by Wan, Helen
The crowd burst into applause. I even heard a couple of catcalls and whistles thrown into the mix. For this crowd, on this night, Marty Adler was a rock star.
I fought the urge to laugh. Wasn’t Adler being just a wee bit heavy-handed and self-congratulatory? I mean, we weren’t exactly marching on Washington or refusing to give up our bus seats here. We were at the freaking Rainbow Room, eating tomato and goat cheese tarts drizzled with Parmesan vinaigrette, for God’s sake. We were, quite literally, sitting on top of the world.
I glanced at my BlackBerry and noticed a new message in my inbox from “Reese, Marcus A.” I looked over my shoulder and across the room at the Viacom table. Marcus was smirking at me. I looked back down and read his message:
I have a dream!!!!
I laughed out loud—softly, and just once, but out loud. Sid Cantrell shot me a fast disapproving glance.
I extinguished my smile and slid my BlackBerry into my lap.
Are we free at last? I wrote back.
Across the room, I saw Marcus laugh. Then, just as quickly, I watched him delete my message, put away his BlackBerry, and stare back up at the podium, calm and straightfaced. Oh, Marcus was good. He was very good.
Following Marcus’s example, I turned primly back toward the stage, pasting a contemplative look onto my face.
There was nothing like one of these lavish corporate-style celebrations of ourselves to make me feel like I was just sitting on my hands, marking time. A willing pawn. Tyler had been smart not to come. I knew that now.
“So tonight,” Adler boomed, “we pay tribute to those leading the charge. This evening, we are thrilled to have with us our keynote speaker, Professor Charlton James Randall from the Harvard Law School, who will be introduced by Dr. Marilyn DuBois, of the NAACP Legal Defense and Educational Fund. I look forward to hearing from them both later this evening. And now, please, eat, drink, and enjoy.”
As if on cue, a squadron of waiters appeared from nowhere bearing salmon filet and wine.
The conversation at our table was restrained by the presence of Jack Hanover. That much was clear. Whole minutes would slink by with only the sounds of forks and knives scraping delicately against our plates, our water glasses clinking against our wine goblets as we raised them gently to our lips. Tim Hollister and Pam Karnow, both young, recent partners, seemed especially anxious not to say anything wrong in front of Hanover. So the politics of sucking up didn’t end with partnership. Both Tim and Pam called him Jack but seemed to swallow the syllable a bit, as if still unsure of their right to use it.
Jack Hanover, for his part, seemed perfectly comfortable chewing in silence, with just his salmon for company. The only time he initiated any conversation was when he waved his empty wineglass, looked around for our waiter, and murmured, “Now where’s one of those little guys when you want him?”
At the front of the ballroom, Professor Randall stood and made his way to the podium. I’d never seen the revered Charlton James Randall in person before, but I knew who he was, of course. We all did. In law school, I’d been assigned his Constitutional Law casebook and had done a preemption check on an article of his published in the Columbia Law Review. A tall, bespectacled, African American man in his sixties, with a very dignified mien, he withdrew a folded sheet of paper from his breast pocket and smoothed it out in front of him.
“Thank you, Marty, for inviting me to speak tonight at this wonderful gathering. First off, I must commend Parsons Valentine and Hunt for taking such a strong leadership role in the cause of diversity and inclusion in the corporate workplace. Let’s have a round of applause for our gracious hosts.”
The crowd complied with cheers and applause. Professor Randall took a sip of water and began.
“On an occasion such as this, and in such esteemed company, it may be hard to believe that it was only fifty-odd years ago that Chief Justice Earl Warren handed down the famous unanimous decision proclaiming that separate is inherently unequal, and that it was only some forty years ago that Thurgood Marshall became the first African American justice to serve on the United States Supreme Court…”
Jack Hanover was shoveling chocolate truffle cake into his mouth. Surely a black-and-white cookie would have been more appropriate, I thought, and smiled at my own joke. Twenty minutes later, Professor Randall wrapped up his keynote address to thunderous applause. My hands hurt from clapping. My face ached from holding a fake smile. I stifled a yawn and glanced at my BlackBerry. It was past ten. The waiters had cut off the wine supply ages ago. Now they’d stopped making rounds with the coffee and tea.
Adler, beaming and still applauding, walked to the podium, heartily clapping Professor Randall on the back. “Thank you so much for those inspiring words. And now, ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to say a few things in closing.”
You could hear a collective sigh go up from the audience as people shifted impatiently in their seats, poised to flee, evening bags clutched in laps, programs dog-eared and discarded onto dessert plates. The attention span for celebrating diversity was apparently three hours, tops.
Adler cleared his throat. “On behalf of all my partners at Parsons Valentine and Hunt, let me just say how pleased we are that you have all joined us for tonight’s celebration. By choosing to be here this evening, we are sending a message—loud and clear—that we cannot … indeed, we will not tolerate exclusion of any kind in the courtrooms, the chambers, the legal boardrooms, and the hallowed halls of corporate America. Tonight we recognize this truth: that all of our institutions are only enriched by the inclusion of women and people of color. Racial and gender diversity is not just a trend, is not an albatross thrust upon us by political correctness. No, diversity is not merely an aspirational goal. It is one of our strongest assets. And I’ll let you in on a little secret: It is the only way any of us can hope to stay competitive in the dynamic, global marketplace of the twenty-first century.”
My mouth was dry, and my head was positively pounding. I noticed a single glittery black bead coming loose from my clutch purse and pulled at it.
“We at Parsons Valentine and Hunt have recognized this truth for years, and it is borne out in everything we do—from reaching out to deserving communities in need through our pro bono practice to our efforts in recruiting and hiring, and then developing, promoting, and mentoring our nontraditional attorneys at every single stage of their careers.”
I picked absently at the loose bead. I glanced at my BlackBerry and scrolled through three new messages.
Adler continued, “And I am extremely proud that we have with us tonight one of the best examples of these efforts—truly a successful product of all of our recruiting, mentoring, and retention programs—Ingrid Yung, one of our most promising young attorneys in the Mergers and Acquisitions group. Ingrid, would you please stand?”
I snapped my head toward the stage. My BlackBerry banged onto the floor. He did not just say that. Did he?
“It’s all right, Ingrid—don’t be shy!” boomed Adler into the mike.
Everyone was staring at me. Marty Adler led the crowd in applause and smiled beatifically in my direction. Sid Cantrell and Jack Hanover were looking at me expectantly, clapping.
Pam Karnow and Tim Hollister looked on, appalled.
“That’s you, kid. Stand up,” Jack Hanover directed in a stage whisper.
I saw Tim’s pleading look, shaking his head slightly, willing me not to. He opened his mouth and formed the word No.
The crazy thing about it was, I did it. I couldn’t believe I was doing it, but on shaky legs I stood and smiled weakly at the crowd. I think, in my daze, I actually even gave a sheepish little wave. It couldn’t have been more than a couple of seconds that I stood there in the spotlight, held up for the crowd’s appraisal, but it felt like an eternity. It was the longest moment of my life, either before or since. What the hell was wrong with me? I was incapable of saying no to people. I was busy pleasing everyone else but myself.
When I finally sat back do
wn, I felt faint. I could barely see.
My face was aflame. I felt a deep and burning shame, and regret. Regret that I’d been so, so stupid. That I’d been played, but even worse, that I had let it happen. I had seen it coming and just stood back and invited them in. They were only doing what came naturally—it was my job alone to protect myself and watch my own back. But I had failed spectacularly. I’d been a fool.
I looked back up at the stage and spotted Adler. I felt a profound and concentrated rage, a hatred so strong it scared me.
Adler grinned at the crowd. “Together, we can make a difference and level this playing field. Together, we truly can overcome!”
There was applause as Adler finished. As I looked out over the sea of tables, about half the audience was clapping and cheering enthusiastically. I glanced across the room at Marcus Reese, still sitting there with his Viacom colleagues. Marcus wasn’t applauding. He looked grim. Sad. He felt sorry for me.
I was humiliated.
I remained at the table for a minute or two, more or less in shock. People at the other tables had fled almost as soon as Adler had finished his speech. Tim Hollister remained sitting. He looked concerned. He raised his eyebrows at me. You okay? I just shook my head. I couldn’t speak to anyone right now.
Next to me, even Jack Hanover had turned a little in his seat and was also, finally, staring intently at me. He looked at me as though he were actually seeing me for the very first time. He probably was.
As the crowd filed out, and the din in the room slowly quieted down, I remained sitting at the table, still dizzy with shame and rage. I could barely see. I wanted to dig a little hole underneath the table and crawl into it. I looked up at the stage, and Marty Adler actually caught my eye and gave me a smile and a nod and a little thumbs-up sign.
That did it.
I stood up abruptly, picked up my purse, and stormed toward the illuminated red EXIT sign. As I threaded through the crowd, a number of distinguished elderly guests spotted me and nodded in recognition, smiling paternally. Why, it’s that Little Minority Lawyer they talked about tonight, their smiles said. Isn’t she cute?
I didn’t smile back. I couldn’t. Clutching my purse, I made my way toward the crowded elevator lobby. As I stood there, waiting, I could actually feel the embarrassment draining from me, and the fury—pure, unadulterated fury—forming in its place. It had started as a hard little knot somewhere in my stomach and was now welling up and spilling over.
Just as the crowd surged forward and I was about to fold myself into a waiting elevator, I felt a hand on my elbow. I looked up. Adler had me by the arm. He was beaming. “So what’d you think? Terrific turnout, huh?”
What did I think? My God, was he really that clueless? I jerked my arm away.
Adler looked puzzled. “Something the matter?”
“Everything’s fine. But I really have to go. Now.”
“No, no, stick around, there are some people I want to introduce you to—”
“I don’t think so, Marty,” I snapped. “I think I’ve performed enough for one evening.”
There was a moment of surprised silence, as my words seeped into the space between us, and then Marty Adler narrowed his eyes. “Excuse me?”
“I have to go. Now,” I said. “And I mean, right this second.”
Adler lowered his voice. “Ingrid, just what are we talking about here? Is there something that I need to be aware of?”
In other circumstances, his utter cluelessness would have been fucking hilarious. But not now, not this night.
My hands were shaking. I was dimly aware of a flashbulb going off as the official event photographer snapped a picture of Adler and me.
Adler placed his hand on my elbow again, as if to steady me, but when he spoke quietly into my ear, his tone was not entirely kind. “Look, Ingrid. I’m not sure exactly what this little outburst is all about, but I sincerely hope you’ll be feeling more like your old self by Thursday’s meeting with SunCorp. This is a very big deal for us, and I cannot—let me rephrase—I will not have my star player dealing with any sort of emotional craziness. So whatever it is you’re dealing with on a personal level—and there’s obviously something—deal with it. But I expect you to be back and in fine form by Thursday. I will need you to be one hundred and ten percent at this meeting. Am I making myself clear?”
“Oh, you’ve made yourself perfectly clear.” I turned to go, then swiveled back around. “And Marty, when have I ever given anything but one hundred and ten percent?”
He looked at me angrily, then opened his mouth to say something.
Without waiting to hear it, I turned around and allowed myself to be swallowed up by the well-heeled, elegant wave of people already sweeping into the elevator, carrying me away.
* * *
As I turned the key in my lock and slipped inside, the first thing I saw was the blinking light on my hall table. My mom. I knew it would be her.
“Ingrid-ah.” Her familiar voice flooded into my dark and empty apartment, and my eyes filled with tears.
“It’s after ten thirty.” She sighed a soft, small sigh. “You’re still at the office. But Daddy and I want to know if you’re coming to Jenny Chang’s wedding. Auntie Chang really needs to know. She says the country club is counting our heads! So call and let us know. Bye-bye. Love, Mom.”
For some reason, my mom always signed off her phone messages like you would a letter. “Love, Mom,” she said, to punctuate the end of her calls.
I wanted desperately to hear her voice. I wanted her to reassure me everything would be okay. That it would all be worth it. I looked at the clock. It was already past eleven. Far too late.
Nobody bosses my Ingrid around, my mother had once said to me.
Oh, but they do, Mom, I wanted to tell her. But couldn’t.
They do.
FOURTEEN
I didn’t sleep at all after the Rainbow Room debacle. My eyes were puffy and bloodshot. My head felt too heavy to lift. Yet for the first time in a long time, I felt absolutely, resolutely calm.
I was calm because I’d spent all night figuring out exactly what I was going to do after tomorrow’s big meeting with SunCorp.
I was going to walk into Adler’s office and do what I should have done in the first place: I would inform him that I was off the Diversity Initiative, effective immediately. I would tell him that closing the SunCorp deal on time required all of my energy and that I intended to execute it as my number one priority. I would remind him that it was why I was at the firm in the first place, not to pose for pictures and be their trained seal. Tyler Robinson had been right. I never should have gotten mixed up with any of it to begin with. I was sick and tired of being the good little associate, doing everything—everything!—the firm ever asked and then getting punished for it. Well, no more.
Murph had been trying to text me all morning.
Sorry, his first message said.
I was an idiot, read his second.
Well, there’s one thing we can agree on, I texted back.
Murph’s reply came immediately.
Glad to hear it. Jury Box at 1?
Meet you there.
I wasn’t mad at Murph. Not really. He had just been trying to find out what he was being left out of, that was all. I, of all people, should be able to relate to that.
One o’clock was prime attorney lunch time, and the Jury Box was crowded. I spotted Murph right away, chatting with Gavin Dunlop. They were in line at the hot entrée station. Today’s Specials: Miso black cod, wasabi shrimp dumplings, crispy kale. I was in no mood to make small talk with Gavin Dunlop. Especially not when things were so weird with Murph. He and I needed a chance to feel things out, to see where we were with each other—without Gavin Dunlop or anyone else hanging around. I ducked behind a gaggle of summer associates waiting for their made-to-order brick oven pizzas.
“God, I’m so sick of the lunch options here,” said one. “We should’ve gone out.”
�
��Yeah, the Jury Box food sucks,” said another.
“I don’t think the food’s that bad. Seriously, what sucks is that only attorneys are allowed to eat in here,” said a third. I looked up. It was Cameron Alexander. Her statement seemed to shut up her companions, who meekly collected their pizzas and headed toward the cashiers. I smiled in spite of myself.
“Hey, Ingrid, there you are,” I heard Murph call out.
Busted.
“Hey.” I pasted what I hoped was a normal expression onto my face.
Murph waved me over to where he and Gavin were standing. I shook my head and gestured toward the salad bar. “I’ll meet you at a table.”
I took my sweet time assembling a salad and getting a Diet Coke, hoping that by the time I paid and made my way over to join Murph, Gavin would have made himself scarce. No such luck. When I rounded the corner into the dining room, Gavin and Murph were sitting together at a table over by the windows. They spotted me and beckoned.
I sighed, made my way over, and sat down.
“Hi, Ingrid,” said Gavin.
“Hey, Gavin.”
“So how was the thing at the Rainbow Room last night?” he asked. “At the partners’ meeting this morning, people were saying it went off pretty well.”
I hesitated, studying Gavin’s face. I wondered if this was secret code of some sort, whether Gavin had already heard all about last night, and was being disingenuous. Then I decided that Marty Adler would not have deemed my behavior worthy of mention at the partners’ meeting.
“It did,” I said brightly, hearing the strain in my own voice. “I thought it did go well.”
“Good, good,” said Gavin. “And I hear you’ve been doing an amazing job with SunCorp, by the way. Bet you’ll be glad when that deal’s finally announced next week.”