Big Law (13 page)

“Shit,” I whispered, my eyes fixed on the email. I could kill this woman. No jury of my peers would possibly convict me. I slowly lifted my eyes off my BlackBerry, dreading the look that I knew I’d see on Jason’s face. “Sorry …” I grimaced.

Jason’s facial expression fell and it was as if the spell we were both under was suddenly broken. “I thought you said Ben didn’t need to see the draft until Monday,” he muttered with irritation, grabbing his glass of wine and taking a large gulp while looking anywhere but in my direction.

“It’s not for Ben.”

Confusion flickered across his face. “A new deal came in on a Saturday night?”

“No, not a new deal. It’s the Saul deal.”

“Mac, that doesn’t make any sense.” His tone turned flustered.

“I know. I have no idea why this needs to get done tonight, but you know what he’s like.” I shook my head with irritation.

“I’m not talking about working on a Saturday night.” He stopped short.

“Then I don’t get it. Are you upset that I’m leaving our dinner or upset that I’m working for Saul?”

Without answering, he pulled out his BlackBerry and began pecking madly.

“What are you doing?”

“I assume we need to get the check?” He hastily looked around for our waiter, without answering my question.

I nodded solemnly and he polished off his glass of wine with purpose. An icy silence descended over the table until our check arrived moments later, and we readied ourselves to leave, skipping the third course of our three-course prix fixe.

Practically jogging after Jason on the way out, I was relieved when he stopped near the subway entrance and turned to face me. I was desperately trying to find the words to explain, but he spoke first. “You can take a cab. I’m going to hop on the train.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the sidewalk.

I wanted him to go back to the way he’d been over dinner, before I checked that stupid thing, but that Jason had left for the evening. I could tell from the look on his face that he wasn’t coming back anytime soon either.

“I really
am
sorry about this,” I said, stepping closer to him. “I shouldn’t even have checked it. It’s just …” I stopped myself from explaining, for what had to be the hundredth time, that the partners in my department expect you to be available at all times, every day, to answer their emails, and won’t tolerate any delay in responding. That I didn’t have the option to just leave my BlackBerry in my purse. I knew he wouldn’t understand, and frankly I wouldn’t have understood either two years ago.

“Make it up to you later?” I offered hopefully.

He mouth twisted as if trying to physically prevent himself from saying what was really on his mind, and, with a curt nod of his head, turned towards the subway entrance.

“Hey!” I called out after him as he descended down the stairs. “Happy anniversary.”

He didn’t turn around.

Monday morning I was sitting at my desk, staring at my computer and munching on a Nutri-Grain bar in between gulps of coffee. I’d worked Saturday night and Sunday on the research and I hadn’t seen
Jason since we parted at the subway stairs. I was tired, irritable, and hoping Sarah would leave me alone so I could mentally prepare for the torturous Monday morning meeting, but knew I’d cursed myself by just hoping when, ten minutes later, she appeared at my door.

“Good morning, Mackenzie,” she greeted me with a fake smile, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. I looked up from my computer and greeted her with an equally fake smile. The whole room prickled with tension. “The deal is dead,” she announced tersely. “Stop all work on it immediately.”

“Dead?” I couldn’t believe it. I’d sacrificed my whole weekend, not to mention my anniversary with Jason, for nothing? “What happened to the timing of the deal being vastly accelerated?”

“Yeah, turns out Falcon changed their minds and decided to take out a loan instead of selling. Or, as the media reported, they’re ‘righting the ship themselves.’” She air quoted and rolled her eyes as if it were all too tiring. “Anyhoo,” she exhaled loudly, “guess Saul won’t be needing that research, so looks like I won’t have to review it after all.” She paused for a moment, seemingly trying to remember if there was anything else she could do to ruin my day. “Oh—make sure you put in your hours for this deal ASAP. Gotta get the bill out!” With that, she gave me her usual condescending smirk, turned, and click-clacked her way back to her office.

The only people more shocked than me about the Falcon deal dying were the shareholders.
Falcon Mobility Shocker: Buyout Deal Falls Apart; Shares Plummet 22%
screamed the
Wall Street Journal
. The shareholder loss was my gain, though, because now I would be able to devote one hundred percent of my time to Ben’s deal, keeping my eyes firmly locked on the prize.

P
USHING OPEN THE DOOR
to the bathroom on Thursday afternoon, I was hit by a heavy waft of hairspray and perfume. I waved my hand in front of my face in an effort to clear the air to breathe. In the haze and fumes, the secretaries were primping for the F&D holiday party like it was the prom. There were only two times a year the firm opened its wallet and treated the secretaries to an extravagant night out—the holiday party in December and the summer party in August. The rest of the time the firm coffers were strictly reserved for the lawyers.

Merry and bright was not exactly how I was feeling right now. I’d just come back from Ben’s office, where, after mustering up the courage, I’d asked if I could go home for a few days for Christmas. I might as well have been Oliver holding out my bowl.
Please sir
.

It was no secret that Biglaw partners did not take kindly to vacation requests. Years back, an associate found a PowerPoint presentation, titled “Associate Communication,” on the firm’s internal document system, presumably used to teach partners how to interact with associates. The stealthy associate posted it on the legal blog Above the Law for all to see. Slide after slide urged partners to “say ‘thank you’ and ‘good work’” when dealing with associates. One slide suggested that partners “be sensitive to cancelling associates’ vacations,” reminding them that associates have families too. I remember wondering what kind of adult was so socially inept that he had to be taught to say please and thank you. But clearly Ben had missed the
memo because his response was, “This isn’t a good time. Can’t you just move your vacation?”

I blinked at him.
Ummm … not unless I can move the birth of Jesus
. “Well, I’m going for Christmas, so …”

“Right, right,” Ben interrupted, his tone exasperated from my perceived foolishness. “But Mackenzie, don’t you think we
all
would like to see our families over the holidays?” He raised a condescending eyebrow.

The thought occurred to me that very few people in this firm wanted to spend
any
time with their families. If they did, they would stop reviewing a document for the fifth time, hoping to catch a comma out of place, and go home and actually
be with their families
. But of course I didn’t say that. I merely nodded remorsefully.

“It’s the nature of the beast, Mackenzie,” he said before his stern expression softened. “You’re doing a great job with Highlander and your hard work is not going unnoticed, but we’re coming up on crunch time. Look, I won’t require you to cancel your trip altogether, but I’ll expect you back bright and early on the 26
^th
, and take a laptop so you can work remotely on Christmas Day. Good?” He flashed what I’m sure he thought was a benevolent smile. In his mind he’d just fulfilled his charitable giving quota for the season.

“Of course,” I’d affirmed, biting my lower lip. “Thanks, Ben.”
God bless us everyone
.

“What’d ya think, Mackenzie?” Rita called out now, posing with her hands in the air.

I squinted through the heavy fog of aerosol. If her dress were any lower cut I would’ve seen nipple; if it were any shorter I would’ve seen butt cheek. Just the look she was going for, I was sure. Rita recently had breast implants and it looked like she was ready to show off her new assets. They’d been large enough before—probably a size C, but she was certain even bigger boobs were the missing link to landing a man.

“No guy evah says, ‘I can’t get with her—her boobs are too
big,’
” she’d explained, as I signed her sick leave request form for her surgery. When she’d returned to work two weeks later, she came into my office with her twenty-three-year old daughter in tow, both stick
ing out their chests, smiling proudly. They’d received the mother-daughter special and insisted that I touch them to see how they felt. “Totally natural,” Rita’s daughter Skyler squealed. I poked the side of one awkwardly as Rita explained how she had to massage them daily to keep them soft. “It’s like being forced to play with ya’ self!” Rita cackled. Rita wasn’t exactly the boundaries type.

I shuffled through the secretaries, avoiding their glares, trying to get closer to Rita. “You look gorgeous!” I lied.

She grinned mischievously. “Every year Freddie and I make out at the holiday party—kinda a tradition,” she said, applying her lipstick and smacking her lips together. That was one holiday tradition I really did not want to know about. Not exactly the “leave cookies out for Santa” kind. I wondered if Freddie stopped mid-make-out to pick his nose.

“You going?” Rita asked, thankfully cutting short my visual of her and Freddie. Despite the fact that office festivity was essentially forbidden, everyone was encouraged to attend the annual firm holiday party. “No guests,” the invitation instructed, just the firm family—lawyers, paralegals, secretaries, and those on the F&D payroll. I’d attended the party last year and for the most part it was your typical drunken debauchery office party, but there was always some partner trolling for associates who don’t have enough work on their plates and hitting them with the dreaded “What are you working on these days?” question. Associates hate this question—it’s cloaked in a friendly interest in your life, but really means, “Can I stick you with some tedious weekend due diligence?”

“If I ever finish the research Ben gave me.” Another lie.

Rita waved her finger at me accusingly. “Nahhhh … you’re going to skip it and have wild sex with that cute boyfriend of yours instead, aren’t you?” She whooped and hooted at her own joke.

“You know me too well,” I chuckled, playing along, trying to remember how long it had been since Jason and I even had any kind of sex, let alone wild sex. Lately, we’d fallen into a pretty lackluster routine of cuddling for a few minutes before passing out asleep. That needed to be remedied ASAP. Well, maybe not the going down to
his office this minute and doing it on his desk type of ASAP, but tonight at least.

At 8
P.M
. I was huddled in my office, long after Rita and her cohorts had left for the party, when Jason and Alex appeared at my door. “Come on, keener—libations await,” Alex announced.

“You’re going to have to head over without me. I need to finish this research for Ben.” I let out a long exhale, trying to sound particularly overwhelmed. I knew Alex wouldn’t accept the “Jason and I need time alone” excuse. For Alex there is no good reason not to take advantage of free booze and food. I gave Jason a significant look, assuring he was in on the ruse.

“Ben? Ben isn’t going to read
anything
tonight. He left an hour ago—which means he’s been feeding some poor secretary overly strong drinks for, oh …” Alex looked at his watch, “the past forty-five minutes in hopes of getting her drunk enough to let him grope her.”

“Ew.” I made a face. “You’re not exactly selling this party to me. I’ve already had the disgusting visual of Freddie making out with Rita. I don’t need you throwing Ben into the mix.”

“Threesome with Ben, Rita, and Freddie—kinky, Mac, kinky.” Alex looked as though he was contemplating the possibility. “Anyway, no one will read what you produce tonight, so get your ass off that chair and come get drunk with us,” he said, shaking my chair. “It’s celebration time, in case you’re too busy with work to be reading your emails. Our golden handcuffs just got tighter.”

The managing partner had sent around the bonus memo a few hours ago, informing us there would be a $10,000 increase in bonuses across the board, and heartfelt thanks from the partners for our dedication and efforts. It had been met by gleeful fist pumps from the associates and promises of a night of hearty celebrating. If it was true that we were selling our souls, it was good to know our
souls were worth $10,000 more than they were last year. But I had my own celebration in mind and it didn’t involve F&D.

“Look at me!” I gestured up and down at my makeup-free face, my hair desperately in need of a haircut, my wrinkled shirt which I’d done my best to iron, but still looked like I’d slept in it. “Do I really look like I’m dressed for a
party
?” I glanced down at my feet. “Look!” I pointed to my toes visible in my Stuart Weitzman peep toe pumps. “My polish is even chipped!” Using my appearance as one more reason I couldn’t go to the party made me realize how much it had slipped. When I had time I really needed to attend to that.
To-do list: 1. Get haircut 2. Pick up dry cleaning 3. Get pedicure.

“You look as beautiful as you always do.” Jason placed his hands on my shoulders, giving me a ten second massage.

Mmmm … tonight is going to be good.

“And I think Jason has a lot of work to do too …” I trailed off, waiting for Jason to pipe up.

“This guy?” Alex pointed to Jason with an amused expression. “When have you ever known this guy to work late? I think it may even be outlawed in the Trusts department.”

I lifted my head and locked eyes with Jason, attempting a silent, coded conversation.

“Could be fun. We do need to celebrate.” He shrugged, giving a sheepish half smile.

I shook my head in mock disapproval. He’d fallen prey to the powers of Alex’s persuasion.

Jason cleared his throat. “Maybe I’ll wait here until Mac is ready and we’ll meet—”

“She’s ready.” Alex stopped him midsentence, waving his hand dismissively. “Even with your laissez faire attitude towards your appearance, which I’ve been meaning to tell you isn’t exactly working for you, you know you still look better than the majority of those horse faces at that party, and you can hide those unsightly toes with a pair of those.” He pointed down to the mini shoe closet that had sprung up underneath my desk. “And I know your next excuse is going to be you’re too tired, but we can just prop you up ‘Weekend at Bernie’s’ style and stick a drink in your hand.”

I had to hand it to him—Alex was persuasive. Even when my decisions were set in stone, he could always convince me otherwise. I couldn’t blame Jason for folding too.

“Now up, up!” He gestured towards the door. “Libations await!”

Walking into the ballroom of the W Hotel in Midtown, I was overwhelmed by the sheer opulence. Crab legs, shrimp, and lobster tails sat piled high on an ice sculpture, a giant, decorative gingerbread arch marked the way to the dessert room (a whole room filled with every kind of dessert I had ever seen or even dreamed of seeing), and champagne was being poured into elegant towers of glasses. Waitresses were making their way around the room with trays of sushi and cocktail napkins emblazoned with the firm logo. The setting was striking, but the location was selected strategically, of course—close enough to the firm office so that lawyers could easily return to bill more hours after the party.

A waiter passed with a tray of champagne glasses and we each took one. “Bottoms up,” Alex called out as we clinked glasses and looked around, taking it all in. The room was crowded, buzzing with conversation, and the dance floor was full. The secretaries and mail staff danced to the beat of the live band enthusiastically, while the associates stood off to the side, drinking and scrolling through their email. A few drunk male partners attempted to dance, seizing their one opportunity to grind up against the secretaries, but it just looked like spastic pelvic motions.

“Well, good to see superfluous over-spending is alive and well in Biglaw.” Alex raised his glass in a mock toast.

“Hear, hear.” I drained my champagne and put the glass down on the empty table beside us.

“Looks like we need another,” Alex announced before weaving through a crowd of paralegals doing shots of Patrón. I watched for a moment with morbid fascination as two of them started dirty dancing, complete with Miley Cyrus-style twerking.

“And he’s off!” Jason gestured to the bar, where Alex was surrounded by a group of admiring, giggling girls just as he was at every
firm party, and probably every day since he’d grown into his ruggedly handsome good looks.

“If I hear him call them ‘fresh meat’ one more time I’m going to be sick,” I said, glaring at the display. Every year before the new class of first year associates join the firm, a book of their headshots appears in each employee’s inbox, with a short bio beside each picture. It was supposed to give us some information about the incoming class so we could call them by name, thus making them feel welcome, but instead its arrival resulted in male lawyers huddling in each other’s offices assessing the “fresh meat,” as Alex put it. Not exactly the warm, welcoming display HR had in mind.

“Ahhh … and it’s Monica,” Jason pointed out. Monica was the one Alex had deemed the hottest from the headshots. I knew from her bio that she enjoyed traveling, learning new languages, and step aerobics. Seriously—step aerobics. What was this, 1992?

“Guess we won’t be hearing from him the rest of the night. Or tomorrow morning for that matter,” he joked and I felt a tiny twinge of jealousy. “So,” Jason started, switching gears. “Should we plan this vacation?”