Work for Hire (37 page)

As long as one didn’t sound like a total fumbling idiot, it would make one’s legal career.

Except, with no summary note cards prepared and nothing memorized, I would be that total fumbling idiot.

Today could very well sound the death knell to any future legal job prospects for me. Who would hire me after witnessing what would surely be a fiasco, after seeing that the best I could do didn’t even amount to mediocre? I was burning bridges before sending out the first resume.

“You’ll do fine,” I said to Markus, fighting back tears. “Believe me,
you
have nothing to worry about. Have you seen Professor Johnson?”

“He’s in the lobby greeting guests,” Markus said as he corrugated his brows. I ran off to find the Professor before he could think to ask questions.

When Professor Johnson caught sight of me skulking in the background, he broke away from a circle of chatting men and approached me. “What can I do for you, Miss Reznar?”

“Umm … ” Where to start? I could hardly force myself to look up, let alone into Professor Johnson’s face.

And when I did, I found it was rigid and sculpted, like a face on the side of Mount Rushmore. I was getting the feeling Professor Johnson would be just as understanding of my predicament as the hulking rocks. “Professor Johnson, I’m really sorry,” I mumbled nonetheless. Anything was worth a try, and an apology seemed in order, regardless. Professor Johnson had gone out of his way—far and beyond any professional duty—to put together today’s event, for apparently no reason other than Markus’s and my benefit, and I was about to ruin all his efforts—maybe even embarrass him in front of his colleagues.

Oh God.

My mind stopped dead. How had I not thought of the possibility sooner? By bringing in an audience, Professor Johnson had upped the ante for everyone, including himself. If I bombed and sounded completely unprepared, what would my efforts say about his judgment? He picked me as one of the best. He would surely hate me if I made him look bad. Failing his class would be the least of my problems. Somehow, I
had
to stop the argument from happening.

“I had this work emergency last night,” I gasped out, my mouth so dry I could hardly speak. No matter how hard I swallowed, I couldn’t produce a drop of saliva. “This girl tried to commit suicide, and I spent the whole night in the hospital with her. And I’m sorry, but because of that, I didn’t have a chance to adequately prepare for today, so I thought, like, maybe it would be better for everyone involved if I forfeited the argument in Markus’s favor?”

Even to my own ears, I sounded lame and immature. I was coming up with an excuse like a high school student would:
I’m not ready because I was too busy doing something else.

Yeah, right.

True, I had been in the hospital all night, but Gemma’s emergency wasn’t the only incident that had kept me away from the books.

There was that visit to Julian I knew I didn’t have the time for, and all the hours I had wasted daydreaming about him. Sure, if Gemma hadn’t drank her almost lethal cocktail after that, I would probably have had the time to pull myself together—but I should’ve known better than to leave everything for the last minute.

Professor Johnson must have thought the same because his face went stone-gray. I could literally see the blood drain out of it. His lips thinned.

“Miss Reznar, you must be joking,” he hissed. And I shriveled. “No, actually, you must think I am a joke, that your classmates and law school in general are nothing more than one big comic fest.”

He inhaled a deep breath. His nostrils flared. I imagined him counting to ten in his head.

Then he waited, perhaps for the punch line. But when I said nothing, did nothing other than stand there staring like a kid who had fessed up to a parent about making quite a mess, his lip curled—although not with an ounce of parental understanding or forgiveness.

“When you first enrolled in my class,” he finally said, scrutinizing me the way someone would a bug before stomping it to death, “I made the colossal mistake of looking forward to teaching you. You had a solid reputation. Your
Law Review
application was stellar. I saw potential.”

Shit.

I bit the inside of my cheek.

Potential. It was a lot to live up to and, clearly, I hadn’t.

“But since almost the first day,” Professor Johnson continued, his voice as sharp as the steel edge of a knife, and just as brittle, “you have made a mockery of my class, and me.”

No
, I wanted to deny. But, of course, he was right. Whether I intended to or not, I had not given the class its rightful attention.

“You showed up late, and unprepared,” Professor Johnson ticked off the offenses—
my
offenses. “You were disruptive. You ignored your responsibilities.”

I flinched, knowing he was referring to the late
Law Review
article, and to Melanie Sylvan, its author.

I flinched again when I recalled just what I had thought of Ms. Sylvan—she had Professor Johnson’s support, so the two of them must’ve been doing
it
.

Heat crept up my neck and face; I only hoped Professor Johnson didn’t guess the reason behind the suddenly bright complexion.

“In your self-absorption, you almost derailed someone else’s career—someone who, unlike you, put all her effort into her legal work,” Professor Johnson said.

I envisioned the very pretty Ms. Sylvan hunched over books and a computer, researching and typing away at her legal opus.
Maybe
, an unpleasant possibility stole into my head,
she was just like me, a hard-working girl from a solid middle-class family, one for whom the law was a way up. And in my disregard for her work, I’d almost derailed her. Then when someone had stood up on her behalf, I’d given him a nefarious motive.

What had I been thinking? That because she was young and attractive, she couldn’t possibly have achieved success because of her intelligence? And that since Professor Johnson was a man and single, he could see only her outside attributes, and not the wisdom within?

Oh God.
My eyes burned.

I was a shallow, pseudo-feminist who screamed “bloody murder” when someone judged my competence on looks and not brains, but inferred other women’s successes by the very standards I claimed to despise. Worse, I personally attacked those who, like Professor Johnson, had clearly evolved beyond my caveman approach.

I was a hypocrite, a self-righteous one.

My head dropped.

But Professor Johnson wasn’t done.

“You seem not to comprehend that law school is a
privilege
. Thousands apply. Few get in.
Law Review
is even more revered. It is the opportunity of a lifetime. Your classmates would kill to be in your place. Yet you treat it like nothing. What is it with people like you?” Professor Johnson’s glare zeroed in on my face, like the laser on a semi-automatic rifle. “You feel entitled to everything, but want to give little in return. You want the top grades and the academic accolades, but at no cost to you.”

People like
me
?

I momentarily bristled, all embarrassment forgotten.

What did he mean by, “people like me?”

I wasn’t like
that
. I worked hard to get where I was—clawed my way up from an immigrant neighborhood in Brooklyn. I even tolerated the Lamonts to stay there.

People like me, my ass.

He must’ve meant the likes of the Xanders and Gemmas, the Stephens and Moniques, and maybe even the Laurens of this world—the super rich. They paid someone else to do the work and collected the accolades, all the while complaining over the slightest inconvenience, spreading the blame and never sharing the credit.

I
was the hired help.

Sort of like Julian.

The very thought of his name gave me a pang—for whatever he was, whatever he did, we did have that in common.

It couldn’t be easy for him, putting up with Monique while she basked in the glory of his talent. Maybe that was why he had lost sight of his moral compass. Not that that excused what he did to Lisa, but I could understand the temptation. After all, I had caved and written an essay for Xander. Was my crime any less than his?

And I never had given him a real opportunity to fix things. In fact, he had been so nice and helpful when I called from the hospital. He sounded downright sorry. And, anyway, the point was we …
I
couldn’t be “people like that,” even if I wanted to, which I certainly didn’t.

Okay, technically, I had bitched about all the extra
Law Review
work, and Markus did help me with most of it. And, true,
Law Review
wasn’t a prerequisite for graduation, or even success. I could have quit anytime I wanted to.

But who would willingly walk away from the prestige?

It just wasn’t fair that all that prestige came with
so
much added responsibility.

Ugh
. I fisted my hands. I could hear Xander making a similar argument: an editorial position on
Horizons
was nice, but why should
he
have to do all that work, like writing an original essay?

My fingers clenched tighter. Horror of all horrors, Professor Johnson was right. Again. I did come off like
those people
. I was everything I criticized Xander and Gemma of being: lazy, unappreciative, and resentful! If an assignment was too hard or time-consuming, or I didn’t like a grade, the fault wasn’t with me; it was with the teacher, or the tutor. But as for the As and the good jobs—I of course considered them to be all my doing.

“You know, Miss Reznar,” Professor Johnson said, sighing, and I noticed the sound was uncharacteristically faint; its very tenor had me snapping up straight. Because this did not sound like the Professor Johnson I knew. For the first time, the man sounded old and tired, less George Hamilton and more Lincoln after Gettysburg. “In light of all your previous transgressions, I really questioned awarding you the argument, but I thought your brief the best, and considered it only fair. And here we are, yet again.”

He rubbed his temples, as if trying to relieve a headache.

Watching this, I gulped. Here was a man who had dedicated his life to educating others, to seeking and promoting new talent, and it would blow up in his face
because of me.

“Unfortunately, because of what you have done, because of your failure to prepare, future students will pay as well. Who will treat the annual arrival of this argument seriously after your … your stunt?”

His eyes shifted from my face. He gazed into the distance beyond, as if envisioning the prospect, and finding it bleak.

“I’m really sorry,” I mumbled. What else was there to say? I was a fuck-up. Worse, apparently, I would fuck-over generations of students to come.

“Sorry?” Professor Johnson repeated, literally biting off the word. The hotshot academic was fully in control again, all traces of vulnerability gone from his voice, his posture. “
Sorry
doesn’t cut it. And neither does a forfeit. In real life, Miss Reznar, you can’t forfeit on a client. And it’s time you got a taste of real life.

“I also wouldn’t dare deprive Mr. Powers of the satisfaction of publicly annihilating you. And since you’ve so callously disregarded an opportunity another one of them would have treasured, your classmates have also earned the right to watch you squirm. Now,” he commanded, straightening his jacket, adjusting his cuffs and turning away from me, “I will assume your unfortunate confession was nothing more than a really tasteless case of the nerves talking and you’ll pull yourself together at the last moment, the way you have apparently managed to do the entire semester. Otherwise, Miss Reznar, I’d pray for a miracle if I were you.”

He stalked away from me, towards the courtroom.

I stared at his retreating back and prayed first.

But the earth didn’t open up and no fires sprang to life. Ergo—no miracles.

So I followed.

Because, if I could force Xander to confess to his teacher about not writing his own story and deal with a potential expulsion, how could I not face my own music?

But, boy, did it suck.

“Yoo-hoo, honey,” my mother called, waving at me when I finally made my way to the front of the courtroom.

“Mom,” I said, sidling over to my parents. “Ahh … what are you and Dad doing here?”

I had told my parents about the argument, but neither the time nor the place. I had never entertained the possibility they could see it. I’d always assumed it was closed to a broader audience. Yet here they were.

“Your professor called and personally invited us,” my mother explained, smiling in the direction of Professor Johnson, who was seated now in the first row, five people away. “
Such
a nice man.”

Yeah.

I stepped back to the defense podium as my mother hollered, “Make us proud!” right at me.

A court clerk approached to give final instructions and adjust the podium’s microphone.

“Your opponent will go first,” the clerk said. With a gesture of his hand he indicated Markus, who was already set up at his station. I gulped. This was it. In mere seconds …
Armageddon.

“When he speaks,” the clerk went on, “you sit at the table behind you. Only rise when the judge enters. When it’s your turn, speak into the microphone so the cameras pick up all the sounds,” he instructed.

“Cameras?” I questioned, my voice coming out in a squeak.

“Yes,” the clerk nodded. “The argument is simulcast to two other viewing areas. Quite a large turnout today. It’s also being recorded. You can request a copy after.”

I must’ve looked ill because Markus walked over.

“What’s wrong, Tekla?” he whispered.

“Nothing,” I whimpered back.

Markus frowned at this; he knew I was lying.

“I thought we were friends,” he prodded. “Good friends. So why won’t you tell me?”

I moaned.
What the hell. It would soon be apparent anyway.
So I told him.