Authors: Lindsay Cameron
Big Law
LINDSAY CAMERON
To my husband, for encouraging me to take a risk.
A
S THE REVOLVING DOORS
twirled, spilling grey suits into and out of the Death Star, I pressed my fingertips against my eyes and repeated these words:
Don’t panic
.
“Oof.” A portly man in an ill-fitting pinstriped suit jarred past me, swinging his brown paper bag spotted with grease. The Midtown lunch crowd was especially ravenous today, reminding me that the salad I’d bought over thirty minutes ago was sitting uneaten in the plastic bag digging red marks into my wrist. I gazed up at the fifty-two story, cavernous black steel building that housed F&D and gave myself one final mental pep talk before tossing the bag into the garbage can on the curb and pushing through the doors, about to hear my fate.
“Happy Tuesday!” Eugene called out from behind the security desk as I swiped my ID and cleared the turnstile. “Monday’s in the rearview mirror and we’re racing towards Friday!” I grinned tightly, willing my expression to be friendly, while my stomach plunged into a pit of nerves. I’d been counting down the minutes until Friday. Wonderful, magical, I-get-to-see-my-guy-again Friday. I’d even snuck out of work this morning to buy new lingerie from La Perla in anticipation of the evening. “What’s the occasion?” the lipsticked sales lady had asked, hanging two lace bras on the hook in the dressing room. “Just a date,” I’d sing-songed, trying to suppress my smile.
I filed into the elevator with six other suits. A middle-aged woman in a red power suit squeezed in just as the doors slammed shut. She nodded a greeting in the direction of a grey-haired man in the corner wearing a flashy purple tie undoubtedly picked out by someone under thirty. Probably his third wife.
“Case settle?” Purple Tie asked.
“Yup, an hour ago.”
“Client happy?”
“Very.” Red Suit beamed.
Happy. That was exactly the feeling that should be coursing through my veins. I was twenty-eight years old. I’d graduated from Georgetown Law School, passed the most difficult bar exam in the country, and after two years at a top New York law firm, I was on the cusp of obtaining the prestigious secondment I’d been busting my butt for. Even better, there was a text on my cell phone that said, “I can’t wait to see you Friday,” from a man whose kiss sent waves of ecstasy through my body. I should be skipping through a field of sunflowers somewhere, reveling in pure delight. But it wasn’t overwhelming joy requiring me to force my body to perform a function that (I remember quite clearly from biology class) was supposed to be automatic. No, it was sudden, all-consuming, bone-crushing stress.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
I stepped off the elevator, pausing to check my BlackBerry in hopes I’d simply imagined the summons that had arrived during my lunch break—my body so uneasy with the newfound feeling of romantic bliss that it had sought a way to return itself to the anxious state it had become accustomed to, sort of like how a newborn baby, unfamiliar with freedom of movement, is more at ease being swaddled. But there was the email, just as it had been an hour ago when it had first popped in to my inbox. From: Saul Siever, CC: Sarah Clarke—who, in a twisted stroke of bad luck, was actually my mentor. Or at least she was the mentor Human Resources had assigned to me back when I was a first year associate.
Breathe in. Breathe out. One foot in front of the other. One foot in front of the other.
My secretary leapt from her desk and scurried to intercept me before I entered my office.
“Where have you been?” she whispered anxiously, studying my face. “And why do you look so … sweaty?”
I swiped my forehead. “I was just at lunch. It’s hot outside.” It was a lie, but Rita already looked flustered enough for both of us.
“Mackenzie,” she hissed, her eyes darting around the hallway to ensure she wasn’t being watched. “Saul’s called three times. And he sounded really pissed-awf. I mean, REALLY pissed awwwf,” she emphasized in her thick Long Island accent. “He wants you in conference room 27C—ASAP. He asked for your
personnel
file.” Her kind eyes filled with concern.
My stomach dropped. If my gut hadn’t already warned me this meeting would be bad news, the request for my personnel file solidified it.
“He wouldn’t tell me what the meeting was about, but I don’t think it’s good, Mac.” She wrung her hands. “If they’re lettin’ you go, I don’t want you goin’ down without a fight, so I printed out a spreadsheet of your billable hours to take with ya’ to the meeting.” Rita dashed back to her desk, knocking over the Starbucks cup perched precariously on the counter of her cubicle, sending pools of coffee over a pile of papers.
“Oh, crap! Crap! Crap! Crap!” She frantically wiped the coffee with a balled-up napkin. “Good enough.” She pushed the coffee-stained document into my hands. “Let them see what you’ve given this firm.” Her eyes burrowed into mine, the way a trainer stares into the eyes of a boxer during a pre-fight pep talk.
“Thanks,” I mumbled, heading into my office to grab a legal pad. I squinted at the clock on my computer, silently willing time to stop so I could catch my breath.
“Is there anything else I can do?” Rita peered into my office, tugging nervously at her short leather skirt.
“No, that’s fine, Rita.” My tone was clipped as I breezed past her on my way to the elevator.
Get it together, Mackenzie
, I repeated, punching the button for the twenty-seventh floor.
Don’t panic.
Yesterday I’d been practicing my best surprised face so I would be prepared when they inevitably knighted me with an honor bestowed on only a select few associates. Things couldn’t have changed drastically in the past twenty-four hours. Unless …
A tight band of stress constricted around my lungs. Unless they’d found out about my one teeny, tiny transgression.
When the elevator doors opened, the large group standing there startled me. Sixty eager-to-please law students dressed in shiny new suits and smelling like the leather from their recently gifted briefcases were reporting for their first day as summer associates. I remembered my first day at Freedman & Downs (“F&D” as they had branded themselves) when I too had that same confident glint in my eye. How could I not? We were the chosen ones—the Type A personalities who’d graduated top of our class from the most prestigious law schools and now had the good fortune of nabbing a coveted summer associate position. The standards had been stringent. F&D was part of an elite group of New York mega-firms, the ones that housed 500+ lawyers, with offices that were run like small cities. Lawyers referred to this collection of firms simply as “Biglaw,” and landing at one of them meant earning close to $200,000 right out of law school. The students who secured a position at one of these firms during the summer between second and third year of law school were virtually guaranteed a job offer following graduation. Thousands applied to F&D, only sixty were chosen. It was a dream job.
Is this how I used to look?
I wondered, studying their fresh faces with annoyance and fascination. No glassy eyes from long, obedient hours staring at a computer screen. No physical signs of prolonged sleep deprivation. A few of them even had a summer tan. A tan is practically forbidden in Biglaw. It shows you’re spending too much time outside the office. Maybe even have a hobby. They had no idea what was in store for them, just as I hadn’t. Like war, Biglaw is something that has to be experienced firsthand to truly be understood.
I pushed through the crowd and down the hall as another associate scurried past me. Nobody walked at F&D. They scurried. Walking was for people with time on their hands. I recognized him—he was the associate with the peculiar habit of carrying around a briefcase with a huge block of cheese inside and nothing else (and could often be seen munching on his cheese like some oversized mouse). Cheese Boy might stand out as strange outside of Biglaw, but at F&D he fit right in. F&D was a repository of distorted personalities: the associate with the pornography addiction, the one who spontaneously fell asleep during conversations, the partner that had the ner
vous nose pick, visibly picking his nose whenever he was talking to a female colleague, the guy who swears he invented the internet. In Biglaw, some form of eccentricity is practically a job requirement.
“Mackenzie!” A familiar shrill voice spat out my name venomously from the end of corridor.
Cheese Boy whipped around to locate the target of Sarah’s wrath. A mix of sympathy and fear filled his eyes as they met mine for a second. He quickened his pace. Clearly he didn’t want to be in the middle of what was about to go down.
“Get your ass in here,” Sarah hissed, gesturing towards the door. Her neck was covered in red blotches and her stick straight hair looked so frizzy you’d think she’d just run a marathon. I’d never seen her look so unnerved. “Everyone is waiting!” She disappeared back inside the conference room.
I could feel my underarms growing wet. Taking a long breath, I stepped into the conference room, prepared to hear my fate.
But there had been no need to practice my surprised face, because my face contorted into a genuine expression of shock quite naturally when I saw the man in front of me extending his hand.
“Miss Corbett, I’m Tucker Sullivan with the Securities and Exchange Enforcement division. I have a few questions for you regarding some unusual trading activity we’ve uncovered. Why don’t we all take a seat?” He strode briskly behind me and pushed the conference room door shut.
SEVEN MONTHS EARLIER
“W
E’VE GOT A NEW TIMELINE
, people! This deal has gotta sign before the markets open in the morning!” A tall man with a physique that had earned him the nickname “Stay Puft Marshmallow Man” thudded down the corridor. “Somebody bring me the goddamn disclosure schedules!”
Russ Tornelli poked his head into my office, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. “Mackenzie, Maxwell needs the disclosure schedules. Print them out and bring it to the war room.”
“I’ve got them right here, Russ.” I thumbed through a pile of papers before remembering I’d stuck them in my drawer as part of my nightly clean-up. Being privy to confidential information that could mean the difference in millions of dollars in stock value required strict adherence to the firm’s clear desk policy, but clearing my desk at 9
P.M
. had clearly been a tad optimistic. I passed the stapled document over to Russ’s eager hands.
“I finished the material contracts portion, so they’re good to go. And I’ve just started drafting the press release.”
“Good, we’ll need that ready to go so it can hit the wires right after signing. It’s going to be a long night. Hunker down.”
I nodded like an obedient foot soldier before Russ took off down the hallway at breakneck speed. I let out a long, weary sigh. The adrenaline that comes with working on a high-profile acquisition
has a time limit and it usually expires right about the time you hear the words “hunker down.” I gulped back the last of the can of Red Bull and shut my eyes, waiting for the caffeine to work its magic. Where I wanted to be hunkering down right now was right beside Jason, my boyfriend and fellow F&D associate, in a cozy bed. Maybe somewhere with a couple of glasses of champagne on the nightstand and the sound of the ocean outside our door.
“Mackenzie! What are you doing?” An irate voice cut through my fantasy.
My eyes flew open. Looming over me was a balding, paunchy Indian man of indeterminate age. When I first walked into my new office at F&D, I’d remembered a good friend telling me how she and her officemate were so close they’d been each other’s bridesmaids. I’d pictured crouching in the Biglaw trenches with someone glamorous and fun. We’d make each other laugh doing choreographed dances in the unisex bathroom (à la Ally McBeal) before heading out to happy hour with our well-dressed colleagues. Or, if it was a guy, we’d be like
When Harry Met Sally
, but without the eventual hookup. Instead, what I’d gotten was Sadir.
“That was my last Red Bull!” He pointed to the can still clutched in my hand.
“Sorry,” I sputtered. “I thought you’d gone home for the night and I was going to replace it.”
He eyed me warily. “You know I’m usually willing to share my stash with you, Mackenzie. You’re not one of the hypercompetitive freaks around here so I don’t mind. But drinking my last Red Bull is crossing the line.” He snorted. “And P.S., I don’t think I’ve ever left for the night before you.”
This was probably true. Sadir was always in the office—day or night—whether or not work actually required him to be there. “Face time,” he’d say when questioned. And if you’re looking to cast someone to play the part of a guy who spent that much time in the office, Sadir would be your man. His age was hard to pinpoint—he could pass for anywhere from twenty-eight to forty. His thinning hair and furrowed brow aged him, but his chubby chipmunk cheeks made him look young. He had the beginnings of a double chin and a flabby
chest that made his man boobs visible through his ill-fitting dress shirt. His eyes were slightly squinty behind Coke-bottle glasses, but you could still see they were bloodshot and tired. Not exactly a specimen of health or vitality.
“Won’t happen again. Promise.” I gave him a Girl Scout salute.
Sadir may not have been the officemate I’d pictured, but he’d grown on me. He wasn’t exactly warm and fuzzy, but he gave me advice—cynical but usually spot on—when I needed it. The first time a senior associate dumped a pile of documents on me and asked me to tell him if there was anything “relevant” in them, it was Sadir who had walked me through the ins and outs of due diligence. I’d spent three years at law school memorizing the rules of evidence, countless Supreme Court decisions, and the details of negligence law, but had been left woefully unprepared for the work of a Corporate first year associate. When I was still in college, Georgetown law students, recognizing their lack of real-world skills in a lackluster economy, had pushed for classes that were more practical. The faculty response had been, “We’re teaching the Law, not training lawyers.” The Ivory Tower prevailed, and at the time I understood their position—law school isn’t a trade school. But at F&D, I often found myself wishing the classes I’d taken in school had been just a little more useful.
I pulled my chair close to the computer, rested my fingers on the keyboard, and felt my eyelids grow heavier. If I was going to draft a press release that, when it hit the wires, would result in the company stock doubling in price, I was going to need some bottled energy. I pecked out a quick IM to Alex, Jason’s best friend, who I knew would be working on the other side of the floor.
Need more caffeine. You around?
We were now into our second year as associates, and day-to-day life at one of New York’s top law firms was a far cry from the wining and dining we’d experienced as wide-eyed, euphoric summer associates. Back then, the schedule for our eleven week summer job was more like a social calendar—Yankees games, cooking classes, Broadway shows, guided tours of the Bronx Zoo. There were free lunches at the finest restaurants in the city and evenings filled with firm-sponsored cocktails. For this we received checks for $4,500
every two weeks. It would have been an amazing summer under any circumstances, but it was also the summer I fell in love. I wasn’t looking for a boyfriend—I’d worked my ass off to get this job and didn’t need the distraction—but one glance at Jason’s easy smile and I was smitten.
“There’s a reason this place is called the Death Star,” was his opening line to me. It was our first day and we were standing in the polished marble lobby of F&D waiting for the elevator. My nose had been buried in my leather portfolio folder, reviewing the schedule for the hundredth time since I’d received it in the mail. It took me a moment to realize he was talking to me. When I looked up, the most gorgeous deep brown eyes were staring back at me. “Oh,” I replied, feeling my face flush. He was tall, with close cropped dark curls, and dressed in a navy blue Brooks Brothers suit, but with his tanned skin and square jaw he looked like he would be more at home in a button down shirt and shorts on Martha’s Vineyard, radiating the classic New England prep school look. He smiled sheepishly, like he knew he was handsome and was somewhat embarrassed about it.
I silently thanked the expensive makeup I’d purchased from Saks that the saleswoman swore would accentuate my best features. Hey, nobody said I had to use the
entire
three thousand dollar travel stipend on relocation expenses. My brand new heather-gray Theory suit and Prada slingbacks with a practical one inch heel completed the transformation from frumpy law student to polished, sleek lawyer.
“Is that what they call it?” I grinned.
“Yeah, this building I mean.” He gestured around the lobby. “I think it has something to do with the ominous big, black steel
looming
over the Empire of New York.” I noticed the most adorable glint in his eye when he emphasized the word “looming.”
“I’m Jason.” He extended his hand.
When he asked me out for dinner a week later, I couldn’t believe my luck. I was certain he was going to go for Fiona, easily the prettiest summer associate, with her long blond hair, sparkling blue eyes, and yoga instructor’s body. I won’t be modest, I’m pretty, but I haven’t always been that way. Mom used to tell me that one day I’d be
a beautiful swan, but she failed to mention the whole ugly duckling stage I’d have to suffer through first. I hit every awkward stage possible: braces, pimples, unfortunate haircuts, tragic fashion choices. But when I went away to college the braces came off, the pimples cleared up, and I left my scrunchies behind. Boys finally started to notice me, but none of them in any way, shape, or form had been on the same level as Jason.
We left right from work (separately, of course, not wanting to arouse any rumors) and headed to an oyster bar in the West Village. With no awning, it was the kind of place that you would never know was there unless you were an insider. Jason had confidently, but not cockily, taken my hand and navigated me to our table. As he pulled out my chair, he leaned down and whispered—no, more like growled—in my ear,
You look fantastic
. It sent a scrumptious, involuntary shiver down to my toes. More importantly, though, I
believed
him.
It was one of those perfect New York City dinners, where everything from the butter served with the bread to the whipped cream on top of the dessert makes you feel like your taste buds have been amplified tenfold. We chatted easily and I found myself amazed that, despite his good looks and exclusive boarding school background, he was down to earth and fun and even a tiny bit goofy. “Why do you want to work in the corporate department?” he’d inquired, forking out a mussel and popping it into his mouth. “You do realize it’s the most intense department in the firm, don’t you?” After briefly debating which version to share, I gave him the same answer I’d given the on-campus interviewer from F&D—I like to look at a corporate contract the same way I do a crossword puzzle, figuring out the words that fit, and I love the challenge of a puzzle. Not only did he not laugh at my nerdy answer, he’d beamed and said, “I love how ambitious you are.” I’d rolled my eyes playfully, but could think of nothing other than how the word “love” sounded coming out of his mouth.
The rest of the summer flew by in budding-relationship bliss. Jason and I were inseparable, taking turns sleeping at each other’s apartments, sneaking kisses at summer associate events, and making out furiously on cab rides home. The goal of the firm that summer
was to introduce us to law firm life while preventing us from getting a significant glimpse into the inner workings of Biglaw. F&D spared no expense to shield us from the reality so we would return to the firm after graduation to work as first year associates. “Fattening you up for the slaughter,” one associate termed it.
Our relationship survived long distance during our final year of law school and even our first year as associates, which seemed like a hazy blur to me now. We learned to adapt to the unpredictable Biglaw timetable, spending time together whenever work allowed—sometimes a quick lunch at a deli close to the office, other times a lingering Saturday night dinner at the latest hot restaurant, putting our large paychecks to work. Jason’s schedule in the Trusts department wasn’t as demanding as mine.
Being in the corporate department meant being on call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, and never leaving the office until the partner you’re working for has left the building for the night. It could be eight in the evening or two in the morning, but most days it was impossible to tell. Some days I would bite the bullet and sneak out before eight. Sneaking out was a finely honed survival technique that involved a fair amount of planning and forethought. Above all, it must appear to other lawyers that you are returning to your office, not actually leaving to go home for the night. When you leave, you have to pretend you are just going to the word processing center to drop off a document for revision or to the cafeteria to grab a Red Bull (
Gonna need some help staying up all night
!). Always be carrying a file. Your office has to look like you are coming back shortly—a coat left on the back of the chair, your computer logged on, a half empty cup of coffee beside a document left open on your desk. You only take the elevator down to the lobby when there isn’t anyone senior to you in it. If there’s a partner in the elevator when you enter, you get off on the next floor, take a lap, and try again. If you happen to be really unlucky and there’s a partner in the lobby when you exit, have your back-up plan (“
Just picking up my Seamless delivery
!”). These were details I had mastered. They may sound ridiculous, but they were necessary to Biglaw survival. Otherwise,
you risked getting caught leaving early, meaning you’d suddenly find yourself staffed on a deal no one wanted to work on because, clearly, you had too much time on your hands. Some associates resorted to taking the stairs down twenty-seven floors to avoid being caught in the elevator, but I never did that. Too desperate.
“Who’s the partner on the deal?” Sadir called from the other side of the partition, knowing full well who it was.
“Maxwell Gold.”
“Stay Puft?” Sadir whistled through pursed lips. “Wow—a deal with a four corner partner and you’re just a second year associate. You’re moving up in the world.”
I rolled my eyes. The only thing that excited Sadir more than gathering information on his fellow associates was the rigid law firm hierarchy. He’d actually ranked all ninety-five attorneys in the corporate department in order of alleged importance, on a list he referred to as “The Power Players.” Of course, if anyone wanted to discern the pecking order, all they had to do was look at the offices. Partners had the biggest offices with the best views and the partners that brought in the most business were rewarded with a corner office. In the corporate department, associates called them the “four corner” partners. They were the top rainmakers, the partners who enjoyed the bulk of the profits, while the other partners, the “service partners,” sweated it out in the trenches. After the “service partners” came the senior associates, who had their own offices. Next were the junior associates, who shared an office with another junior associate. Enter yours truly. Share a 150-square-foot space with another person for fifteen to twenty hours a day, and even the most unobtrusive, agreeable officemate will eventually get on your nerves. It reminded me of an experiment I’d studied in tenth grade science—a cage of rats are supplied with food and water, replenished to support an increasing population, but the size of the cage remained fixed. The result was hyper-aggression and increased mortality. Some rats even ate their own offspring in an effort to prevent the overcrowding. After more than a year sharing a small space with Sadir, I could relate. At least I hadn’t killed him … yet.