And the Next Thing You Know . . .

by Chase Taylor Hackett

  “Oh. Time for me to head on home then?”

  “No. We’ve got hours still.” He stood up.

  “Where to now?”

  “Back to the apartment.”

  “You naughty boy, you,” I said.

  He stretched a hand out behind, which I took, and he tugged me along after him.

  The snow monkeys would have to carry on without us.

  Actually, now that I looked, I realized a couple of them were way ahead of us.

  Chapter 27

  Mea Oh-So Maxima Culpa

  Jeffrey

  I have to come clean. I did something bad, really really bad. And I don’t know what to do about it. Before this whole thing with Theo started, back when I was still in my permanently crappy mood, I did something that nobody, and I mean nobody, is going to look at and not think I’m the biggest prick on the planet. Except my dad. My dad would be so proud.

  Here’s the story.

  Rebecca and I go back to when we were first hired at Parker O’Neill. Baby lawyers tend to start together in a clump—in the fall—and we started in the same clump. What’s more, as first-year lawyers we didn’t get our own offices—first-years had to share. Rebecca and I were officemates. Me and the farm girl, we had absolutely nothing in common, and—I’m not exaggerating—by lunchtime we were best friends. Just like that.

  Now. Once upon a time in a far-off land known as Delaware, we were working on this terrible trial together—the Mayerhoffer case, for future reference. I should point out that this was not one of my pointless advertising claims cases, it was a pretty complicated breach-of-fiduciary-duty case. We were there in lovely Wilmington along with a slew of other bright, young, bleary-eyed attorneys. We were all knocking in huge hours, barely sleeping, and during one of those late nights Rebecca screwed up. I’ll skip the technical details, but she made a judgment call about how some evidence should be marked, and she realized a couple days later what she’d done and saw that she’d potentially screwed this case for us. She came to me, trying not to cry, and when I’d heard the story, I saw a solution. I saw a chance, and the only chance, to fix it, and the two of us stayed up all night, off the clock so no one would know—which was enough to get us both fired right there—and we cleaned it up. We saved the case, saved the client, saved Rebecca’s career.

  And no one was any the wiser.

  You’re thinking, Hey, that doesn’t sound so bad. This Bornic character is a real mensch. Yeah well.

  Here’s Episode Two of Rat-Bastard Theatre. Bear with me.

  Rebecca and I are now in direct competition, both hoping to get in on this goddamned Hiromi case. Two senior associates, both on the cusp. Within the year we will either be promoted—or not. If it’s the latter, it will be a pretty good indication that it’s time to polish up the old résumé.

  My career thus far: Depending on how you look at it, I got lucky or unlucky early on. I got on one of these stupid advertising claims cases, and out of nowhere one of the more senior attorneys—who was seven months pregnant—was put on complete bed rest. I, inexperienced as I was, was told to pick up the slack. Which I did, and did well. Work that I did contributed directly to our winning the case. People noticed. The head of Litigation noticed. Even Victoria Collins, who never seemed to like me much, noticed.

  That was the lucky part.

  It was unlucky because I was now typed as an advertising-claims guy. Which I so did not want to be. I wanted to be a big-ass financial litigator, doing big-ass financial litigations with really huge corporations suing really huge banks and vice-versa. Cases like that, like Hiromi. Like the work Dan Kaminsky does all day and for which he bills $1,060 an hour, and he just closed on his third house, with two kids at Yale and an ex-wife. So.

  Obviously, I want to be Dan Kaminsky when I grow up.

  Getting myself on a case with him—like Hiromi Industries—would be a really good start. If I cover myself with glory, as I fully expect to do, it will pretty much solidify my chances of being made partner at the end of the year. From there I would finally be in a position to back myself out of defending the advertising claims of a fabric softener, and do more big-ass financial litigation.

  Hence the obsession with the Hiromi case you keep hearing about.

  By comparison, Rebecca hasn’t been so lucky in her career. She hasn’t had that one big case where she’s been able to stand out and be brilliant and get attention. She’s a good attorney, better than I am in some ways. Despite the Mayerhoffer case, she’s actually way more thorough than I am. If I don’t see the solution to a problem in the first three minutes, the problem is unsolvable and I’m not wasting my time on it. Two days later Rebecca will walk in and say ‘look at this.’ She’ll have worked it out. That’s the difference between us.

  Like I said, it just hasn’t happened for Rebecca yet. But—if she could get on a big case like Hiromi, and perform well under the nose of Dan Kaminsky—who tends to keep a close eye on attractive female attorneys anyway, albeit for the wrong reasons—it would do a lot for her career, and perhaps get people to see her as partnership material as well.

  Now of course the happy ending would be that we both get picked for Hiromi, and we are both brilliant and the appropriate rewards are rained down like ticker tape on both of us. It’s possible. There will be a veritable cadre of associates on the case.

  However—and it’s a big however—the competition among the associates, large and small, has been building for months and it’s getting pretty nasty, even at a firm that prides itself on its collegial atmosphere. Each one of our smiling colleagues has his/her own motivation for wanting very much to get picked for this trial—and the kids are starting to eyeball each other like it’s the Donner family picnic and somebody forgot the hot dogs.

  Of course you’re still waiting for the rat-bastard part of this story.

  Late one night, a few weeks ago, when I was still suffering from chronic crabby-pants and hating the world in general, I got an idea how to get myself a little advantage against my Hiromi competition.

  I drafted an e-mail to Victoria Collins, Theo’s boss, the partner in charge of associate assignments. In that e-mail, I laid out what had happened on the Mayerhoffer trial way back when, and how I had stepped in and quietly—not to mention magnificently—saved the day.

  Unfortunately, there was no way of telling this story that didn’t also make Rebecca look bad. Like the worst attorney ever. But I drafted it anyway. Rat-bastard enough for you?

  But! I had argued with myself. But!

  This is business!

  And really, on the one hand, it was a total no-brainer. I saw an opportunity to give myself a leg up in a business situation, and I was going to take it. Any smart person would, wouldn’t they?

  On the other hand…well, yeah.

  Rebecca = sweet, kind best friend.

  Jeffrey = biggest prick on the planet, going to burn in hell.

  But wait, I hear you—or somebody, probably my dad—ask. Wouldn’t Rebecca do the same thing if she’d had the chance?

  A reasonable question. And the obvious answer: Not on your life.

  Of course she wouldn’t. She’s from Iowa. That’s practically like being Canadian.

  This isn’t personal, said the voice in my head, which by now definitely sounded like my dad. These were all his arguments.

  Personally, Rebecca was my friend, but professionally, she was my competition. These were two different, unrelated things.

  On the professional side, it was survival of the fittest. You do what you have to. In the end, the game goes to whoever wants it most, right? This is a tough town. Rebecca should have stayed in Iowa if she didn’t want to play with the big boys—and let’s face it, the big boys play rough, and when necessary, they play dirty. And I was determined, one way or another, to be the biggest of the big boys.

  Those are the argumen
ts that I made (in loco paternis) at the time.

  I thought about the thing from every angle—and I sent that e-mail anyway.

  Yup. Biggest prick, going to burn. That’s me.

  Of course, since that time I’d spent a week living in Rebecca’s apartment, sleeping on Rebecca’s couch. With Rebecca’s little brother. With Theo. Theo, who for some reason was getting better looking every day.

  More than anything, I was suddenly aware what brother Theo would think of me, should he ever find out what I had done to his sister. Out of the blue—and this is the real kick in the subpoena—what Theo thought of me had become strangely important. Hugely important.

  I don’t know why it should be. I don’t know why this pipsqueak should matter. But—having finally seen his eyes looking at me without contempt—I didn’t want to give him a reason to change his mind. I didn’t want to lose the softness I had seen there for the first time. I didn’t want him to know that I was the kind of guy who could throw his best friend to the wolves over a shot at a promotion.

  And I didn’t want to be that kind of guy either.

  I did once.

  No doubt about it. At one time, I definitely wanted to be the ruthless, unscrupulous bastard. Like my dad. But now?

  I should fix this. I just don’t know how. Victoria acknowledged the e-mail, so she’s read it, and I can’t make her un-read it.

  I could talk to her. I could try to mitigate the damage maybe.

  And I could take my name out of consideration for the trial. Whatever else, at least I wouldn’t benefit from my betrayal.

  Or would that just move me from the category of World’s Biggest Prick over into the column marked World’s Biggest Chump? When I don’t get this case, when I don’t get the partnership, and when I’m stuck with an enormous apartment and correspondingly enormous contractors’ bills and matching mortgage payments, and I’m eating cat food out of the can?

  What would my dad say if he found out that I took myself off of this case? He would finally have the proof that I was the worthless loser he’d always known I was.

  Of course I would never tell him. One more thing to add to the list of lies I tell my parents, another thing I’m not particularly proud of.

  Of course if Rebecca and her cute baby brother never found out—and there’s really no reason that they should—I could come out of this thing with the case, with the career, with the partnership, and with no downside. Huge return, zero cost.

  But what if? If anyone did find out, there would definitely be a cost.

  It could cost me a best friend.

  It would cost me my self-respect.

  It would cost me a pair of blue-green eyes.

  It also occurred to me that maybe it would be smart to take a step back from the little brother until I’d figured this mess out.

  And now I was making myself perfectly miserable thinking about all these things while I was hiking across Midtown to meet my dad for drinks.

  Man, I could think of seventeen different things I would rather be doing instead of going for drinks so I could be bullied by my dear father. And I was meeting both my parents for dinner in a few days anyway, so why?

  But there’s no arguing with my dad.

  He’s a formidable character. My grandfather started a little construction company way back when, building cute little houses in cute little Jersey suburbs. When my dad got into the biz, the suburban houses became apartment buildings, casinos, hotels; and the little construction company became one of the larger contractors in New Jersey.

  My father has a will, and he is not used to being contradicted. He is also not above hitting his children, even his grown children. His father hit him, so it all makes sense to him. To be honest, my brother Greg (two years younger than me) gets it even worse than I do.

  So. There was no point in my bitching about it, I was halfway there, I was going to meet my dad, I was going to hate it, and I was going to try to get away without getting hit. Low expectations and modest ambitions. These were the safest bets when dealing with my father.

  I was relieved that he’d picked a sports bar over by the train station and not closer to my office. I like to keep my life, meaning my New York City life, separate from my New Jersey life. It’s better that way. It’s just not always easy to accomplish and sometimes it’s pretty nerve-racking, but it’s still better.

  I saw him sitting at the bar watching a baseball game on one of the forty-seven big-screen TVs. He’s sixty now, my dad, and his hair is still really thick. I had that going for me—thick Serbian hair. But where mine’s dark blond, my dad’s hair had been deep black, and mostly still was. With a matching salt/pepper moustache.

  I glanced at my watch. Exactly on time. My dad hates tardiness.

  “Hi, Dad,” I said, and patted him on the shoulder. He likes to be called ‘Dad’ because it sounds more American than ‘Papa,’ so we call him ‘Dad.’ Our mother prefers ‘Mama,’ but our dad would rather that we call her ‘Mom’—so we call her ‘Mom.’ See how that works?

  “Good. You’re here.” He nodded to the bartender, female and blond, who came over. “Honey, bring my handsome son here whatever he wants.”

  I looked apologetically to the bartender.

  I tend to avoid alcohol generally. I like to stay fit—you’ve seen how I am about running, and if I have even two drinks the night before, I feel it out on the run. And I hate that. I like my run to be perfect. I like my body to be perfect. So I was about to order a glass of tonic water—and then I remembered my father.

  “Scotch and soda, please. Double.” I could use all the help I was going to get.

  “You look good,” said my father.

  “You, too, Dad. What’s up?”

  “I just wanted to say hello. And I have a message from your mother. She says you don’t call often enough.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Anyway, message delivered. I don’t have to tell you how women are.”

  I gave a small, jocular laugh. It’s what you do with your dad, isn’t it? If he’s happy, I’m happy.

  “Speaking of women,” said my dad, “what was that girl’s name, the Caputo girl, you know the one?”

  “Jennifer?”

  “You dated her a little, didn’t you?”

  Deep breath.

  This was why my father wanted to see me?

  “I did, yeah.”

  You’re starting to figure out why I keep my New York and New Jersey lives separate.

  I’m gay, I’m totally down with it, all my friends are down with it, it’s not a big deal—in the city. As far as New Jersey is concerned, I am completely straight. Pathetic, I know, in this day and age, but I would die, I swear. It would kill my mother if she found out, and that would kill me. I just can’t. And my dad? I don’t even want to think about it. I already mentioned he’s not afraid to hit his kids—and he’s not afraid to hit them really hard.

  So I have twin lives, one in the city and one in New Jersey, and these two circles never ever cross. It’s not easy, but I’ve managed so far.

  “Ask her out again, wouldja?”

  “Jennifer Caputo. Out of the blue? I can’t just call her out of nowhere and ask her out.”

  “Tell her you lost her number, whatever, I don’t care. Just be nice to her.”

  “What’s this about anyway?”

  “Her father threw some business my way, and I wouldn’t mind if he threw a little more. Ask her out, be nice to her. It’s not like she’s hideous or anything.”

  “Dad, I can’t—”

  “I’m not asking you to marry the girl—although think about it, you could do worse, and my business with her family’s business, we would be huge. In the meantime, take the girl to dinner.”

  “Make Greggy take her out.”

  He made a face like he had a bad pain somewhe
re. God, did he make that face when somebody mentioned my name to him?

  “Your brother can’t—he’s got no—you know Greggy—anyway I’m askin’ you.”

  I took a sip of the drink in front of me. I took another, much bigger sip.

  “I’m kinda seeing somebody, Dad,” which was almost true, “so it isn’t really an—”

  “Don’t be seeing somebody, not serious. Too distracting. You need to focus on work. Get that partnership. And keep your options open.” Then he remembered. “Except for the Caputo girl. See her.”

  Of course I could tell him the truth—that I was maybe seeing this fiery redhead, a real spitfire in bed. That would impress him. And just leave out some pertinent details.

  Also of course: I could easily imagine the scene that would follow if my fiery redhead found out I was dating Jenifer Caputo, a New Jersey bimbo who thinks of the Kardashians as role models.

  Do you think Theo would be understanding when I explained that I was only shagging the Italian chick to help out my dad’s construction business?

  Who would? But where most people would just dump you for something like that, Theo would have an epic, violent, screaming hissy-fit—the kind that leaves bruises and that the folks back home in Iowa would be able to hear. And then he’d dump me.

  “I bet a pretty Italian wife wouldn’t hurt you when you’re up for that partnership.”

  Fuckaduck.

  “Dad, I’m not going to—”

  “Hey! Any news on the Hiromi case?” he asked checking his watch. As far as he was concerned, Jennifer and I were a done deal.

  “Not yet.”

  “Stay on top of it.”

  “I’m thinking of taking myself out of consideration for it.”

  “You crazy? I thought you needed that case!”

  “I don’t need it, other lawyers need it, and my caseload is heavy enough and—”

  “Don’t be gloop.” A good old Serbian word. It means stupid. “Now I have to get my train.” He stood up and tossed back the last of his bourbon.