Big Law (6 page)

I called Anna, hoping that she’d inadvertently missed a few documents. I really, really didn’t want to go back to Saul with questions if there was any way I could track down the information myself. That would be like handing him a loaded gun and helping him point
it at my own head. Anna confirmed she’d given me everything she had and I hung up the phone, knowing I’d hit a dead end. “Shit, I’m screwed! Day one of working with Saul and I’m already screwed,” I exclaimed aloud, burying my face in my hands.

Sadir leapt up from his seat. “He’s thrown something at you or threatened to fire you ALREADY?” he asked excitedly.

“No,” I responded softly, feeling a bit embarrassed about my theatrics. Saul hadn’t done
anything
to me yet. “He just … he’s put me on this deal which I have
no
time for and he hasn’t given me enough information to do what he wants. And by not enough information, I mean he’s given me like, NO information.” I dejectedly flipped through the documents again.

“So … ask the senior associate on the deal for more information,” Sadir replied, sitting back down, clearly disappointed that I didn’t have a Saul torture story for his collection.

“That’s the worst paaaart,” I whined. “There isn’t another associate—it’s just me!”

“Oh, man, you’ve got no buffer? You really ARE screwed. There’s no way to avoid failure in that situation.”

I slumped back in my chair, sulking.
What did I do to deserve this?
I wondered, filling with self-pity. It had to be karma. I must have been a terrible person in a previous life. Maybe Attila the Hun. Why else would I deserve my present fate?

“I’m going to go grab a sandwich.” Sadir stood up and grabbed his coat off the back of his chair. “There’s no use sulking about your situation, Mackenzie. It just … it is what it is.” He shrugged.

It is what it is.
I had grown to hate that expression. That, and “it’s the nature of the beast.” Leave it to the legal profession to overuse two expressions which essentially amount to saying “you have no control over your life, so don’t try and do anything about it, just suck it up and take it.”

I’m building this up too much in my head
, I thought as I typed out the email to Saul.
I’ve dealt with difficult partners before.

I reviewed my email three times, proofing it for errors and ensuring I’d asked everything I needed to know in the most succinct way
possible. Finally I hit send. Staring at my inbox, I exhaled a long breath. The only thing left to do was wait for a response.

Ten minutes later I heard someone thundering down the hallway.
Is there some kind of emergency?
I wondered, as I stood up to see what was going on. Then there he was. Saul. He gripped both sides of the door frame, his eyes blazing, breathing heavily.

Partners
never
visited associates’ offices. I stared at him, stunned.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? This deal is under a STRICT Chinese Wall. A fucking CHINESE WALL.” Spit was flying from his mouth. “You put the name of the target company in the email, you stupid shit.”

I stood at my desk, in shock, the burn of mortification creeping up my neck. I swallowed hard. “I … ummm … you….” I sputtered as I reached down, fumbling to gather the documents his secretary had provided me.

He lurched forward a few steps, pointing his finger at me. “Are you an idiot? Are you an idiot? Are you a God-damned fucking IDIOT?” His voice rose higher with each repeated question until he was shrieking. “A Chinese Wall means you NEVER refer to the buyer or seller by anything other than their fucking codenames. I should FIRE you right here.” He waved his hands wildly. “And what the fuck would possess you to send ME that email instead of asking Sarah your questions,” he said through clenched teeth. “I’m running six MULTIBILLION dollar deals. I don’t have time to answer your God-damned questions.” He inhaled deeply through his nose and pointed his finger at me again. “NEVER … YOU … NEVER AGAIN!” And then he was gone.

Thirty seconds later, I heard him slam his office door so hard that the walls shook all the way down the hall. I had never witnessed that kind of unmitigated rage, and it was directed at ME. Thankful that I had the office to myself, I closed the door and held onto the handle to steady myself as I tried not to hyperventilate.
Keep it together, Mackenzie. Keep it together, Mackenzie
, I repeated to myself.
I blinked back tears.
Okay, what do I do now?
I let out a long breath, sat back down, and picked up the phone. With my hands shaking, I dialed Sarah’s extension.

“Oh, Mackenzie—I was wondering when I’d hear from you. I couldn’t make the conference call with Saul earlier because I was at a meeting out of the office. I figured you’d just touch base with me after. What’d I miss?” she asked disinterestedly. I could hear her clicking away at her keys over the speakerphone.

I was stunned. There was a still, beating silence before I found my voice. “Uh, Sarah …” I cleared my throat. “I didn’t even know you were on the deal, so I didn’t know I was
supposed
to contact you.” I could feel my anger rising.

“Well, didn’t you ASK Saul who was on the deal team?” she asked condescendingly. “I mean, you’re not new here anymore. You should really know the proper questions to ask by now. You shouldn’t need your
mentor
to help you with that!” She gave a brief snort of laughter.

“Sarah.” I pressed my fingers into my brow bone. I’ve never considered myself a violent person, but what I wanted to say to her was, “the mere sound of your voice nearly sends me into a murderous rage and I am
this
close to coming down to your office, leaping across your desk, and poking your eyes out with your bobby pins.”
No! Be above it, Mackenzie! You’re a bigger person than that!
Taking a deep breath, I forged ahead. “I need some details of the proposed transaction to draft the documents that Saul requested. He just informed me I should be addressing my questions to you.” I tried to sound professional and calm as my heart rate returned to normal. I’d plot her death later. Right now, there was work to do.

“I just heard him seriously unloading on someone. That was you?” She was still enjoying toying with me. Then, in a sickeningly innocent tone, she added, “Didn’t you read the email I sent you earlier?”

I quickly scanned my inbox. Every email was opened and reviewed. There was no way I could have missed an email from Sarah. I balled up my fists, digging my nails into my palms in frus
tration. “I never received an email from you, Sarah,” I said tightly. “You didn’t send it.”

“Huh … I could have sworn I sent it to you. Strange. Anyway, our client Doberman Partners wants to buy Falcon Mobility Inc. and take it private. I just re-sent the email to you, so review what I sent and prepare the documents Saul requested. You should have enough information now. Let me know if you have any questions,” she added breezily. “Oh, and make sure you send them to me for review before they go to Saul. We don’t want another blow-up.”

Click.

My blood was boiling when I opened her email. There, below Sarah’s infuriating “see below,” was Saul’s email to Sarah instructing her to send me the documents and bring me up to speed. At bottom of the email, in bold, all caps Saul had written CLIENT WANTS CHINESE WALL STANDARDS IN PLACE. BUYER = ALPHA, SELLER = OMEGA, TRANSACTION = PROJECT MONTAUK ON ALL DOCUMENTS AND COMMUNICATION.

“You have got to be freaking kidding me.” I blew out a long breath.

And the fun was only just beginning.

T
HE DRIVER DEPOSITED ME
outside of my building. I signed the voucher and made my way inside. It was midnight, the earliest I’d returned home since I’d been put on the Highlander deal.

The past week had passed in a round-the-clock haze of work and verbal abuse. Saul didn’t like a day to pass without releasing his aggression, sort of like how some people can’t get through the day without their morning coffee. Sometimes it was a seemingly rhetorical email like “ARE YOU STUPID?” “WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU THINK THAT?” “DID YOU EVEN GRADUATE FROM LAW SCHOOL?” (He wrote his emails in all caps, which had the effect of making you feel like he was yelling at you, even when he was nowhere near you.) Other times it was contradictory, rhetorical emails like “IS THERE A REASON YOU HAVEN’T SENT ME THE SUMMARY?” followed by “WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU SENDING ME THIS?” when I sent him the summary. Those were fun.

Then there were the phone calls. “This is not what I fucking asked for!” he’d screech so loudly I’d have to hold the receiver away from my ear until the line went dead. He clearly didn’t have the time to fill me in on what was
wrong
with the work I’d given him or explain what he
had
asked for. I was always at a loss as to how to handle those calls. Should I have called him back and politely said, “We must have got cut off, Saul. You were saying?” Or maybe spoken to him in his own language with something like, “Well, what
did
you fucking ask for?”

But Saul’s all caps email tirades and phone calls didn’t compare to witnessing his terror in person. Above all, I dreaded the “come to my office” email. That meant he wanted to personally witness your reaction to his torture. He wasn’t going to be satisfied with just hearing your voice crack over the phone or picturing your face drop as you read his offensive email. No, when he demanded to see you face to face you knew there would be yelling and humiliation. It would almost certainly be enough to ruin your entire day
and
keep you up all night. And today he’d been out for blood.

“You need to get your shit together,” Sarah had hissed at me as we both scurried out of Saul’s office, fleeing a particularly scathing fit over my misplaced comma. “You are making too many mistakes. Go home and go to sleep,” she’d commanded. From anyone else it would’ve sounded like thoughtful advice. From Sarah, it was a direct order. So I did as I was told.

“Evening.” Eddie gave me a nod when I entered the lobby of my apartment building. I’d come to know Eddie Esposito better than I knew any of the other doormen. He was your typical New Yorker—a Bronx native with a mess of gelled black hair who was quick to dispense advice on where to find the best coffee, or complain about the Yankees. He worked twelve hour shifts, 8
P.M
. until 8
A.M
., which meant he was the first person I said hello to in the morning and usually the last person I saw in the evening.

“Hi, Eddie.” I gave a wan smile.

“Another late night, Mackenzie?”

“Uh huh,” I sighed, readjusting my messenger bag on my shoulder. I was too tired to speak in full sentences, let alone actual words.

He blew out a large puff of air and shook his head in disbelief. “There’s gotta be an easier way. There’s just gotta be.”

“Goodnight, Eddie,” I called out without turning around, avoiding his stare and my own reflection in the mirrored lobby on my way to the elevator.

“’Night, Mackenzie. Get some rest,” I heard him say as I punched the button for the tenth floor.

I closed my eyes and leaned against the elevator wall. Even in my semi-awake state I could still recall with perfect clarity the first time I
walked through the doors of the Death Star, dressed in the interview suit I’d borrowed from Kim. The sound of my heels click-clacking in the high ceilinged lobby had made me feel like I was one of the Wall Street power players, on my way up to a conference room to say things like “My client says ‘No deal!,’” slamming my fist down on the table for effect.
Click clack, click clack.
“Only the best are invited to interview here,” the intense looking woman from Human Resources informed me in the same tone actresses use when uttering the line, “It’s an honor just to be nominated.” She’d led me down a winding corridor, past walls of filing cabinets and the sound of whirring printers. “Your interview is with Phil Sirett, the head of the Litigation group,” she’d whispered, raising her brows with significance as I nodded, looking appropriately impressed. We stopped abruptly in front of a huge, stark office. “Here we are! Phil, this is Mackenzie, your four o’clock,” she’d sing-songed, before turning and giving me a final wave. Behind a spotless, clutter-free desk sat a grey-haired man, peering down at my resume through glasses perched on the tip of his nose. Without looking up, he gestured for me to sit down in the hard wooden chair across from his desk. It was at this point that I thought I might throw up. Instinctively, I knew this would be a doozy.

A minute of silence ensued, while Phil finished reading my resume. I sat ramrod straight in the chair, legs crossed, hands folded in my lap, poised and ready. Scanning his office for any common ground I could casually bring up in conversation, I came up dry. The walls were bare, the impeccably organized book shelves housed three-inch black binders arranged alphabetically, and the only thing on the huge desk other than three perfectly aligned stacks of papers with color-coded sticky tabs was a carefully arranged rubber band ball. Everything, right down to the carpet, was precise and immaculate. It looked like the meeting place for an OCD support group.

Finally, he spoke. “You have an impressive resume, Mackenzie—top five percent of your class, Associate Editor of the Georgetown Law Journal, pro bono work, and first place in the Moot Court Competition. Impressive.”

I smiled in a way I hoped was modest but confident. “Thank you, Phil, I —”

Before I had a chance to finish my sentence, he waved his hand, cutting me off. “But a lot of impressive resumes walk through my door. Yours is nothing unique. Do you know I interviewed a guy today who won an Olympic gold medal? It was in equestrian, which isn’t really a sport, but that’s beside the point. The point is that everyone is qualified. Everyone has an Olympic gold medal these days now that they’ve added sports like horse jumping. But we don’t need someone working at F&D that expects a horse to do all the work while he gets a gold medal. You get my point?”

I nodded, thankful that my resume did not include an Olympic gold medal.

“But enough about horses. Why should I hire you?”

“As you’ll see from my resume,” I began the little monologue I’d rehearsed all morning—about how I’d worked throughout college and law school, what I’d learned from volunteering at the free legal clinic, why I was excited to work at a firm as prestigious as F&D—but was abruptly interrupted by Phil’s sudden coughing fit.

“Are you … um … are you okay?” I asked as he coughed and sputtered. As if on cue, Phil’s secretary swept into the office, two tall glasses of ice water in hand. Stone faced, she passed one to Phil and one to me.

“Thank you.” I took the glass, grateful for the moment to regroup my thoughts and wipe the sweat from my brow.

Phil gulped down the water, which thankfully put an end to the coughing. “What we’re looking for,” he began distractedly while rooting through his bottom drawer, locating a coaster, and placing it carefully on his desk. “What we’re looking for is something extra.” He placed his water on top of the coaster and stared into it like a crystal ball.

“Yes, of course —” I tried for a second time to get a word in, but was waved away impatiently.

“Do you know how this firm started, Mackenzie?” My heart rate quickened. I hadn’t expected to be quizzed on the history of the firm. I racked my mind for anything I could remember from the website, but Phil didn’t wait for an answer. “This firm first opened its doors in 1948 with a small group of lawyers dedicated to providing advice
and expertise on the highest levels.” Relieved, I sat back in my chair and listened.

Fifteen minutes later, he was still droning on in this vein, while I was trying to maintain my most interested expression, despite the sweating water glass still in my hands. I wanted to put it down, but judging from the immaculate condition of Phil’s cherry wood antique desk, he wouldn’t react kindly to a water mark. And with Phil barely pausing between sentences, there was no opportunity to interrupt and request a coaster. Besides, if I did somehow manage to get a word in, I wanted to use what little time I had to sell myself. So, I held onto the glass, surreptitiously drying my hands on the bottom of my skirt.

“And so, for nearly seventy years, we have achieved extraordinary results following the ambitious vision of our founders. Well.” He exhaled a long breath that he had seemingly been holding for the past half hour. “Looks like our time’s up. Nice meeting you …” He glanced down at my resume before adding, “Mackenzie.” He stood abruptly, walked from behind his desk, and rather than shaking my hand, reached for the glass of water. “I’ll take that now.”

“Oh, um … thank you,” I stuttered, handing it to him, confused.

He lifted a pile of papers and slid a coaster out from underneath. As he set down my glass on the coaster, I noticed a tiny grin playing at his lips. “You know, Mackenzie, you could have just asked me for a coaster.”

I could feel my face flush from embarrassment as I silently berated myself for not speaking up.

“But if you had done that,” he continued, “it would mean you expect to be coddled. Or you could’ve put the glass down directly on my desk, but what kind of Neanderthal would put a water glass down on an antique?” He gently patted his desk like a favorite pet. “So you solved the problem yourself.”

I nodded, no longer bothering to try to squeeze a word in edge-wise. At this point I was utterly confused about what was happening, and now was not the time to open my mouth.

“And you had to sacrifice your own comfort level in the process,” he added, emphasizing the word “sacrifice.” By the way he was talk
ing about this glass of water you would think I’d held onto a three hundred pound weight for the duration of the interview. Placing his hand on my shoulder, he burrowed his gaze into mine. “Anyone can come in here and drivel on about how she’ll be willing to work hard and sacrifice for the good of the firm. What sets a person apart, what makes her unique,” he paused dramatically, “is when she
shows
me.” He raised his eyebrows meaningfully before adding a brisk, “Good day, Mackenzie.”

My head was spinning when I walked out of the Death Star. I wasn’t sure if I’d just been a rat in some bizarre psychological experiment that Phil had dreamt up while polishing his desk or how he’d managed to form such a generous opinion of me when I hadn’t strung together more than three words, but it didn’t matter. I knew the job was mine. In that moment, I felt like I’d finally reached the top of the mountain I’d spent years climbing. I’d never been happier.

There’s gotta be an easier way
. Unfortunately you’re wrong, Eddie. Hard work and sacrifice is the only way.

I flicked on the light in my bedroom. Jason yanked a pillow across his eyes.

“Sorry!” I whispered. “I thought you were staying at your place tonight.”

“I wanted to see you,” he murmured, lifting the duvet welcomingly. “Eddie let me up.” I climbed in, happy to have my spot already warmed. It was as though he’d known I needed him here tonight even though I hadn’t known it myself. He rolled back over and I could hear his deep rhythmic breathing within minutes.

I envied Jason’s ability to fall asleep so easily. My whole body ached with exhaustion, but my mind was still racing.
How many documents are left on the checklist? Is there a more efficient way to divvy up the work load?
After multiple attempts to calm my thoughts proved futile, I rubbed my eyes, got out of bed, and padded through the living room into the kitchen. I rooted through my cupboards for my last tea bag, plopped it in a mug full of microwaved hot water and leaned against the counter waiting for the Sleepytime herbal tea to live up to its promise.

My living room was bathed in the glow from my laptop, reminding me I hadn’t emailed Mom in a while. I carried my mug over to my makeshift workspace, cluttered with coffee mugs, sticky notes, and a legal pad containing some Falcon deal notes. A brief nightmare flashed to my mind where Saul suddenly appeared for a surprise clean desk policy inspection, the way a sergeant inspects a soldier’s barracks. I slipped the legal pad in the drawer. Better safe than sorry.

Swiping my finger across the touchpad, I peered at my computer screen in confusion. It was signed on to my work portal, but I hadn’t done any work from home in a few days. It was uncharacteristic of me to leave my laptop powered on, let alone forget to sign out. Definitive proof that I needed a good night’s sleep. I fired off a quick email to Mom, signed off, and shut my laptop, congratulating myself for crossing off one last to-do before the day was done.

I padded back to my bed, climbed in next to Jason, and tried once more to quiet my racing mind, to no avail.
Maybe some cleansing yoga breaths would help.

There was a time when I thought yoga was a ridiculous trend—as if breathing, which your body does involuntarily, and twisting yourself into positions your body was never meant to be in would somehow reduce anxiety and be a good workout. But in our freshman year Kim dragged me to a class as part of her “I’m trying new things” kick after her latest break-up. We giggled the whole way through as the Hare Krishna–looking yogi instructed us to breathe and visualize our throats as a garden hose, with each breath passing through like a trickle of water. “That makes me want to pee,” Kim joked, ignoring the glares. But even though we mocked it, we were amazed how good we felt afterward. We’ve been converts ever since, but I hadn’t been to a class in months.

Inhale though your nose. Pull the breath in.
I instructed myself.
Now hold it. No, wait … am I supposed to hold it? Or breathe it out like a garden hose? I remember something about using my diaphragm.
Shit, I really needed a refresher. Does adding “go to yoga class” to my to-do list negate the whole relaxation aspect of it? Sometime around one in the morning, I abandoned my yoga attempts, absentmindedly
checked my BlackBerry one last time, curled into Jason, and finally fell asleep. Namaste.