J'adore New York (23 page)

“Perfect. So, you’ll send me the written confirmation that I have your permission to transfer shares to your secretary and I’ll have Sandy at the Swiss Bank set things up. You’ve got everything arranged so that you can transfer the money back to your personal account?”

“Of course. My accountant is the best—he does this sort of thing all the time. I’ll sell the shares right away, and before you know it, you and I will be lounging on the beach in St. Barts, baby. It’ll all be worth it.”

I turn off the Dictaphone. Gotcha. The only place you’ll be lounging,
connard,
is on a bunk bed in jail.

I
show up at the office the next morning wearing my new Dior suit with a red silk scarf tied around my neck, smelling of J’adore, and feeling invincible. I stride confidently by Bonnie’s office holding my Edwards & White coffee mug, then stop dead in my tracks in front of her doorway.

“Good morning, Bonnie, how are you today?”

Startled, she looks up and lifts her reading glasses. She stares approvingly at my outfit.

“Hello, Catherine. I’m fine. How are you?”

“Just fabulous.”

I’m not going to let some swindling conman throw me off my game or destroy my self-confidence and career. I walk back to my office, settle into my chair, and call Rikash.

“Shut the door. How are you feeling?”

“Terrible. I haven’t slept in almost a week.”

“That makes two of us. I’ve got some good news for a change. Your brother has just been hired by Browser as a software developer.”

“What? But he hasn’t even started school yet.”

“Doesn’t matter. I want you to phone him immediately and tell him that someone from Swiss Bank here in New York is waiting for his call. He needs to open an account as soon as possible. Can you take care of that for me?”

“Open an account at Swiss Bank. But why?”

“Don’t ask any questions, just do it.”

“I hope you’re not engaging in anything risky for my sake. I don’t want to jeopardize my good karma; god knows it’s been damaged over the years and I’ve been desperately trying to get it back on track.”

“Don’t worry, your karma is totally safe. Just call your brother and tell him to call Sandy Mercer at Swiss Bank. His number is in our client directory.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll do it. You’re looking very confident in a badass kind of way today.” He arches his eyebrows quizzically.

“Yes, confident that things will be put right. The account needs to be opened by noon tomorrow, so tell your brother to phone right away. We’ll also need to fax him some documentation, so tell him to find a fax machine.”

I take a large swig of coffee before I pick up the phone to call the Swiss Bank account manager.

“Hey, Sandy, ready for the big day tomorrow?”

“Yeah, man, it’ll be crazy. This IPO is real hot.”

“Listen, I have a new name to add to the list of participants in the international directed share program. Jeff Richardson asked me to add a software developer from India.”

“Another one of those Indian whiz kids, huh?”

“Exactly.”

“Okay, what’s his name?”

“Nitesh Chandra.”

“Got it. Do you have an account number here at the bank for me?”

“No. Not yet. He’ll be calling you later today to handle that; he’s to receive four hundred shares.”

“Those guys are really raking it in, aren’t they?”

“They sure are. Oh, and Sandy, before I forget, did you get the request I forwarded from Jeffrey Richardson?”

“Yup, got it right here. Eight thousand shares to an account held by one of the secretarial staffers. She must be some secretary…”

“I’m afraid the account information is incorrect—the company has requested that those shares be equally allocated among all of the Browser support staff instead.”

“Really?”

“Yes, they’re being very generous. You’re not questioning my authority now, are you?”

“No, ma’am, of course not. You’re the boss.”

“Sandy, you’re my main man on this deal, so don’t let me down.”

“Have I ever let you down?”

“Never.”

“Good. Please remind your client of that. I’m looking forward to getting a nice bonus this year.”

“Don’t worry; I’ll definitely let him know.”

On the morning of the Browser IPO, I sit in our boardroom waiting for the financial news to appear on television. A female news anchor comes on shortly after the NASDAQ opening to report that the shares have skyrocketed to $105 from the opening price of $23 per share. Given the number of shares Jeffrey owns, he’s now worth more than $100 million on paper.

I call Rikash in. “Tell your brother to sell his shares. He’ll be making a nice little profit.”

“Thank you so much for doing this. You have no idea how much this will help us out. Will this get you into any trouble?”

“No.”

“What about Jeffrey. Will he find out?”

“Doesn’t matter. Right now he’s probably too busy drooling over the huge pile of cash he just made.”

“You’re my Lakshmi, goddess of good fortune.”

As Rikash gives me a hug and rushes out, I see Maria standing outside the door, eavesdropping.

Great. Blabbermouth will definitely love this one. Knowing it would come in handy one day, I had made copies of Maria and Roxanne’s incriminating boardroom conversation.

I wait until she’s gone for lunch and then leave the miniature cassette on her desk with a note:

Dear Maria,

Let’s not get nasty, shall we? We would both have a lot to lose.

Catherine

I walk past her desk later that morning and she nods humbly to acknowledge our implicit pact.

“Congratulations, Catherine. I heard the Browser IPO went very smoothly. Too bad you couldn’t participate in the offering; I heard that the stock went above a hundred dollars this morning,” Scott comments as we both make our way to the elevators to grab lunch.

“I’m just glad it’s over so I can dig into new challenges.”

He stares at me with a look of surprise. “Are you heading out to the Hamptons this weekend?”

“No. I’m heading to another beach for three days. I’ve decided to take Friday off. I hope you won’t mind.”

“Of course not. Going anywhere exciting?”

“Yes, Anguilla.”

“G
uess who called while you were baking your tushy in the tropics?”

“Hmm, let me guess, Mr. Hyde?”

“How d’you know?”

“Lucky guess.”

I knew Jeffrey would try to reach me in a fit of rage after he found out that the Browser shares were transferred to a group of secretaries. I had received several nasty emails during the weekend that I desperately tried to ignore. After I read the last one, I wrote a precise script for Rikash to follow when Jeffrey called for me at the office. I press for details.

“What did he say?”

“He screamed that it was an emergency and he needed to
talk to you. When I told him you were unreachable, he threatened to call Scott and tell him you committed malpractice.”

“How did you respond?”

“Exactly how you said I should. I told him that you had taped your last phone conversation about the share transfer and that you would notify the SEC immediately if he did anything to harm your career. He told me to fuck off and then hung up.”

I’m convinced that if he found out, Scott would take my side and turn Jeffrey in to the regulatory authorities, but I’m relieved that I don’t have to spill the private details of our relationship. It’s bad enough that Jeffrey’s illegal request has caused me to put into question my professional judgment. I don’t need to go through the painful exercise of exposing the personal side of this dreadful incident.

“Thanks for taking that nasty call, Rikash. You’re a star.”

Although I’m playing it cool, my heart sinks. It’s disheartening to think that my relationship with Jeffrey went from pure bliss to vile threats so rapidly. I want to fly back to Anguilla and bury my head in the sand.

“The pleasure was all mine, believe me. I can’t stand his guts. So how was the jaunt to the Caribbean? Any fun?”

“Fun isn’t exactly the right word, but it was relaxing. I slept for more than twenty-four hours straight and in between sobbing sessions I got a massage, a seaweed wrap, and a facial. Let’s just say that now I feel closer to being alive than dead.”

“It’s the beginning of the healing process. It means you’re on track. It’s all good from now on.”

“How about you? How’s your healing coming along?”

“Very nicely.” He bats his long eyelashes. “I’m doing it the sexual way.”

“Ms. Lambert, we’re waiting for you in conference room 22J,” a squeaky voice resonates from my speakerphone. The firm’s recruiting coordinator, Joan Biltmore, is a petite woman with a steely determination and the demeanour of an army general. She had asked that I help interview law students for the firm’s summer associate program—and now I’m regretting that I agreed. I’m in no mood to convince anybody to join the rat race in this loony bin.

At a pre-interview meeting for senior associates and junior partners, Joan provided us with the firm’s guidelines for the interview process. “We’re looking for a diversity of personalities who will contribute to the firm’s continued success. Individuals with different cultural backgrounds and strong convictions who share our core values.”

It was kind of unbelievable. Individuals with different cultural backgrounds? There are no more than 10 African-American lawyers in the New York office out of 420; perhaps she was referring to employment opportunities in the mailroom or the kitchen?

I arrive in the conference room as Joan is discussing the merits of selling one’s soul to the firm. “We take a unique approach to forming our associates. Everyone gets lots of
hands-on experience, all our attorneys are level-headed individuals who lead well-rounded lives, and the firm doesn’t put a strong focus on billable hours, but rather on the quality of the work environment.”

Pfff! N’importe quoi!

“Hello, Catherine, I was just explaining to Jonathan what makes Edwards and White such a special place to work.”

“Ah, perfect timing.” I flash my most winsome smile to make Jonathan feel all warm and tingly.

“Catherine is a senior associate in the corporate group. She also speaks French and worked in our Paris office before joining us. I’ll give the two of you a moment to chat in private.”

“Corporate? That’s what I’d like to specialize in one day,” he gushes.

Given the state of my nerves, I’m dying to tell him to just forget about it and run for his life while there’s still time, but I bite my tongue.

“Great! Please tell me about yourself,” I ask, feigning undivided attention while ruminating about the three hundred unopened email and phone messages that piled up while I was away for the weekend.

He goes on about his academic achievements until my eyes glaze over. I want to scream, Gimme a break and get over yourself, honey, you haven’t even graduated yet! Being an editor at the
Yale Law Review
only qualifies you to return Bonnie’s dry cleaning. But now that I think of it, I’m sure he’ll fit right into this narcissistic paradise.

“So, Jonathan, why a big law firm?”

“For the challenging work and excellent training opportunities.”

“Do you have any extracurricular activities? Favourite sports?” I ask, trying to avoid plaguing him with substantive legal questions.

“I enjoy activities and sports that have a strong team-building component. I guess that’s because I’m such a team player. I also enjoy activities that focus on endurance, strength of character, and loyalty.”

“Is there anything else that interests you?”

“I
do
enjoy French wine and French women.”

“Is that right? You have fine taste, Jonathan.” His response reminds me of the crap Jeffrey fed me to pull the wool over my eyes, and I want to jump across the boardroom table and go straight for his jugular.

“But flattery can backfire sometimes, you better be careful. I’m afraid that it takes more than that to get a job here.”

“I like to think of it as a career-advancing move.”

“Well then, I wish you the best of luck in the advancement of your career because you’re definitely going to need it.”

I excuse myself—Jonathan is a total bullshit
artiste
and I’m convinced that the firm will make him an offer despite what I have to say about the matter. I signal for Joan to go back in to finish this façade of an interview, make my way back to my office, shut the door, and, for the first time ever at work, start to fully weep.

I feel so empty. When will this feeling go away?

“S
o Jeffrey finally stopped trying to reach me.”

“It took him long enough, didn’t it?” Lisa comments after taking a final bite from her spicy chicken at Tartine in the West Village. “How did you manage that?”

“I sent him an email that must’ve got to him; I told him that he was lucky that I hadn’t turned him in after he asked me to be accomplice in his grand scheme and told him that I hadn’t made a final decision as to whether I would notify the SEC.”

“Will you? If you do notify the SEC, the information will become public and everyone at the firm will know about it straight away.”

“I know, but the last thing the corporate world needs is another thief running a public company. I’ve prepared a letter addressed to the SEC’s director of regulatory investigations
outlining the facts, sealed it, and put it ‘in escrow’ in my desk drawer until I feel ready to mail it.”

It feels awful to say it out loud. I still have major trouble coming to terms with the fact that I fell into the arms of a fraudster.

“You’re absolutely right, Catherine. I’m so proud of you.”

The waitress arrives at our table with two slices of pie. “The two gentlemen sitting by the window are offering you dessert. How lucky are you ladies?”

Lisa waves at them in thanks.

“How sweet. Maybe we can ask them to join us?” she asks keenly.

“Sorry, Lisa, but I’m not really in the mood. In actual fact, there’s almost nothing I’d like less.”

“I understand. I’m glad you’re going to that firm retreat in California. It will do you some good to get out of town. And who knows, there might be some cute boys at your hotel for you to hook up with?”

I laugh—Lisa knows I’ve never understood the expression
hooking up.
It sounds so unromantic to me, probably because the first time she said it, I thought it had something to do with plugging in my toaster or cable TV. It’s been a running joke ever since. She smiles, glad to see she’s made me lighten up.

She reads my mind and continues. “How does that French saying go again?
Un de perdu…
”

“
Dix de retrouvés
…One lost, ten found. Frankly, I’m not looking for anyone.”

“What if you didn’t need to look? There’s Antoine, for example…” She throws me an inquisitive look.

“What about him?”

“Aren’t you a tad excited to see him?”

“Hmm. I guess. He’s doing really well for himself apparently.”

“You brushed him off pretty quickly. I think he sounds like a great guy.” She winks mischievously.

“I’m definitely not going there Lisa. It’s bad enough I crossed the line with a firm client. Like I said, I’m not in the mood for men these days.”

“Your call. Just try to enjoy yourself. I’m sure it will be a blast!”

“Yeah, like the kind of blast you get from a major propane explosion.”

“Lighten up,
mademoiselle
! At least the weather will be great. You’ll come back totally revitalized.”

“I hope so. I need something good to happen in my life right now.”

Two in the morning is probably not the greatest time to be packing for a corporate trip; your brain is a bit fuzzy and your fashion judgment tends to go out the window. A bit exhausted from a day of non-stop meetings, I throw two pairs of Havaianas flip-flops and two Eres bikinis in my suitcase (perfect for paintball
non?
). But what to bring for business meetings and dinners? I sit on my bed for a moment, posing like Rodin’s
The Thinker.
I get an idea for a fabulous outfit: I dig deep into my closet to find the perfect skirt and shuffle about for at least half an hour
before I remember that the lower part of my outfit is being dry cleaned.
Merde!
I try to find a different outfit, put some items together, but nothing is quite as wonderful as the outfit I had originally thought of. Maybe I could break and enter Madame Paulette’s in the middle of the night to get my skirt back? I start pulling out and trying on everything in my closet until my apartment looks like it’s been ransacked, but nothing really works. I am now seriously hyperventilating since Harry Traum is picking me up in less than two hours to take me to the airport.
Calm down, Catherine, take a deep breath. Ahhh!
Quite literally, everything is sending me over the edge these days. After I calm my jittery nerves, I pick out a light pink vintage leather jacket, a pair of Acne jeans, T-shirts, my new Dior suit (I never leave home without it), a black off-the-shoulder evening dress, Lanvin stilettos, workout clothes and two Diane von Furstenberg wrap dresses. I throw a few vintage necklaces and my J. Crew clutch on the pile and voila, I’m ready to go.
Ouf
!

At five sharp, Harry Traum’s limo pulls up in front of my building. Most of my colleagues had flown out yesterday to get a game of golf in before the official firm meetings. My involvement with an overseas file had “forced” me to postpone my trip by one day and as an unexpected side effect had made Harry Traum my travel companion. His driver meets me in the lobby to help with my luggage. Inside the car, I fumble to make career-appropriate conversation despite my incapacity to speak English properly this early in the morning.

“The firm seems to be doing very well these days. We’re quite busy in the corporate department. How are things in litigation?”

“I’m always busy. You wouldn’t believe the number of corporate thieves there are out there.”

Yes sir, I do believe it. I could’ve added another thief to the long list but decided to settle the score myself instead.

“I’ve heard some good things about your work, Catherine. Apparently, you’re a smart cookie.”

Well, this is nice to hear first thing in the morning. I try to restrain a beaming smile.

“Thank you, I’ve been working very hard. I hope it pays off.”

“I may have a proposition for you,” he says with an intense gaze.

Uh-oh. That’s not so nice…A proposition? If he makes a come-on, I will die. Or Bonnie will kill me first.

“Um, what kind of proposition?”

“This is highly confidential, so keep it to yourself. A few senior partners and I are about to leave and start our own firm and I’d like you to join us…as a junior partner.”

I stare back at him with my eyes popping out of their sockets. I can’t believe I’m being offered a partnership position! All six and a half years of gruelling hard work flash before my eyes. Harry continues to talk about the kind of files I’d work on (interesting), the pay (very interesting), and my stake in the new firm (very, very interesting). But after my initial excitement wears off, I notice a gnawing feeling in my stomach. Something’s wrong, but I’m not sure what. I gaze out onto the highway trying to focus my thoughts as he continues to speak. This could mean more money, prestige, and getting out from under Bonnie’s iron grip. But in the weeks after the Browser
debacle, I’ve been feeling differently about my career. Do I really want to continue working these crazy hours and cater to the endless and often impossible demands of clients and those more senior in the food chain?

“We’re opening up a white-collar crime defence boutique and your experience would complement that of the litigators.”

“I’m very flattered by your offer, Mr. Traum, but I’m not sure I’m ready to make a move yet. Can you give me some time to think about it?”

He stares at me with a look of bewilderment.

“You’re not telling me you’re loyal to that firm, are you? With a bunch of assholes running the place? Do you think for a second they would be loyal to you? You’re just a cog in a well-oiled wheel, my dear. Just make sure you remember that.”

His words actually send shivers down my spine. I’m not naïve enough to think that associates like me aren’t dispensable. But given the amount of effort I’ve put in and my commitment to the firm, I guess I do expect a certain degree of recognition in return.

“I’ll remember that, thanks.”

“Take as much time as you need, Catherine,” he says sombrely.

As he looks out the tinted window, a pained expression comes over his tired features.

“I’ve worked my ass off for the last thirty years and what do I get in return? Zilch. Year after year, I brought in major clients, won cases that everyone wrote off as lost in advance, rewrote the law in the Court of Appeal and in the Supreme
Court, and what for? They treat me like I’m some beat-up old car ready to be parked in the used lot.”

Unsure if I should say anything, I listen in shocked silence. Despite his rough exterior and tough-guy antics, Harry looks like a wounded puppy.

“They don’t appreciate what I’ve done for them. I went through two triple-bypass heart surgeries because of those jerks. I’ve been the biggest rainmaker in the history of the firm and now they’re trying to push me out. Can you believe it?” He stares at me incredulously. “What a load of crap, those ungrateful sons of bitches. You know what, they can go fuck themselves. And you know what the saddest part of it is? I’ll take most of my clients with me and make more money on my own. A bunch of backward-thinking, short-sighted, greedy monkeys. That’s what they are, a bunch of fucking monkeys.”

I feel awful for him. He looks like a fallen rock star whose song is no longer being played on the radio. Why doesn’t this sixty-year-old man with millions in the bank and decades of hard work behind him look forward to relaxing on the back nine? Despite his immense success, his enviable reputation, and all his money, he looks miserable. It occurs to me that he may have lost his temper recently not because of his divorce but because of the pressure of being pushed out of the firm. It crystallizes a worry that’s been brewing inside me—I don’t know if I want this.

We arrive at the airport and check our luggage in the executive-class line up.

“I’ve upgraded you, Catherine. You’ll be sitting with me in first class.”

Wonderful, my chances of resting after a sleepless night are now nil.

“You don’t have to do that, I can sit in economy. I’m sure you have lots of work to do and I wouldn’t want to be a bother.”

“No, no bother at all. I have thousands of these upgrades and I never use them. And besides, you can help me prepare my speech.”

“Your speech?”

“I’ve been asked to give a speech at the opening dinner tomorrow night.”

We take our seats at the front of the plane. Harry sets his litigator bag overflowing with briefs and case law at his knees, pulls out a manila folder, and begins to voraciously read between aggressive sips of coffee. Staring at him, I realize that he’s a human working machine and that this is what’s expected of firm partners: work and more work. I can almost hear my inner Rikash:
Are you sure you want to become a partner? It’s like climbing to the top of Mount Everest in your monokini, honey: it gets real cold at the top. The problem with the rat race is that even if you win, you’re still a rat. And if you do make it to the big time, please remember that pigs get fat, but hogs get slaughtered.

The fact that Harry’s about to be sent to the slaughterhouse is bringing Rikash’s comments home.

Given his relentless work ethic, I feel slightly embarrassed to pull out the
Vogue
from my handbag, so I decide to flip through the airline magazine instead.

“I know it was you who hung up on me in the library, Catherine,” he blurts out. “I recognized that French accent of yours.”

Oh god. As the pilot makes his announcement about our impending departure, I suddenly feel queasy. I grab a tissue from my bag and hold it tightly over my mouth. Please god, no, not now. I start thinking of anything that might help keep my mind off this nauseating feeling in my stomach: that great Yves Saint Laurent jacket I spotted at Bergdorf’s, the fresh Provence air I breathe when visiting my mother, and the taste of ginger ale on my lips.

“Don’t worry, kiddo, I’m not upset about it,” he says after taking another sip of his coffee. “I think what you did was pretty gutsy. I was actually very impressed. You’ve got to learn to protect yourself in law. That’s partly why I’m offering you a job.”

The engine makes its final roar and the plane moves forward on the runway. I turn to look out the window, hoping that it will help my queasiness, and to my dismay, I barf all over myself and Harry. Even his manila folder isn’t spared. The flight attendant rushes to my rescue with a warm cloth and crushed coffee beans to alleviate the smell.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Traum. I don’t know what came over me,” I say, wiping his folder.

“Don’t worry about it, dear, my four-year-old granddaughter does this all the time.”

Completely mortified, I stand up from my seat and hurry to the lavatory. Oh my god, I can’t believe I just threw up on a senior partner who knows that I hung up on him.
Ah, merde!
After twenty minutes of splashing cold water on my face, I decide to go back to my seat. Harry seems unbothered by my upset stomach and is deeply engrossed in his speech.

I turn to catch a glimpse of the man sitting across the aisle. He has his
Maxim
magazine folded so that no one can see the big-breasted babe on the cover. He’s holding his reading glasses over the tip of his nose as if he’s actually reading
The Economist
while staring at my legs. I immediately pull out a copy of the
New York Law Journal
to make sure he has absolutely no interest in engaging in conversation and put in my iPod earphones. When we arrive in San Diego six hours later, I feel disgusting and wretched; my clothes are stained and reek of throw up, my hair is a mess, and my face is white as a sheet.

Outside the airport, dozens of buses with banners bearing the words
Edwards & White
written in big bold letters wait for us at the arrivals gate. Lawyers from all over the globe are being reunited for team-building exercises.

“Catherine, you may want to sit at the front in case you need to throw up again,” Harry says as soon as we set foot on the bus, his loud voice booming over the crowd.

Great. More than a thousand lawyers will soon find out I threw up all over Harry Traum. I’ll never live this one down.
Ever.

The next morning, after all my colleagues have taken turns making fun of me, we make our way by bus to a large conference centre for our exercises. Looking around, I wonder whether Harry has made any offers to other lawyers in our group.