by Wan, Helen
Everyone was here for Marty Adler. “I’ll take it in my office.”
“She’ll be right with him,” said Margo to Marty Adler’s secretary.
I walked into my office, nudged the door closed with my heel, and tossed my mail onto the credenza. A tingly adolescent glee bubbled up inside me. He called!
I sat down in my black swivel chair and grapevined my legs around so that I was facing out the window. I took a moment to compose myself. Never mind Murph’s warning at lunch about a “monster deal.” I was very pleased that Adler was calling me. I had worked on a few small projects with him, but they hadn’t been any of his really high-profile deals. I’d dealt mainly with his senior associate and not Adler himself. Now, in my eighth year, I was the senior associate on my deals.
Associates were rarely called personally by Marty Adler to work on anything. This was news.
I cleared my throat and said in the mellifluous voice I reserved for partners and clients, “Hi, Marty, how are you?”
“Hold on,” said a woman’s gravelly smoker voice. “I’ll get him.”
Shit.
What an amateur mistake. Of course Adler was the type of man who waited until his secretary got me on the line before getting on himself. At $1,125 an hour, his time was valuable.
There was a beep, followed by Marty Adler himself. “Ingrid, hello,” he said. His voice was deep and growly, yet I had always thought there was something kind about it, too. I rather liked it.
“So,” he continued without preamble, “I’m wondering about your availability this month. Do you have any time coming up?”
“Well, Marty, I—”
“I’ll tell you why I ask,” he continued, as if I hadn’t spoken. “There’s a high-worth, highly confidential acquisition that’s just come into the office. Their usual M&A counsel got conflicted out, so this is a big win for us. It’s going to require a great deal of time and attention, and I’d be very grateful if you would be on my team.” This was a funny quirk about partners in law firms: When telling you to do something, they often said “I’d be very grateful,” as if you had a choice in the matter.
“Of course,” Adler went on, “the client wants it done yesterday. This deal’s on a rush timetable, so I’d need you to focus on it as your top priority. That is, if you’re able to take it on.” He paused a moment to let this sink in. He knew exactly what kind of opportunity he was dangling in front of me.
Chances to shine in front of Marty Adler didn’t come along every day, especially not mere weeks before your partnership vote. “I’d love to be on your team, Marty.”
“Wonderful,” he said, completely unsurprised. “Why don’t you come on up to my office, then, and I’ll fill you in on the deal.”
“I’ll be right there,” I said, and hung up.
Eeeeeee!
I did a happy dance in my swivel chair, spinning three full revolutions. I stopped and tilted my chair all the way back, feeling dizzy but exhilarated. Taking a few deep breaths to calm myself down, I gazed at the smooth cherry bookcases that lined an entire wall of my office.
I loved these shelves. They were home to the stacks and stacks of deal books I’d accumulated from every transaction I’d ever worked: mergers, asset purchases, asset sales, stock purchases, stock sales, all-cash deals, all-stock deals, stock swaps, recaps, roll-ups, reverse triangular mergers, forward backhanded mergers, around-the-ankle, behind-the-back, over-the-shoulder mergers. You could easily lose track of the names and hundreds of ways these deals could be structured. Half of this job was simply learning how to lob these terms around as casually as tennis balls.
I loved the closing of every deal. I could feel the power and influence that coursed through these conference rooms like electrical currents high atop the city. I loved listening to closing dinner toasts at Jean Georges or La Grenouille at the very moment that gazillions of dollars, or yen, or euros, were originating from somewhere and landing, through the miracle of wire transfer, in our clients’ bank accounts halfway around the globe. It was thrilling, the promise of such a world.
I walked over to my cedar wardrobe, opening the side with the full-length mirror. I checked my mascara and lip gloss and carefully retied the silk sash at the waist of my Audrey Hepburn–style sheath. Then, grabbing a pen and legal pad from my credenza, I fairly floated out to the elevator bank.
Marty Adler had a huge corner office on the thirty-seventh floor. I stopped at his secretary’s desk, expecting to have to give my name, but she glanced up and flashed me a familiar smile. “Hi, Ingrid. I’m Sharon. Nice to meet you. Mr. Adler’s expecting you. Go on in.”
“Thanks.”
I should have realized. Secretaries knew everything around here.
I rapped on the door once and pushed it open. Adler was sitting all the way across the room, in a green leather swivel chair, behind a massive antique mahogany desk piled high with stacks of paper and Redwelds. On the other side of the room, a high-backed couch and two antique chairs were nestled around a beautiful teak table with a conference phone resting on it. Enormous picture windows ran along two sides of his office and all the way to the ceiling, flooding the room with midday sunlight that glinted off the top of Adler’s shiny bald head. The long, low windowsills were cluttered with framed awards, plaques, photographs, and deal toys. Deal toys were the souvenirs—little trophies, really—given to mark the successful closing of a merger or acquisition. I loved collecting these. And wow, Adler had a lot of them.
“Come in, come in, Ingrid.” He came around the side of his desk, gesturing with his bifocals toward his couch. He was not a tall man, but he had heft. “Please sit.”
It seemed a long walk just to get there. I perched on the edge of the couch and positioned my legal pad demurely over my knees.
Adler lowered himself into a chair opposite me. “First off, I know I don’t need to tell you this, but this deal is still highly confidential.”
“Of course, Marty. No problem,” I said.
He leaned back, raised his arms, and clasped both hands behind his head, closing his eyes. Pale yellow pit stains tarnished his white dress shirt. I willed myself not to look directly at them. I did not like to be disillusioned.
“So,” said Adler, eyes still closed, “as you’ve probably heard through the grapevine, we’ve just been retained by SunCorp, the energy conglomerate based in Houston.”
I nodded as though I had.
“They’re about to acquire a clean energy upstart, Binney Enterprises, for nine hundred million and change,” Adler went on. “They’ve been after them for a year and a half, and finally shook hands with the Binney people last week.”
I scribbled furiously on my legal pad. Adler talked very fast.
“SunCorp is a huge opportunity for us. It could lead to a lot more work in the energy sector.”
He looked at me to make sure I understood this deal’s significance; I nodded brightly.
“Now, Ted Lassiter—SunCorp’s CEO—expects this to be top priority,” Adler continued. “He’s coming in Thursday to meet with us. Whatever else is on your calendar, move it. They want to sign a binding term sheet ASAP so they can announce publicly at the close of the quarter.”
I raised my eyebrows. “But that’s less than five weeks away.”
“I know.” Adler blinked. “That’s why I’m counting on you to focus on this as your top priority, Ingrid.”
It would require Herculean efforts from a team of lawyers working around the clock to bring an almost-billion-dollar acquisition from square one to a signed term sheet on that timetable. “Absolutely,” I said. “I’ll give it a hundred percent.”
“Good. That’s what I wanted to hear.” Adler clapped both hands onto his knees and stood. This seemed to be my cue to stand, too. “Now, I told Ted Lassiter that after we meet with him Thursday, we’d get a preliminary draft term sheet to the other side by end of next week. Does that timing work for you?”
This was a rhetorical question.
&nb
sp; “Of course,” I said.
“Great.” Adler smiled. “Oh, and Ingrid,” he added in a low voice, almost as an afterthought, “I want you to understand…” He paused conspiratorially.
Yes? Yes?? I realized I was actually holding my breath.
“I hope you understand that I wouldn’t trust a deal of this magnitude to just any associate. You’ve impressed a lot of the right people around here, and we knew you’d be able to run with this.”
My heart gave a little leap. “I really appreciate that, Marty. Thank you.”
He fluttered his hand at me—de nada. As I turned to go, barely able to suppress the huge smile forming on my face, he added casually, “Oh, just one more thing, Ingrid. There’s a particular Corporate paralegal I’ve asked to assist on this deal. He just started here at the firm. Name’s Justin Keating.”
I’d never heard of him. “Oh, a newbie?” I said. “Wouldn’t it be better to get one of the senior M&A paralegals for this? I usually work with either Evelyn Griffiths or Joseph Cruz, and they’re both terrific. Really smart, and on top of everything.”
Adler looked up. Annoyance briefly crossed his face. “Justin Keating will be the paralegal on this deal,” he repeated. Then, just as suddenly, the grin was back. “From what I understand, he’s a very bright young man, eager to work hard and prove himself. In fact, Ingrid, I’d consider it a personal favor to me if you could show the kid the ropes. His father’s an old friend of mine, and a very good friend of the firm’s.” He looked at me significantly. “I’d love for you to take Justin under your wing. Really integrate him onto the deal team. I’d do it myself, of course, but, well, I’m looking incredibly busy this month.”
And I had just been tasked with taking a brand-new deal to announcement stage in less than five weeks’ time. No pressure, really.
“No problem, Marty,” I said. “It would be my pleasure.”
“Thanks, Ingrid. I knew the firm could count on you.” Adler sat back down behind his massive mahogany desk, signaling the end to our conversation.
TWO
“Margo, call Marty Adler and tell him I booked room 3201-A for the SunCorp meeting. And would you see if Justin’s around?”
Justin Keating had just graduated from college. Hardly the kind of paralegal usually assigned to work on a billion-dollar deal. But when Donald Keating—a Wall Street executive with a lot of pull—had casually mentioned to Adler that he hoped his son’s brief paralegal gig might turn into an interest in law school, Justin Keating became my problem.
I was dusting bronzing powder onto the bridge of my nose when Justin appeared. His tall frame in my doorway startled me.
“You rang?” He’d shaved and put on a suit today for our client meeting. I noticed without surprise that the suit looked expensive—a better cut and drape than you saw on many men twice his age. His hands were shoved in his pockets, and he leaned against my doorjamb, grinning. It was an amused, deliberate smile. Almost a smirk.
“Hi, Justin. Yes, I rang,” I said. “Our friends are going to be here in forty-five minutes.”
Justin didn’t blink. “And?” He made a lazy rolling motion at me with one hand, as if to say, Your point is?
“And,” I said evenly, “how does the conference room look?”
“All set up. I put everything in there yesterday.”
“Copies of the working group list?”
“In the room.”
“Coffee order?”
“Done.”
“Legal pads?”
“Yup.”
“Pens?”
“Yeah.”
“Both highlighter and ballpoint?”
He shot me a look.
“Okay, thanks,” I said. “Why don’t you just hang out in your office, then. I’ll call you when the oil barons get here. And tell Dining Services we might order up sandwiches later, unless the clients want to go out for lunch.”
“No problem.” Justin pushed himself off the doorjamb and sauntered off in the direction of his cubicle.
He’d only been here a few weeks, but I’d already overheard a bunch of female paralegals giggling in the coffee room over Justin Keating’s bedroom eyes. I didn’t see it. For one thing, he was only twenty-three, and I had a low tolerance for twenty-three-year-old boys, even when I was twenty-three.
Margo buzzed my intercom.
“Hi, Margo.”
“Your mother’s on line one.”
“Thanks.”
I hit the blinking red light for line one. “Hey, Mom.”
“Ingrid?” Her voice was tentative.
“Yeah, it’s me. Hi, Mom.”
My mother had a love-hate thing with calling me at the office. On the one hand, she loved that I had a secretary. On the other hand, Margo intimidated her. Even after living in the States for over thirty years, my mother still preferred to speak in Mandarin.
When I’d graduated from law school and started working at Parsons Valentine, my mother had called up every friend and relative she had and given them my new office number, so that if anyone tried to call, they’d hear my secretary pick up and say, “Ms. Yung’s office. May I help you?” For a few months at the start of my career I’d gotten a rash of anonymous calls, where someone would dial my office number, listen to my secretary answer, then hang up. My mother had never owned up to this.
“Ingrid-ah, are you busy now? Is this a good time?”
I sighed. “Not really, Mom, I have a meeting in a few minutes. With some new clients. I can’t talk long.” This was a good strategy to use with her. I’d cultivated it back in grade school. Whenever my mother wanted me to clean my room or practice the piano, I’d just peer at her over the top of a book and say, “Mom, I’m reading. For school.”
Even now, my mother remained terrified that I’d lose my job. My parents believed that Chinese American kids, especially girls, were better off in quiet, stable careers that relied on technical expertise instead of killer instinct. Doctor, yes. CPA, okay. Corporate shark, no. They knew I was up for partnership, and they were extremely proud of me. But sometimes my mother still asked if it was too late for me to apply to medical school.
“Okay, I’ll make it quick.” She began chattering in Mandarin. “I was just calling to remind you about Jenny Chang’s wedding invitation. Did you tell Auntie Chang yet if you can go?”
“Not yet, Mom. I’ve been really busy. Hen mang.” I repeated “really busy” in Mandarin, for emphasis. I spoke to my parents in a hybrid Mandarin and English mix, my own personal dialect of Chinglish.
“Two months from now.”
Two months! I couldn’t even predict what my schedule would look like in two days, much less two months. “Mom, I’ll try, but you know I can’t promise.”
She sighed. “I know, I know, you never can promise. But Ingrid-ah, you should come! Auntie and Uncle Chang invited over two hundred and fifty guests! Twenty-eight tables! I told you it was at the Potomac River Country Club, right?”
Only a dozen times. “Yes, you’d mentioned.”
I heard a low beep, and then the indicator light for my second line came on. I could hear Margo outside my door, saying pleasantly, “I’m sorry, she’s on another call at the moment.”
“The Fongs’ sons were invited, too,” my mother was saying. “Eddie Fong just bought a brand-new condo in D.C.! Not to live in, to rent out to tenants! He’s going to be—how you say—a slumlord!”
I laughed. “I think you mean a landlord, Mom.”
She ignored this. “Auntie Fong said that Eddie is a doctor, specializing in endo … endo-something.”
“Endocrinology,” I supplied.
“Yes, that,” my mother confirmed. She paused for a small, soft sigh. “And Vincent Lu is going to be there. Such a nice boy. You remember Vincent?”
“Of course,” I replied, and found myself smiling. My mother had been trying to interest me in Vincent Lu for as long as I could remember. From what I knew of him back when we’d been at Potomac Valley High School
together, he was a nice enough guy, but precisely the kind of stereotypical Asian kid I had worked so hard not to be—Coke-bottle glasses, first-chair violin, Westinghouse science competition, tiger-mommed to within an inch of his life. Our senior year, I sat next to him at a dinner at the Washington Hilton honoring local National Merit Semifinalists, and I remembered how embarrassed I’d been when the mayor’s wife automatically assumed we were boyfriend and girlfriend.
“Oh, Cindy Bai and Susan Wu are going to be Jenny’s bridesmaids.” My mother paused and sighed again. “Ingrid-ah, Cindy and Susan are such good girls. So sweet, so nice. You could really learn something from them. They’re not like you, always working, working, no time to meet anyone, wasting your beautiful years.”
I’d grown up with Cindy Bai and Susan Wu in the suburbs of D.C. We’d gone to the same Chinese language school every Sunday afternoon from kindergarten through senior year. Cindy was an orthodontist with her own practice in a local strip mall, and Susan was a computer analyst at the Treasury Department. They were both married—not to each other, although that would have made them infinitely more interesting—and lived less than fifteen minutes from our old high school. My mother was right. Cindy and Susan probably were both sweeter and nicer than I was. But you didn’t make partner at one of the most powerful firms in the country by being sweet and nice. My parents did not understand this.
“Mom, I have to go. The clients will be here any minute.”
“And how’s your friend Rachel?” my mother continued, as if I hadn’t spoken. My mother adored Rachel Freedman, my best friend and former law school roommate from Columbia. Back in the day, when Rach and I had shared a small apartment in Morningside Heights, I’d been surprised when she and my mother had bonded over, of all things, my mother’s fiery ma po tofu recipe—which my mom showed Rachel how to make in our tiny law student kitchen. Rachel cooked. I didn’t.
After graduation, Rach and I had both started off as associates at large corporate law firms—me at Parsons Valentine, Rachel at Cleary Gottlieb. But Rachel had quit after just three years, when she married a hedge fund manager named Josh and moved to a charming house in the suburbs. Rachel had given up her prestigious law job to stay home with their two adorable kids. My mother approved. Rachel wasn’t wasting her beautiful years.