by Wan, Helen
SIX
“Parsons Valentine Summer Outing Marred by Racist Parody.”
That was the headline of Monday’s New York Law Journal. The New York Post was more creative—“Ghetto, Fabulous? White-Shoe Law Firm Gets Black Eye.” All the legal blogs and chat rooms were abuzz over the “racist scandal over at Parsons Valentine.” Ninety-three seconds of grainy cell phone footage had been posted over the weekend to both YouTube and Above the Law before the firm had finally gotten them to take it down. In the video, you couldn’t really make out what was happening onstage, but you could hear the song’s refrain clear as you please. A scathing post on Gawker was titled simply “Parsons: Paradise?” It had already gotten 477 comments, and still counting.
It was nine fifteen when Rachel called. “So were you there for the skit?” she asked breathlessly. “Did you actually see it?”
“Oh, I saw it, Rach,” I sighed.
“And? Was it as bad as all the blogs are saying?”
“It was worse.”
“Wow,” she breathed. “So what do you think they’re going to do about it?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, they’ve got to be in full damage control mode by now.”
“I’m not sure there’s much they can do,” I said. They sure as hell weren’t going to fire Hunter Russell, that much I knew.
“But they’ve got to do some kind of CYA,” Rachel shot back. “Don’t you remember what happened at Foster Cowan?”
Of course I did. Foster Cowan & Mays LLP had been one of the dozen or so firms in the city that considered itself Top Five—until a few years ago, when six female associates reported being groped by two inebriated male partners during the firm’s annual summer booze cruise around Manhattan. After weeks of stubborn silence, Foster Cowan had finally issued a single tepid statement: We are regretful if anyone in attendance felt in any way aggrieved by any of our attorneys’ actions.
Basically, we’re sorry you’re so sensitive.
In an even more stunningly boneheaded move, each female lawyer at the firm had received a ceramic mug and a hoodie.
The nation’s top law schools had responded swiftly, some even going so far as to ban Foster Cowan from recruiting on campus. All of the SAs—WLSA (Women Law Student Association), AFALSA (African American Law Student Association), APALSA (Asian Pacific American Law Student Association); LALSA (Latino American Law Student Association); and LGBTLSA (Lesbian Gay Bisexual Transgendered Law Student Association)—mobilized their troops, firing off thousands of e-mails urging recipients to PLS FORWARD!!!!!! Sure enough, fewer Harvard Law Review résumés came in to Foster Cowan that year than at any previous time in the firm’s hundred-year history. A small but conspicuous cluster of Fortune 100 clients began publicly taking their business to other law firms—news that rated a brief item in the business section of the Times. The firm’s Top Ten ranking plummeted.
Foster Cowan had been, as it were, blacklisted.
Two years later, however, Foster Cowan had recruited a high-profile African American female senior partner and inaugurated the Foster Cowan Women in Law Fellowship at Columbia Law School. Many of its top clients returned, and Foster Cowan was allowed back to recruit at Harvard and Yale.
It was back to business as usual.
By midweek, Pamela Karnow, along with a dozen or so other Parsons Valentine partners and associates outraged by the skit, had formed a group called FLARE—Firm Lawyers Against Racism Everywhere. I’d heard that even a few summer associates had joined up, including none other than Cameron Alexander (along with, I was sure, a couple of members of her fan club). FLARE was demanding an emergency meeting with the firm’s Management Committee to discuss an appropriate response and possible disciplinary action.
To my knowledge, no one on the Management Committee had said a single word to Matt, Kyle, or Hunter about any disciplinary action. In fact, the three of them were looking quite chipper when I spotted them together at lunch in the Jury Box. There’d even been a flattering note in the firm newsletter—the Daily Brief—on our recent Lawyers League softball victory over Simpson Thacher, in a squeaker, thanks to a double late in the final inning, hit by Hunter himself.
In the days since the outing, I’d been trying hard to avoid running into Hunter. Personally, I didn’t think he was an actual racist, just an idiot. Anyway, I resolved not to get in the middle of it. Let FLARE do its thing, if it wanted to. I had enough on my plate to worry about.
* * *
“Knock, knock.”
I looked up from the SunCorp purchase agreement I was reviewing to see Marty Adler leaning into my office, a big Cheshire Cat grin on his face. “Hi, Ingrid. You coming up to the meeting?”
“Of course.”
“The meeting” was the Corporate Department lunch scheduled for twelve thirty. We held these department luncheons the second Friday of every month, ostensibly to “bond” as a department. The real purpose, however, was for the rainmakers to beat their chests and let the associates know what new deals we should expect to be slaving over in the weeks ahead.
“Care for an escort?” Adler held out an arm as if asking me to dance.
I laughed. “Thanks, but I have to respond to an e-mail from Ted Lassiter first. See you in a minute?”
“Okay. But don’t be late, now.”
Something was up. Marty Adler did not come to associates’ offices merely to round us up for a routine department meeting. “What’s going on, Marty?” I asked, smiling a little, looking at him sideways. “Why are you so worried about me being there?”
“Well, let’s just say we have something a little special on the agenda today. I think you’ll be very pleased, Ingrid.” He winked. “See you up there.” Then he was gone.
I stared at the empty doorway for a full minute, trying to suppress my jubilance. The e-mail could wait. Adler was clearly planning to mention to the entire department what an amazing job I’d been doing on SunCorp. How I’d won Ted Lassiter over after our rocky first meeting, and how he would now only phone Adler with a question when he couldn’t reach me first.
I arched my back, took a deep breath, and sauntered over to my wardrobe mirror. I freshened up my lip gloss and mascara before heading up to the conference room.
People were still trickling in, even though it was already ten minutes past our start time. This was common practice. Parsons Valentine lawyers did not show up for internal meetings on the dot; it would suggest you didn’t have enough to do at your desk.
A lectern had been set up at the front of the room. The tables were arranged in a wide U. Water pitchers were set up at four-seat intervals along the length of the starched white tablecloths, and a buffet lunch was laid out in silver chafing dishes along one wall. The aromas of roasted potatoes and some kind of fish wafted toward me. As I got in the buffet line, Hunter came up behind me and said, a little too close to my ear, “God, I hope this doesn’t take all day. I’ve got so much shit to do.”
I wasn’t thrilled to see him, but I was in too good a mood to really mind. “Yeah, tell me about it.”
Murph came into the room, spotted me, and smiled. I smiled back at him, and my face grew warm as he walked toward us.
“Hey, guys.”
“Hi,” I said, trying to sound casual.
Murph studied me. “You look happy. What’s the occasion?”
“Oh, nothing,” I said demurely. I picked up a starched napkin and silverware and used a pair of silver tongs to convey a dinner roll onto my plate.
Murph had gotten a haircut. There was a faint tan line by his ears where his dark blond hair used to be a little longer. He had just shaved. And oh, he smelled good.
The Monday morning after the outing, I’d gotten to work, turned on my computer, and saw an e-mail waiting from jdmurphy, no subject. I purposely made myself go through the normal motions of any other morning—getting my coffee, playing my voice mails, reading the Journal and the Times business section—before I couldn’t stand it any lon
ger and opened his e-mail.
Hey. So how was your hangover on Saturday? Must have been rough.
My heart filled. I leapt out of my swivel chair and practically floated over to the window, looking the thirty-one stories down at the tiny yellow rectangles moving up and down Madison. Here we go! Our office romance commences!
I stood there at my window mentally auditioning a dozen clever, breezy, flirty replies before finally flopping back down at my desk and typing.
Yeah, pretty brutal. Thanks for putting me in the cab, btw. My hero. How was the rest of your weekend?
The answer came back in two minutes.
Eh. Jury still out on Anna Jergensen. Anyway. Jury Box at 12:30?
Just like that, I deflated. Just like that, Murph had told me that, as far as he was concerned, the old equilibrium had been restored between us. Here was the old kidding-around, paper-football, a-girl-a-month Murph. I wanted the Jeff Murphy from the clubhouse, but he was letting me know gently that I wasn’t getting him back.
Murph and I didn’t talk about what had happened between us. Which I now realized was, actually, nothing. It’s not like Murph and I had hooked up. He hadn’t come back to my place. We hadn’t even kissed. So why was I so nervous? Why was I so worried over how we would act or what we would say to each other once we were back at the office? Well, Murph had done the humane thing by quickly putting any ambiguity to rest. Besides, guys like Murph weren’t interested in someone like me. By rights, the firm’s golden boy should be with someone like Cameron Alexander. So whatever there’d been the potential for last Friday, or however many signals I’d misread, it was over now, and there was nothing to do but follow his cue and pretend that everything felt completely normal to me, too.
But it didn’t.
I knew I was being ridiculous. Here I was, a grown woman, working on a billion-dollar acquisition for the firm’s biggest new client, about to make history at one of the most powerful firms in the world. Yet for over a week now, I had been lying awake at night wondering why Jeff Murphy hadn’t kissed me that night when he’d had the chance, and realizing with a surprising and sobering clarity that I had really, really wanted him to.
Marty Adler got in line behind us. He gave me a quick smile—almost conspiratorial. I felt a little better.
Adler surveyed the buffet table. “Anything good on the menu?”
At this, Hunter perked up and sidled around Murph and me, installing himself directly in front of Marty Adler. “Hey, Marty,” said Hunter, “I saw your great golf game last week.”
Murph shot me a look. Generally, it was considered uncouth to try to schmooze a partner in front of your friends. Yet Murph and I didn’t really mind when Hunter did it, because—let’s face it—Hunter’s employment here was kind of a joke.
“When he’s done giving Adler his tongue bath, ask Hunter if he’s in for bingo,” Murph said in a stage whisper.
We’d started playing Conference Room Bingo back when we were all first-year associates. The object of the game was simple. Before a meeting began, each player would choose a “phrase that pays”—lines of MBA-speak or sports metaphors worked best—and someone would write them down. Whoever’s phrase got spoken aloud first during the course of the meeting was the winner. We played for twenty-buck stakes.
We sat down. Murph whipped out his Montblanc and took a business card from his wallet. He flipped it over and paused, pen in air, like a waiter taking an order.
“So? Yung? Ladies first.”
“I’m going with ‘kick the tires,’” I said.
Murph nodded approvingly. “Good one.” He scribbled this down. “Okay, I’m down for ‘circling the wagons.’”
“I’m in for ‘slippery slope,’” said Hunter. Murph and I both looked at him. Not a bad entry, especially for Hunter.
Tyler Robinson walked in. I waved at him. He quickly nodded a greeting, then, after seeing Hunter and Murph sitting beside me, chose a seat by himself on the far side of the conference table.
Tyler and I had not spoken about the “Partner’s Paradise” skit. When I’d tried calling him on Monday, he’d simply said, “I don’t want to talk about it.” I had to respect that.
Adler stood up and clapped his hands together to get our attention. “All right, people. Let’s get started. We’ve got a lot on the agenda today.”
The room quieted. Stragglers got their cod filet and roasted potatoes and filled in the empty spots around the conference table. I sat with perfect posture, my hands clasped neatly in front of me, ignoring my lunch. I didn’t want to be caught with a mouthful of cod filet when Adler began his big pitch about me.
“I’m passing around the meeting agenda,” said Adler, “and you’ll see that after our usual order of business, I’m going to introduce a very special guest.”
Huh? Heads swiveled toward a stranger seated in the back: a trim, bespectacled man, maybe fifty years old, with a neat salt-and-pepper beard and thinning hair on top. He wore a tweed blazer, white shirt, corduroy slacks, and no tie. More professorial than lawyerly. I twisted in my seat to look at him, and he nodded at me, as if we knew each other. I looked away, embarrassed. He was the “something special” on the agenda, not me. I leaned forward and stuffed a forkful of salad into my mouth.
Adler raced through the deals that had been brought into the firm since last month—four high-tech IPOs, two leveraged buyouts, a hostile takeover defense. When he got to SunCorp, Adler said, “Everything’s moving at a fast clip. The term sheet’s nearly signed up, and Ingrid and I are working on the purchase agreement.” As he paused, I drew myself up, expecting him to acknowledge me. “It goes without saying, of course”—he looked meaningfully around the room—“that the terms of this deal are still highly confidential.”
No acknowledgment. I should have known better.
Harold Rubinstein nodded. “How much time are you looking at, Marty, to get the purchase agreement put to bed? I mean, assuming everything’s kosher after we’ve gone down there and kicked the tires?”
Ha. I shot Murph a victorious smile and mouthed, Bingo.
Murph mock-scowled and narrowed his eyes at me. Hunter twitched in his seat and pounded his fist lightly on the table.
Easiest forty bucks I ever made. I did dearly love to win.
Tim Hollister strode to the podium. He was looking adorable today in an earnest, Ivory-soap kind of way. I wished that Tyler had sat next to me. He was the only person at the firm with whom I could share this kind of observation.
This year, Tim was in charge of Continuing Legal Education options for the attorneys—one of the grunt jobs the senior partners farmed out to the younger ones. He rattled off a list of upcoming CLE seminars.
“In addition to the in-house lunch on the Foreign Corrupt Practices Act on the twenty-eighth, there’s a breakfast program at the Princeton Club next Tuesday addressing director and officer liability. It’s called ‘The Evolution of Dodd-Frank: The Current Rules of Financial Oversight and What They Mean for You!’” He looked up at us. “Now don’t all run out and register at once.”
A couple of people laughed. Murph tapped quietly on his BlackBerry, then nudged me in the ribs. I looked down at his message: Kill me now.
Adler reappeared at the podium. “Thanks, Tim.” He remained silent for a moment. “And now,” he said, beaming beatifically around the room, “I am pleased to introduce our very special guest. Dr. Rossi, would you join me up here, please?”
The bespectacled Dr. Rossi walked through the room with a determined stride. He stood slightly to the left of and behind Marty Adler, gazing out at us with a benign expression, like a vice presidential candidate.
“As all of you are aware, there is a growing imperative at the nation’s top law firms to ensure diversity and sensitivity in the workplace,” Adler began.
I knew exactly where this was going. I sank a few degrees down in my seat, hoping to blend into the furniture.
“Obviously,” Adler continued, “this has recently become
a hot-button issue for us because of certain unfortunate events that occurred at last week’s outing.”
More than a few heads swiveled in Hunter’s direction. His cheeks were bright red. Amazing. I had never seen Hunter Russell embarrassed before. So the bad press had gotten even to him.
“Which brings me to our special guest, Dr. Stephen Rossi.” The professor stepped forward and acknowledged us with a curt nod as Adler read in a monotone. “Dr. Rossi is founder and president of the consulting firm Diversity Scorecard LLC. Before that, he was the director of diversity and inclusion at a number of top national law firms, most recently Foster Cowan and Mays.”
I raised my eyebrows.
Adler looked around the room and beamed at us. “I’m thrilled to announce that we have engaged Dr. Rossi to examine how well we are doing as a firm to increase diversity and inclusion among our ranks, and to recalibrate our business to better leverage our diverse talent pool. We will also be hosting a large-scale diversity-themed event later this summer, to which clients and friends of the firm will be invited. I expect all of you to welcome Dr. Rossi warmly, and cooperate with him in any way you can as he tackles this very important task. Stephen?”
A smattering of applause followed Dr. Rossi to the podium. Many attorneys’ eyes had already glazed over. A few partners, including Gavin Dunlop, looked annoyed or skeptical, but not Harold Rubinstein, who stared attentively at Dr. Rossi. This made sense. Rubinstein and Adler were the Corporate partners who sat on the firm’s Diversity and Inclusion Committee.
“Thank you, Marty.” Dr. Rossi smiled. “For the next two months, I will be studying the unique corporate culture at Parsons Valentine, and formulating new strategies to better attract, retain, and develop diverse talent, particularly at the very top levels of management. Toward this end, I will conduct a series of confidential interviews of our partners and associates, particularly minorities, women, and our LGBT colleagues.”