with “another Corbett girl.” Until they saw me play. Unless I wanted to grow up in Margaret’s superior gene pool shadow, I had to find another way to get noticed. Soon, I learned that if I studied hard enough and had a 4.0 GPA, I’d earn awards, scholarships, and feel the thrill of victory when called up on stage to give the class valedictorian speech while my parents cheered proudly in the audience. I discovered that if I steered clear of sports or sororities in college and filled my time with lawyer-friendly extracurricular activities like the debate club and civil liberties club instead, Georgetown Law School would offer me a spot.

In law school our career resources counselor told us that a corporate associate position at a Biglaw firm was the most difficult spot to obtain. Of those lucky enough to land a summer associate position, only a handful would be asked to join the corporate department. It was the epitome of success for the eternal striver in me. When F&D offered me a spot, it felt like a huge achievement, assurance that I’d chosen a career path that I was good at. But most important, it quelled the worries in my head that Margaret was the only winner in the family. Which was why it really got under my skin when Sarah implied that I was at the office late at night for any reason other than work.

“Seriously? Unprofessional? That’s what she called you?” Kim’s voice cut through my brief fantasy about yanking on Sarah’s pony tail until she cried “uncle.”

“Yup.” I nodded, stifling a yawn. The mandate from Maxwell last night that the merger sign before the markets opened meant that I’d pulled an all-nighter, but it was worth it because as of seven thirty this morning two companies were joined in holy matrimony. The best thing about signing up a deal early in the day was that it meant you could actually leave the office at the same time as the majority of
the population. It was a rare occurrence to be out of the office while it was still light outside, one that had to be seized. So, despite my sleep-deprived state, here I was having dinner on a sidewalk patio with my best friend, Kim, filling her in on my run-in with my Ice Queen mentor.

“Oh, and apparently I’m in grave danger of putting the women’s movement back decades.”

“Wow, I didn’t realize you had that kind of power, Mac. Impressive.” Kim ripped off a piece of bread and swirled it around in the plate of olive oil. “Remind me to blame you when they take away my right to vote.”

I laughed. Other than my unpleasant run-in with Sarah last night, I had a lot to celebrate. The deal had signed on time, meaning my press release hit the wires just before the markets opened. News of the merger resulted in the stock nearly doubling in value, leaving our client overjoyed. Even Stay Puft had been jovial during the congratulatory handshakes around the conference room. “Good work, Mackenzie,” he’d boomed while clapping me on the shoulder. “You’re a real up-and-comer around here.” As he shook my hand I felt a swell of pride. It was definitely a booster shot to my ego to get a compliment from Maxwell. Biglaw partners had a knack for giving just enough praise to make your all-nighters feel worthwhile. Yes, being an up-and-comer in the eyes of a four corner partner was definitely cause for a toast.

I raised my glass. “To the women’s movement—may it be solid enough to survive my intra-office dating.”

“Hear, hear.” Kim smiled, clinking my glass.

I took a swig of Chianti, recommended by our waiter as the perfect accompaniment to our dinner selections. It was a far cry from the suburban Olive Garden back home. “Mmm … this is good. What’s it called again?”

“Wine,” Kim answered, smiling wickedly. Despite Kim’s well-off upbringing, or maybe because of it, she always rebuffed anything that sounded even slightly haughty.

“Ha, ha.” I deadpanned. “Whatever it’s called, I may crawl into that bottle.”

“Well, I think your maniac mentor story trumps any maniac four-year old encounter I’ve had lately, so I’ll forgive you if you drink the bulk of it.”

Kim loved to mock her job as a teacher at an Upper East Side preschool, sarcastically announcing she was “shaping our future,” but I knew her job was probably the one thing she took seriously. When Kim was four her parents went through a messy divorce, each using Kim as a pawn in their dysfunctional relationship. With a complicated custody schedule in place, she’d often been left at school long past the 2
P.M
. dismissal time, as her parents fought about whose turn it was to pick her up. Thankfully, a kind teacher took Kim under her wing, reading or doing special art projects long past the final bell, and always explaining away her parents’ absence. “Stuck in traffic. That’s what she would always say,” Kim scoffed when she would recount the memory. “I thought Greenwich was the most congested town on earth until I was about ten.” Although she would never admit it, I knew Kim’s career choice was formed in her preschool classroom.

I peered at my BlackBerry, placed visibly on the table, as it was at every meal. Seeing it blinking, I picked it up and did a quick check.

Kim raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Just my mom checking in.” I tossed my BlackBerry back on the table.

“I’m still amazed your mom even lets you live in this city all by yourself,” Kim teased.

“Please,” I scoffed. “The only reason she’s not consumed with worry on a daily basis is that Uncle Nigel lives close enough to put out any emergencies.”

Kim snickered.

My parents were the complete opposite of Kim’s—they’d been married thirty years, worked jobs that meant something to them, but didn’t provide a windfall (Dad was a principal and Mom was an ER nurse), and while they bickered over small things, they rarely fought. They centered their lives around their children, proudly drinking their morning coffee out of their “World’s Best Mom/Dad” mugs, and would love nothing more than to have me living closer to their safe suburb just outside of Boston.

As my best friend, Kim was under Mom’s worry umbrella too. And although Kim never mentioned it, she loved having a parent actually be concerned about her wellbeing.

I first met Kim orientation day of freshman year at Princeton. She was sitting on an unmade bed in our dorm room painting her toenails when I arrived, Mom and Dad in tow, schlepping labeled Tupperware storage containers I’d spent weeks organizing. “Mackenzie!” she’d sung, hopping off the bed, duck walking to avoid smudging her freshly painted toes, and embracing me the same way you would an old friend. “I’ve been waiting for you to get here. Welcome to Chez KimMac.” She’d gestured grandly around the tiny dorm room. “Or MacKim, whatever.” Something about the way she confidently assumed we’d be friends charmed me, melting away my usual new person shyness. Mom and Dad had set to work unpacking my clothes into contact paper-lined drawers, putting up shelves, and making both beds. “My mom dropped me off, but she had to go,” Kim explained as Mom spread Kim’s flowered comforter over her bed. “Something about staying in Jersey not being good for your skin.” She’d rolled her eyes, but I noticed the tiniest blush when she
said it. When Mom finished her long, tearful goodbye, and Dad, the emotional opposite of Mom, had simply reminded me of the dangers of overloading the outlet with too many electronics, they finally closed the door behind them. Kim turned to me, eyes glinting with freedom and possibility, and said, “So what should we do tonight?” We’d been inseparable through the rest of college, talked daily when I was in law school, and blessedly ended up in the same city together, which wasn’t really an accident. We’d spent countless nights lying on our beds talking about our plans to live in New York City. We complemented each other well. She’d been my anchor when academic pressures threatened to push me off the deep end and I’d kept her safely moored through her multiple tumultuous relationships.

“So where’s Jason tonight?” Kim inquired, changing the subject.

“At the Rangers game with Alex. I doubt Alex will get to stay for the whole game, though. He’s still working with Saul, so he’ll probably get the usual ‘get your ass back to the office’ email.” I shrugged.

“Is Saul the really crazy one?” Kim asked, drawing out the word “really.”

“Yup, Saul’s the really crazy one,” I affirmed, nodding. The partners in the corporate department all used intimidation and public humiliation as teaching tools. Frankly, each of them was really crazy in his own way. But Saul Siever had something extra—he was a sadist. He actually derived real pleasure from the torture he inflicted. Rumor had it that the only time Saul could be seen with a smile on his face was after he yelled at someone. Particularly if he brought them to tears. It was well-established firm lore that he once threw a stapler at the cleaning lady for moving his beloved ficus plant while vacuuming. It hit her in the back of the head and drew blood. Apparently after the settlement the partnership requested that he be put on medication. Whatever medication he was taking didn’t seem to stifle his ongoing atrocities against associates, though. “They can’t make a medication strong enough to give that monster an empathy gene,” I remembered an associate slurring after one too many margaritas at a Cinco-de-Mayo party. He had a client list that rivaled those of the top partners in the city, and because of it, the firm ignored all the ways in which he was a severe liability.

“How does Alex manage to survive working for that nut?” Kim shook her head in disbelief.

I shrugged. “You know Alex, everything rolls off his back.” Which unfortunately was not a trait I possessed. Lucky for me, I’d so far managed to avoid being staffed on one of Saul’s deals. In my mind, Saul had chosen his favorite associates to abuse and, thankfully, I wasn’t one of them.

Kim sighed dramatically. “I wish I was the one rolling around with Alex’s back.”

“Kim!” I laughed.

She clinked her wineglass against mine. “Don’t claim you aren’t aware of how incredibly sexy he is.”

Alex possessed a distinct “just rolled out of bed” sexiness that clearly appealed to Kim, but he and I had always been close friends—platonic work spouses. I’d thought about setting Kim up with Alex at one point, but quickly came to my senses—Alex went through girlfriends the way a bad golfer goes through balls. If he made my best friend his next mulligan, I would have to kill him.

“Nothing wrong with looking,” she added, holding her hands up in surrender. “With my record I need to have a back-up.”

I squinted one eye in a mock reproachful look. It was true that Kim didn’t have the best track record. Her fondness for relationship-phobic men meant her boyfriends typically stuck around about a month, just short enough to not actually be categorized as a “relationship.” But her current boyfriend, Quinn, was different. For starters he actually had a source of income, something none of her previous boyfriends had. I’d initially been suspicious of the dubious occupation of “bar owner,” so I’d run a title search confirming that (a) the bar “Cordova” did in fact exist and (b) Quinn did in fact own it. Yes, I did due diligence on my friend’s boyfriend. I may have inherited Mom’s tendency to worry.

“You don’t need to have a back-up when you’ve found the perfect guy for you.”

“Mac, don’t jinx it!”

It was true, though. If I had to design a guy specifically for Kim, Quinn would be it. He was attractive, but not intimidatingly so. His
nose was just a tad too big, but his endearingly wide smile compensated for that. He was effortlessly cool in the “hipster without even trying” way. He was funny, but never made jokes at her expense. On their second date he cooked her lasagna because it was her favorite, and later confided to me that he’d watched a YouTube instructional video eleven times to learn how to make it. Most importantly, unlike her other beaux, he hadn’t run in the opposite direction when she referred to him as her boyfriend.