by David Lat
“But you acted correctly. I’m not worried about you. I suspect the world hasn’t heard the last of Audrey Coyne.”
Amit rose to his feet. I stood up too, and he hugged me.
“Whoa! So now that you’re gay, you’re a hugger?”
“Good luck at Cravath,” he said. “I’ll be back in New York soon to start at Sullivan & Cromwell. Maybe I’ll see you in the city sometime.”
That went surprisingly well. Next up was James, whom I texted and asked to come down to the Little Mural Room after Amit left.
“I just bumped into Amit in the elevator,” James said when he arrived. “You’re like a doctor’s office in here.”
“I don’t have much time. I’m heading back to New York this weekend and starting at Cravath next week. Before I go, I have a lot of surgeries to do—to repair fractured relationships.”
James laughed. God, he had a great smile.
“I wouldn’t say our relationship is fractured,” he said. “I still value our friendship and have so much respect for you.”
“That’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. I wanted to thank you for being my conscience. I don’t know if I would have done the right thing if you hadn’t urged me to. Yes, the Geidner secret was eating away at me, but I did manage to keep it to myself—for weeks. I might never have said anything if not for our conversation. To be honest, I don’t want to think about what I would have done—or not done—if you hadn’t spoken up.”
“But that was because you confided in me in the first place. You didn’t have to do that. You could have just kept your mouth shut, clerked for Stinson on the Court, passed Go, collected your $200—or your $300,000 signing bonus, actually.”
Mention of the money I had basically given up made me momentarily ill.
“Oh God, don’t remind me!” I moaned. “Instead of a six-figure signing bonus, I have a six-figure student loan balance.”
“Join the club. But it’s nothing that a few years of working at Cravath can’t fix.”
“Speaking of fixing things—I’m sorry about how badly I ended things with us. It came at a time when I was under an incredible amount of stress, working on the Geidner opinion and prepping for my interview with Justice Keegan, and I just snapped. Do you think there’s any chance we might someday … pick up where we left off?”
James paused—a long, long pause.
“I don’t know,” he said. “We’re going to be on opposite sides of the country. You’re going to be in New York, working insane hours at Cravath. I’m going to be up in San Francisco at Morrison & Foerster, also working long hours …”
He must have seen the disappointed look on my face, because he quickly changed his tone.
“But look,” he said, “I think you’re amazing, Audrey. Let’s stay in touch—and what will happen will happen.”
Vintage James, sensitive as always. Even I, in all my romantic cluelessness, could see what James was doing here: letting me down easy.
“That sounds good,” I said. “Let’s keep the channels of communication open.”
Channels of communication? I sounded like a middle manager ending a team meeting.
We stood up and hugged—a long, long hug. Maybe I was engaging in wishful thinking, but I felt a sense of possibility in the embrace.
My next meeting was with Lucia at the scene of the crime, so to speak: Bodega Wine Bar. It wasn’t for another few hours—we were meeting up during that brief window of free time for Lucia when Judge Polanski was driving home—so I decided to walk from the courthouse to downtown, which would give me the chance to clear my head.
Looking back at my botched and brief relationship with James, which was over before it had really begun, I thought about how I had so much to learn about matters of the heart. I was a 24-year-old law school graduate, but I felt like a 14-year-old high school girl in terms of emotional maturity. And perhaps this wasn’t surprising: I probably had about as much relationship experience as a high school girl, considering how I had devoted most of my energy over the past decade to my career rather than my personal life. I resolved to focus more on romance upon returning to New York. And even if I’d be working long hours at Cravath, I would at least have more psychological energy to devote to finding a love interest, now that my quest for the immortality of a SCOTUS clerkship was over.
I ran a few errands downtown and still arrived at Bodega half an hour early. I took the same seat at the bar that I had the fateful night that Lucia and I had met up for drinks, saved the same seat for her, and ordered a glass of merlot—but barely touched it, waiting for Lucia.
Lucia arrived punctually, as usual, and ordered a glass of pinot noir. I thanked her for the role she played in exposing the jurisdictional defect in Geidner, and we drank a true “law nerd” toast: to jurisdiction. After the toast, I took a generous sip from my glass of wine and plunged right in.
“Lucia, I have a confession to make. And an apology. Remember the night that we came here before your interview with Justice Keegan? When I flirted with you, and urged you to drink more, and we kissed?”
She continued to nod, but I detected a slight darkening of her expression.
“That was … dishonest of me. I’m straight—I always have been—and I was never interested in you romantically. I flirted with you and egged you on in terms of drinking that night because, well, I knew you had your big interview the next day—for a clerkship that I badly wanted for myself. And you just seemed so well prepared and so unstoppable, with your Fay Diploma from Harvard and your clerkship with Judge Polanski and all of that. So I, well—I guess you could say I sabotaged you.”
As soon as the gush of words escaped me, I felt better—like when I unburdened myself about Geidner to James.
But Lucia didn’t feel better. Seconds after I finished, she picked up her wine glass and flung its contents at me (yes, she was drinking red). By the time I had blinked the wine out of eyes and wiped my face down with a napkin, she was gone.
I went to the ladies’ room and cleaned myself up as best as I could. I was wearing dark jeans, fortunately, but I didn’t hold out much hope for my white blouse. And I didn’t have time to go home and change before my next appointment at Bodega.
“Miss Audrey, what the hell happened to you? That shirt looks like a modern art project.”
I told Jeremy about my meeting with Lucia.
“Hell hath no fury like a lesbian scorned. At least she didn’t slug you. Think of it like a spa treatment: she gave you a red-wine facial.”
“I should probably apologize to you before you order a drink,” I said.
“I’m sorry I accused you of envy and bad faith when we argued over Judge Stinson. You were right: she turned out to be, well, a politicized judge.”
“In other words, a conservative political hack.”
“Yes. One who put her ambitions ahead of the law. But many of her issues were specific to her.”
“So you still have faith in ‘the law,’ then?”
“I do,” I said. “There are judges out there who do their best to follow ‘the law,’ to interpret it as opposed to make it. Maybe not Justice Stinson—and, no offense, not your boss either. But we can both name judges on the court who call cases as they see them. Like Judge Polanski. Or Judge Dennis O’Sullivan, up in Portland. Or Judge Samantha Garber, also in Portland. And a few others, including a lot of the senior judges.”
“That’s fair,” Jeremy said. “I just fear there will be fewer judges like them over time and more political hacks. But I guess we’ll see.”
“And you were right about another thing: I had a gay co-clerk.”
“James?” Jeremy couldn’t hide his giddiness.
“No. Amit.”
“Oh.”
“I stopped by the courthouse to say good-bye to him and he came out to me. And hugged me too.”
“I guess that doesn’t shock me—that Amit’s gay. He could be a bitchy little queen at times.”
“It takes one to
know one.”
“Touché. Now please get Her Royal Highness a drink.”
47
My last day in Pasadena, a Saturday, arrived before I knew it. I surveyed my apartment, now entirely empty (I had tossed the IKEA furniture), and admired its cleanliness. But I wouldn’t miss the place. It had gotten the job done, being cheap and close to the courthouse, but I had never taken the time to make it my home. I supposed this was typical for law clerks and young lawyers, nomads moving from city to city, chasing one professional opportunity after another.
My luggage, a bulging blue suitcase and the black rollerboard I had taken to D.C., sat by the door. All of my other possessions I had previously packed into boxes and shipped to my parents’ place in Woodside, where I’d be staying for a few weeks while I hunted for an apartment of my own. I looked forward to getting my own place—and one that I could plan on living in for more than a year. I’d probably live in Queens, an easy commute to Cravath but significantly less expensive than Manhattan—just not as far out as Woodside, maybe Long Island City or Astoria.
I heard a knock at the door. Who could it be? Harvetta was driving me to the airport, but she wasn’t supposed to come by for another half hour or so. (I had asked Pervez to drive me to the airport, for old times’ sake, but he had another commitment: a party in honor of his cousin Ahmed, who after losing in the Ninth Circuit had won relief from deportation from the attorney general, thanks to a grassroots campaign and the intervention of some prominent politicians.)
I looked through the peephole: Lucia. Not seeing a wine glass in her hand, I let her in.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hello,” I said. “You’re just in time. I’m about to leave for the airport.” I gestured toward my bags, then toward the emptiness of the apartment—so empty that our voices echoed in the small space.
“I’m glad I caught you,” she said. “I’m sorry about the other night.”
“I deserved it. Dousing me with wine was nothing compared to what I did to you.”
“About that—apology accepted. I can’t really be that angry about it because, honestly, I would have done the exact same thing if I had been in your shoes. All is fair in love and SCOTUS clerkships.”
I laughed.
“Plus,” she said, “it all worked out in the end. I just got hired to clerk for Justice Liotta!”
“Congratulations!”
We hugged. Yes, I was envious of Lucia. But in keeping with the new, better me, I tried to suppress it.
“When are you clerking for her?” I asked.
“This coming term. She was all hired up, but then she had a clerk who asked to postpone the clerkship, due to a family issue. I interviewed with her last week and she made me the offer last night.”
“That’s awesome.”
“I’m thrilled. She’s also Italian American—I knew the interview was going well when we conducted part of it in Italian. She’s a better fit for me than Justice Keegan. Instead of being the Court’s major crusader against gay rights, she’s our champion.”
“It will also be cool to clerk for the ‘swing justice.’ She casts the deciding vote in so many major cases.”
“Yup. And she uses her clerks a lot as emissaries to the other chambers. It’s supposed to be a lot of fun.”
Just then, as if summoned by all the Supreme Court talk, Harvetta appeared in the open doorway.
“Hello, ladies! Did I hear some talk about fun?”
“Harvetta, meet Lucia, who’s clerking for Judge Polanski now and who will be clerking for Justice Liotta. Lucia, meet Harvetta, who’s clerking for Justice Lin now and who will be clerking for Justice Wilson. You’ll be clerking at the Court together, so it’s great that you’re meeting now.”
They shook hands. I tried to sound cheery, but inside I was heart-broken. They would be clerking at the Court together—making history, walking the marble halls of One First Street, knowing the outcomes of headline- and history-making cases before the public—while I’d be toiling away at a law firm. Getting over not getting a Supreme Court clerkship would take time.
“Okay girl,” said Harvetta, turning to me and grabbing my blue suitcase, “you ready? It’s time to ship your ass back to New York.”
48
I started up at Cravath that Monday. They didn’t waste any time in putting me to work, staffing me on a collection of cases against Credit Suisse related to residential mortgage-backed securities. The hours were long; my first week in the office, I didn’t go home before ten in the evening, not even on Friday. But it was fine. I had worked long hours during my clerkship and I was glad for the distraction. Plunging headlong into work would help me get over things.
I also started exercising—partly to help me get over things, and partly to get back into shape. I had about five extra pounds, picked up during the final stressful weeks of my clerkship, that I wanted to lose. I certainly didn’t want to gain more weight (which a number of my law school classmates who went directly to firms after graduation had already done).
One morning, a few weeks into my time at Cravath, I was at the gym running on the treadmill, cranked up to level 8. I had the small television tuned into CNN, but I wasn’t paying close attention; it was just something to distract me from my effort. Then a news alert flashed across the screen that did grab my attention:
“Justice Hannah Greenberg, Dead at 83.”
I almost fell off the treadmill. I immediately slowed the treadmill down to 3.5 and listened in to the broadcast. Justice Greenberg—whom everyone had expected to be the next justice to leave the Court, before Justice Keegan’s death—had lost her battle with cancer, after a long and valiant struggle. President LaFount, not even done with the first year of his presidency, would have another vacancy to fill.
That meant another justice on the Court. With four new clerkships to be filled. But not with the likes of me. My former boss, Justice Stinson, would make sure of that.
49
Surprising many veteran Court watchers, President LaFount nominated a second Ninth Circuit judge in a row: Judge Polanski. It was unusual to have such strong representation on the Supreme Court from a single appeals court (other than the D.C. Circuit), but in other ways the Polanski pick made sense. He was a staple of SCOTUS shortlists in a Republican administration, and his extensive network of loyal law clerks, the Polanski Mafia, was advocating for him strongly behind the scenes. And because President LaFount had recently replaced a white male (Keegan) with a woman of color (Stinson), he now had the leeway to replace a woman (Greenberg) with a man (Polanski).
Judge Polanski’s swift confirmation to the Court—given his impeccable credentials, many years of judicial service, and reputation as a judge who truly did follow the law—came as no surprise. What did come as a surprise was the phone call I received a few days after his confirmation.
I was in my office at Cravath, munching on a salad I had ordered from my desk, when my secretary, Debbie, took a call for me.
“Audrey, Justice Polanski is on the line for you.”
I almost spat out a cherry tomato. I swallowed the tomato, chased it with bottled water, and answered the phone in as composed a manner as I could muster.
“Hello, this is Audrey Coyne.”
“Audrey! Frank Polanski here.”
I would have suspected a prank call, perhaps from Jeremy, but that Polish accent was unmistakable.
“Hello, Justice Polanski,” I said, trying to sound as deferential as possible over the phone. “Congratulations on your confirmation.”
“Thanks, thanks. I detest D.C., but this new job I just got is pretty good, so I’ll put up with it. How do you feel about Washington?”
“I haven’t been there often, but I’ve been impressed on the few occasions I have visited. It’s a beautiful city.”
“I find it cold—not temperature-wise, although I guess compared to California it is—but architecturally cold. All those monuments. Monolithic gray government buildings. Reminds me of my chi
ldhood behind the Iron Curtain. Anyway, how would you like to clerk for me?”
“I beg your pardon, Your Honor?”
“Audrey, you’re a young woman—a young, brilliant, beautiful woman—so I’m sure you heard me the first time. How would you like to clerk for me?”
“Is that … is that an offer, Justice Polanski?”
“You could call it that. What’s your answer?”
“Uh, shouldn’t I send you an application first?”
“I know all I need to know about you. You applied to clerk for me on the Ninth Circuit, so I know that your paper credentials—résumé, transcript, recommendations—are stellar. I got to see some of your work product during your clerkship year, in terms of opinions and en banc memos you worked on—also excellent.”
“Thank you, Justice. But maybe you want to interview me?”
“Nah. I know you’re smart enough for me, so the interview would just be to see if you pass the ‘dinner test’—as in, can I have dinner with this person and not hate them or be bored by the end? And you already passed that test. As you may recall, we sat next to each other at the law clerk orientation last year.”
“Yes, that’s right …”
“Most important, I know that you’re a young lawyer of great integrity. One of my former law clerks, Lucia Aroldi, speaks very highly of you. And let’s just say that I know, from Lucia, that you share my concern for the rule of law—especially in the area of jurisdiction.”
Lucia must have told him about Geidner. I didn’t ask for any credit when I clued her in to the jurisdictional problem, but I guess she gave me credit anyway.
“As you may have noticed during your clerkship year,” Justice Polanski said, “I am—at the risk of sounding immodest—a very principled jurist. I follow the law where it takes me; I don’t twist it to serve my political ends. And I get the sense that you share my views.”
“Absolutely, Your Honor. I most certainly do.”
“One other thing. Unlike your old boss, I draft most of my own opinions. My clerks help me with research and editing. After they’ve worked with me for a few months, I let clerks try their hand at a little drafting—but when a clerk drafts something, I edit it to within an inch of its life. I enjoy the law so much that I can’t help immersing myself in the nitty-gritty—and I’m a bit selfish, in that I like to keep a lot of the fun of writing for myself. I hope that that’s okay with you.”