She sat and again enjoyed the soft cushion filling beneath her as she had the night before. She recognized the feel of down because she had helped her mother re-stuff their couch cushions with it. Again, however, she sat up straight to keep alert. She held her legal pad and pen readied to take notes. She again resisted Carlisle’s relaxing and disarming chair across from his desk.
Sophia settled into Carlisle’s slow deliberate rhythm. His auburn toupee did not seem as obvious to her this time and his office not so lavish. She noted the walls of legal books and state-of-the-art computer systems on his desk and conference table. This office, she thought, was a well-mechanized battle room set up to wage war. He was a warrior disguised as a disarming Southern gentleman.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Carlisle settled back into his desk chair. “But I want to clarify that the little incident with Roger here yesterday was just an unfortunate flare-up.”
“I haven’t given it another thought. In fact, we all had a lovely dinner after.”
Sophia’s lies were so regular now that she was comfortable with them.
“Like any family, we have our differences,” Carlisle went on. “We work together so many hours that people get tired and forget it’s easier to solve problems by discussing them rather than by fighting.”
“Of course,” Sophia said when he paused.
“I do apologize,” Carlisle said, looking at her intently to gauge her reaction.
“No need. Some things are better forgotten.”
Carlisle was testing her discretion, professional maturity, and willingness to play ball with the big boys. Sophia knew she had passed his test when he crossed the room, picked up a large file, and handed it to her.
“I heard about the brilliant research you did for Frank this morning. The client was impressed. So am I.”
“Thank you.” Sophia hoped she had not set the bar too high for herself.
“This case is not cutting edge like Baxter’s Kali of Mumbai case, but it is nuts and bolts, or the meat and potatoes of the legal world, so to speak,” Carlisle enthused. “My friend, Richard Waddington, is CEO of Waddington Development. He’s trying to get a large condo project with a full-service hotel built in Aspen. We’re working with a local firm there, and they are great people. The trips up there are enjoyable and helpful. Do you ski?”
“No, but I’d like to learn.” Sophia matched his enthusiasm partially because the client was Carlisle’s friend and therefore assuredly not a client wrenched from an associate or junior partner.
“Good. And I hope you don’t mind felling the tree huggers and architectural preservationists who are trying to stop the development. Those people would save every tree and termite-rotted building in Aspen.”
“I don’t mind.” Sophia winced at these words coming out of her mouth, a mouth that had fought for a sustainable economy and environment. “Happy to be aboard.”
A small part of her cringed at what her fellow idealistic classmates might think of her. Some went to nonprofits to defend their principles for almost no money, some were prosecutors, and a small group started up a firm to bring suits for the poor. But Sophia quickly pushed that feeling of discomfort aside—she was here to make money. She could return to her ideals when she was sure she would never be poor again.
“Learn the file and bill thirty hours to that. Bill an hour for today—prep, strategy, and all.”
“All right.” She did not blink an eye at the twenty minutes being stretched to an hour; after all, it was less than what the other partners had done. At least, when no client was in the room to hear them say it, which was obviously why Frank had given her such short time limits with Baxter on the goddess case. Billing was important, clearly, but to get the opportunity to do it, looking good when clients were actually present was even more critical.
As she got up to leave, she added, “I wanted to let you know that I am very sorry about Judith.”
“And so am I.” Carlisle picked up the phone. “Could you please shut the door on the way out?”
Sophia left. Even Carlisle, with his Southern manners, did not bother to cover his lack of sorrow at Judith’s passing.
⌘
Chapter 29
If These Drawers Could Talk—or
Remembrances of Officemates Past
Sophia made her way back to the haven of her office. Most secretarial bays were already empty. She particularly noted and was pleased that she was “Marlene-free.”
In her office, Sophia picked up a business card on the floor by the door. It was from Detective Rutger. Across the back he had scrawled “Missed you” and his cell number. She put the card in her pocket. He was hot, but the only thing she wanted out of him, if anything, was information about the investigation. Taylor was on her mind for other things.
She sat down behind her desk. Vera had already had the several redwells of the thick Crondall file and very thin goddess redwell delivered via interoffice mail.
Sophia called the librarian.
“Hello, I’m Sophia Christopoulos. I’m very happy to be here and I was sorry not to meet you during my first day tour, but I’ll drop by. In the meantime, Mr. Cummings said you'd send me depo prep materials and the practical guides to drafting a federal change of venue motion and answer in another of his cases.”
The librarian promised delivery tonight and to email a list of sites for online instruction. Sophia was impressed. At Bode, she would have spent hours in the library searching out the materials, taking them to her office on a library cart, and then returning the empty cart. Also, all that time would have been unbillable.
Sophia hung up the phone.
She leaned back in her chair, relieved that she was finished with people for the moment. She relished the aloneness in her office with the door shut. It had been a strain to dance through the Thorne & Chase minefield all day with people she didn’t know and who didn’t know her, with litigators she didn’t trust but, interestingly, found herself liking.
Sophia recorded her billable hours as she had learned to do at the end of every day last summer at Bode. Clients were the key to partnership, but billables were the key to survival as an associate. She looked at the total with an uncomfortable satisfaction. She knew she had done no real work, except the goddess research, and that she needed a minimum of eight billable hours a day, six days a week to keep pace. That was a harder number than it seemed. So much of what an associate does is not billable. She hadn’t made it today, but then she hadn’t expected even to garner the billables she did have on her first day, anyway.
An associate could, and often did, spend eleven hours in the office, but might only manage seven billable hours. Billing in six-minute or fifteen-minute increments, every minute is painstakingly recorded. Every email and every phone call is converted to the proper increment and documented with a client number. Those less skilled and less creative can end up with only a few billable hours at the end of a very long day. Inaccuracy and padding are fraud, but if an associate spends two minutes on an email and the minimum billing increment is fifteen minutes, then thirteen minutes are freebies.
Today, the bottom line for Sophia was that her reported meeting hours had to match those of the partners. Although uncomfortable doing so, she followed the leader or, more accurately, leaders.
She hopped up to shake off the billing quandary and to organize her office. She unboxed the office supplies from the bookshelf and started to put them in her desk, but was thwarted by the detritus. The drawers were full of the remainders of occupants past, remnants of office lives intertwined with attempts at personal lives.
Sophia found a birthday card to Doug Henry from his wife signed “With love from your wife who’s too hot to handle.” Little hearts replaced the “o’s” in each word. She tossed it in the trash.
She also found a black leather pocket calendar, some energy bars, and wrapped mints stamped The Edinburgh Grill. Sophia disposed of the food and then leafed through the calendar. It was Doug Henry’s ca
lendar with appointments and personal notes: his anniversary on Valentine’s Day; his daughter’s birthday on March 1; “Dinner—Rog Taylor. Joe Marv re J.H.” on March 8; and “Meeting re D-Day x 5” on April 20. On the last page was a list of cases with million dollar figures adjacent to Judith’s, Frank’s, Carlisle’s, Dante’s, and Chet’s names.
Sophia wondered about Judith’s millions in client billings and where that would lead Detective Rutger on his quest for foul play. Her thoughts and alone time were interrupted by a knock at her door.
“Damn,” she whispered to herself.
“Come in,” Sophia called out, as she shoved the calendar into her top drawer.
“Setting up your office?” Taylor plopped down in a chair and looked at the array of office supplies on Sophia’s desk.
“Hi.” Sophia grinned. “Yes, I am.”
“How was day one? Everything you expected?”
“It was good. I actually had a great time and most importantly, I have work. Interesting work.”
“That’s the name of the game around here.”
“And Chet said I was worth money now,” Sophia said proudly. “What else could I ask for?”
“Are you kidding? I can think of a dozen things. But forget it. Want to get a drink to celebrate your first day?”
“Sure.” Sophia didn’t hesitate.
She inwardly chastised herself for her display of eagerness. She really had to practice being “close to the vest.” She tried to think of a mantra to help her remember to be more reserved.
Taylor smiled. “I’ll meet you in the first floor lobby at seven-thirty.”
“Sounds good,” Sophia said nonchalantly.
“We’ll walk over to the Grill.”
“Okay.”
“I have a depo summary to wind up while it’s fresh in my mind.”
“And I’ll finish this.” Sophia looked at the piles of supplies. “Seven-thirty it is.”
Taylor left.
She looked down at her now more wrinkled suit. She hoped Taylor wouldn’t notice tonight. She needed to get new suits this weekend.
She threw the desk detritus from the drawers into a box for another day. As she was putting her supplies in her cleared drawers, her cell rang. It was her mother. She had listened to the evening news. Sophia placated her worry about the law firm and Judith’s death. Her mother seemed to accept the casual spin Sophia put on the incident. Her mother never wore high heels herself because she thought they were dangerous. At her age, they probably were.
As Sophia was putting more of her supplies away, her office phone rang. She braced herself for a news reporter invading her space.
“Sophia Christopoulos.”
“Hey, Sophia Christopoulos, come on down here and slum it in the small offices,” Paul said. “Tricia and I want to hear about your first day.”
“Sure. I’ll be there.”
“We’re in my office near the elevators on the associates’ floor. You know, the one with the mini offices compared to yours.”
Sophia knew the floor from her interview day. She had plenty of time until her meet-up with Taylor and was happy for the chance to bounce her first day off her new friends.
As she placed the box of desk leftovers on the shelf, she decided to take Doug Henry’s calendar with her to show it to Paul and Tricia. She slipped it in her purse along with one instructional deposition CD to listen to at home in the morning. She had learned in law school always to be prepared to use every minute of time productively.
Sophia surveyed her office, proud and happy.
⌘
Chapter 30
Champagne, Nerf Balls, and D-Day
Paul and Tricia greeted Sophia with a bottle of champagne.
Tricia toasted as Paul popped the cork. “To Sophia on her first day.”
“We’d like to say we bought the bottle, but it was left over from a firm gathering.”
“You guys are nuts,” Sophia said, sitting down as Tricia shut the door.
“And apparently so are you, for accepting this firm’s offer.” Paul chuckled as he held the three Thorne & Chase mugs by their handles with champagne, letting it froth over onto the nondescript gray tweed area rug.
Paul’s office was a hodge-podge of generic wood furniture apparently gathered willy-nilly from the firm’s storage rooms. It was no more than Sophia would have expected from Paul who, from her impression of him so far, seemed to have no investment in the “things” of life.
Paul toasted. “To three nuts. May we all survive uncracked.”
“Hear, hear.” Tricia raised her mug and tapped the others, spilling more champagne. “Oops.”
Sophia liked the toasts and the champagne. She was happy just being there with Paul and Tricia. Paul sat down behind his desk, picked up three spongy orange balls near his desk lamp, and shot them into a hoop stuck on the opposite wall.
“I can’t believe the bloated meeting hours everyone had me bill.” Sophia decided to trust in her new friendships. “Of course, I’m not mentioning any names.”
“Get used to it,” Tricia smirked.
“The most famous billing ever done here was Frank’s,” Paul said. “A client asked him whether he could get a contract he was bidding for with the Department of Defense. Frank sent him a one word email, ‘No,’ and then a $20,000 bill. The client was pissed. He called Frank and asked why a one-word response was worth $20,000. Frank told him ‘because it came from me.’ And included another bill for $5,000.”
“That’s unbelievable.” Sophia feigned outrage, but secretly wished she could be worth that much.
“In Frank’s defense,” Paul added, “only Frank could have answered that question instantaneously for that client. Frank knew everything cold about his company, the contract parameters, and Department of Defense bidding practices. He charged what he did because he could. And at his hourly billing rate, bumped for the value of instantaneous advice, it wasn’t far off.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“Are you working for Frank?” Tricia plopped in the chair next to Sophia.
“Yes, so far. I . . .”
“Tell us all your cases. Maybe we are on some together,” Paul interrupted.
Sophia ticked her cases off. She stopped short of the goddess research. She didn’t want to gloat about her success with Frank in front of Tricia.
“I’m excited you’re on the vacuum cleaner cases with us. We can bill our meetings, in fact, we can bill this,” Tricia said exuberantly.
“I don’t think so,” Paul said.
“We should,” Tricia protested.
“Speaking of ‘should’,” Sophia interjected, “no one seemed upset about Judith’s death, except Frank.”
Paul scoffed, “Big surprise.”
“That’s because half the firm is glad she’s gone,” Tricia chimed in.
“The other half just never had the privilege of working with her. I use the term ‘privilege’ loosely.” Paul drank his champagne. “When I told Doug over at Hartman & Schmidt what happened to her, he said he might go to the funeral just to make sure the wicked witch is dead.”
“That’s going too far,” Tricia objected, putting her half empty mug on Paul’s desk.
“Not after what she did to him.” Paul topped his mug off.
“I didn’t mean to start an argument.” Sophia arrested the momentum. “But since you’re speaking of Doug, I found his calendar in my desk.”
“What?” Paul sat up straight.
“His calendar. With some interesting entries.”
“Show me.” Paul insisted.
Sophia set her mug down, handed Paul the calendar from her purse, and pointed out, “There’s a list of partners and cases. Notes about dinners with Roger, Taylor, Joe and Marvin. And then something about D-Day.”
Tricia read over Paul’s shoulder. “You really know how to ruin a celebratory moment.”
Paul placed the calendar on his desk without saying a word.
�
��I’ll tell her if you don’t.” Tricia sat down again. “She deserves to know the underbelly of the exalted Thorne & Chase. Besides, she already heard Marvin in Judith’s office, anyway.”
“You’re right.” Paul finished his mug of champagne and looked through the calendar again.
“Well? What?”
“All right.” Paul set the calendar down again. “Doug organized a few junior partners to take back control of their clients and cases. You know, a lawsuit or something.”
“Or something . . . is right,” Tricia added. “Roger, Taylor, Joe, and Marvin worked with Doug to find a way of getting their clients back. They threatened to go public and some other nasty stuff.”
“Why shouldn’t they stop this culture of client stealing?” Paul asked defensively. “Anything they’ve done so far is good.”
“Not going gunning for Frank,” Tricia retorted.
“Careful, Tricia,” Paul cautioned. “Who said they had anything to do with that?”
“Fine.” Tricia was irritated. “But, anyway, Paul’s dad is a partner at Kline & Kline in New York and he warned Paul that Thorne & Chase in New York is the same way and to stay out of it.”
“I can't believe it’s that bad.” Sophia put down her unfinished champagne. “How does your dad know, Paul?”
“Believe it or not, New York is a smaller legal world than you might think. It appears that in every Thorn & Chase office the full partners get the associates and junior partners to bring in business and then grab it. Anyone who defies the structure is weeded out, or worse.”
“Worse?” Sophia interjected.
“Oh, there are worse things than pushing lawyers out of firms.”
“What do you mean?”
“Trouble with the bar, their license, even criminal stuff,” Tricia said. “I don’t know exactly.”
“Enough, Tricia,” Paul cautioned. “Suffice it to say that I’m history here in a couple of years, if I can’t keep a hundred percent credit for my clients.”
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