by Wan, Helen
Anything seemed possible.
TWENTY-ONE
It wasn’t until three evenings later that I finally felt calm enough—and brave enough—to listen to all the phone messages that had been piling up ever since I’d left Parsons Valentine. When I felt good and ready, I poured myself a glass of red wine, wrapped myself in an old flannel blanket, pressed PLAY on the machine, and curled up onto the couch to listen. I leaned my head all the way back and closed my eyes.
“Ingrid, sweetie.” Rachel’s voice was strained. “Are you okay? I just heard about what happened at work. Call me.” Beep.
“Hi, it’s me again,” said Rachel. “Where are you, Ingrid? Are you okay? Haven’t heard from you in a few days, are you still eating? Let me know if you want me to come over. Just give me a call to let me know you’re all right, okay? Doesn’t matter how late.” Beep.
“Ingrid?” It was Margo, speaking in soft tones, and I knew she was at work, trying not to be overheard. “Honey, I heard what happened. We’re all in shock. We just can’t believe it. You deserve it more than anyone. Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you, honey.” Beep.
“Ingrid. It’s Tyler. Listen, I have no idea what happened, and no one will tell me anything. I can’t believe it, Ingrid. You’re the one person everyone thought really deserved it. This is total bullshit. Anyway, I just wanted to say I’m worried about you. Call me when you’re feeling up to it. I just hope you’re okay, sweetie.” Beep.
A moment later: “Yung, it’s me.” Murph’s low, warm voice filled my living room.
I sat up, sloshing red wine into my lap and onto the couch.
“I know you probably hate me, but I just wanted to tell you that … that I’m really sorry about everything that happened.” He paused. “I mean about the partnership vote, and…” He trailed off. “And about us, too. I’m really, really sorry. I know I screwed up.” He paused again and sighed. I could tell he was trying hard to sound plaintive and pathetic. “And I hope, in some way, I mean, I know it’s a lot to ask of you, but I hope that in some small way, at some time down the road, you might even come to forgive me.” A final pause. Then, “So, that’s all I really wanted to say, Ingrid. Call me sometime, if you want. I mean, I hope you will. Bye.”
How dare he?
I leapt off the couch. I stood there in the middle of my living room, about to scream. I screwed my eyes so tightly shut I saw angry spirals of red. How dare he call here, invading my home, sounding so calm, so collected, so reasonable? In what parallel universe would any of those things Murph had said to me—all those horrible, painful things that he’d screamed at me in his apartment—ever be, in any way, forgivable?
I looked down. The red wine I’d spilled was seeping into the fabric of my beautiful, impractical, celery-colored couch. I rushed to the kitchen, ran a couple of white dish towels under the cold water, and dashed back to the living room, where I daubed and then scrubbed the fabric. No matter what I did, the ruby color wouldn’t come up. All I succeeded in doing was further spreading the stain around.
Fuck. I give up. I really just give up.
I stalked into the kitchen, balled up the ruined dish towels, and hurled them into the sink. I stood there, bracing myself against the smooth polished countertop, and closed my eyes, pressing the heels of both hands hard against them, trying to make the angry spirals of red go away. I opened my eyes. I took a few deep, soothing breaths.
In, out.
In, then out.
Again.
Breathe.
Calm.
Okay.
I leaned forward and rested both elbows heavily on the cool marble surface. As usual, my kitchen was spotless. When you never cooked, your kitchen remained clean. My gaze fell upon the only thing that was cluttering up the countertop—the Wall Street Journal that I’d picked up three days ago, lying inches from my left elbow. As I glanced at the newsprint, one of the headlines that I’d only skimmed earlier at the Bagel Boat now leapt out at me in sharp relief:
CONGRESS IN PARTISAN STANDOFF ON DRILLING REFORM
I bolted straight up. I grabbed the paper and flattened it out on the counter. I opened it to the page with the full news article and read:
BY DEBRA M. FINNEGAN
Democrats in the House and Senate plan to introduce new legislation in the coming months that will dramatically increase offshore drilling safety requirements and remove caps on corporate liability for catastrophic oil spills, sources on Capitol Hill say.
Environmental groups, labor unions, and advocacy groups for workers and small businesses disproportionately affected by last year’s BP oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico have expressed frustration over Congress’s slow legislative response to that disaster. Democrats facing the upcoming election year are attempting to woo back their traditional voter base by proposing a new reform bill that will take a harder line on offshore drilling safety.
Key changes in the new bill include the elimination of liability limits for private companies involved in offshore drilling accidents, new regulatory standards for offshore rigs, and mandatory OSHA and environmental safety upgrades for owners and operators of such drilling platforms.
Although Republicans are expected to oppose the new bill, which could prove costly for large oil conglomerates, experts now say that if a bloc of lawmakers can agree on adjustments to the bill to ensure that smaller oil companies will not be disproportionately affected, the reform package has a chance to pass with a slim majority. “We know we’re in the very early stages yet,” said Rep. Kathryn McAlister (D-CA), newest member of the House Energy and Commerce Committee, “but we’re confident that we will prevail.”
When I’d finished the article, I read it again. And then again. Thank you, Debra M. Finnegan. I closed my eyes, summoning everything I could remember from Professor Gunderson’s Legal Ethics and Professional Responsibility class so many years ago.
Before I lost my nerve, I picked up my cell phone. I still had the number programmed in, after having called it so many times over the past two months, but my hands were shaking so badly now that I had to hit the button twice.
Finally, I heard ringing on the other end. Once, twice, three times.
“Slugger,” said the gruff but warm voice on the other end of the line. “Well, well. To what do I owe this nice surprise?”
TWENTY-TWO
The intercom buzzed in my front hall. I looked up, bleary-eyed, annoyed at the interruption. I’d been up all night, sitting at my kitchen table, working feverishly on my laptop, creating spreadsheets and budgets and lists, typing in all the scribbled notes and strategies I’d begun jotting down following the forty-five-minute phone conversation Lassiter and I had had last night.
The intercom buzzed again.
I thought about pretending I wasn’t home, but Dennis knew everything. I sighed, glancing at the clock on my cable box. Who showed up unannounced at ten thirty on a Saturday morning? Honestly, it was uncivilized. I was in a camisole and pajama bottoms. I hadn’t brushed my teeth. I set down my sixth cup of coffee and padded into the hall, pulling on an old cardigan as I went. “Hello?” I said warily into the intercom. I was half-expecting an eviction call any day now.
“Hey, Ingrid. There’s someone here to see you,” said Dennis. “Okay to send him up?”
“I’m not expecting anyone,” I said. “Can you find out who it is?”
I heard a muffling noise and Dennis saying to someone in the background, “She says she’s not expecting you. What’s the name?” A silence, then a mumbling.
Dennis came back on the line. “His name’s Justin Keating.”
Unbelievable. What was he here to do, gloat?
“Please tell him to go away,” I said. “I don’t want to see anyone right now.”
More muffled voices. Dennis sounded adamant, but the mumbling persisted.
Dennis sighed into the receiver. “The kid says it’s really important. Says it’ll only take a few minutes.”
Three minutes l
ater, Justin rang my doorbell.
I opened the door a crack, without undoing the chain. “Well,” I said. “This is quite a surprise, Justin. What do you want?”
Justin looked around nervously. He was wearing jeans and a gray hoodie. His hands were shoved in his pockets, as usual, but today he wasn’t smirking. He looked stressed out.
“Can I come in?”
I sighed, then undid the chain and opened the door wider.
He stepped inside and looked around cautiously.
I closed the door and then turned around to look at him, folding my arms across my chest. “Okay. So now you’re in. What do you want?”
He looked surprised. “Did you not get my e-mail?” he asked.
I exhaled impatiently. “Justin, the firm took back my BlackBerry. I no longer even have a Parsons Valentine e-mail account.”
He shook his head. “I know. That’s why I had to ask Margo for your Gmail address.”
“I haven’t been checking any e-mail, Justin. I’ve been taking a much-needed break.” I looked him square in the eye. “Why’d you need to get in touch with me so badly?”
“I have something to show you.” He reached inside his jacket and produced some kind of long computer printout, handing it to me.
“What’s this supposed to be?” I said, not reaching for it.
“Just read it,” he insisted, giving it a shake.
I sighed. I took the piece of paper from him and smoothed it out. It was a log from the Parsons Valentine mainframe servers. A running table showed dates, times, usernames, hardware IDs, document numbers, and computer workstation locations.
“So?”
“Down here.” Justin pointed.
Two lines on the printout had been highlighted. I peered closely at them. It had a document number, Doc 235986, version 12, next to my username, isyung, and the time, 11:44 P.M. The line directly underneath said Doc 235986, version 12, next to the username, jdmurphy, and the time, 12:08 A.M.
I looked up at Justin, amazed.
“Where’d you get this?”
He looked at me and shrugged. “The servers record every single time anyone accesses any document. This shows that Murph went into the SunCorp term sheet after we both went home that night. And we didn’t proof it again when we printed it out the next morning.”
“But I already tried looking up the doc history myself, and I didn’t see anyone else’s usernames on the document except ours.”
He shook his head. “When you look it up at your own workstation, it only shows you who accessed it the normal way on one of the firm’s computers. It doesn’t show who may have accessed it remotely, checked out a copy, then checked it back in. But the servers record everything.”
I stared at the log in amazement. “How do you know all this, Justin?”
“Eh. No big deal. I majored in comp sci. Some buddies and I are actually trying to launch a tech start-up, but my dad made me get a ‘real job’ in the meantime. That’s how I ended up at the firm.”
“I didn’t know you were a comp sci major.”
He shrugged. “You never asked.”
I looked at him. “No, I guess I didn’t.”
“Anyway, IT prints out the server logs every week, and then they just leave them out in the bin to be recycled. This wasn’t hard to find.”
“But how’d you even know to look for anything like this?” I asked, still clutching the printout like I didn’t quite believe it existed, like it could still flutter away if I blinked.
“I saw Murph there late that night. So I kind of had a hunch. Especially after I saw you and Murph together, and then everything that happened. You know.”
“Justin. I could kiss you.”
He smiled. “You don’t have to,” he said quietly. He turned toward the door, preparing to leave.
“Justin,” I said again.
“Yeah?” He looked over at me. His hands were still bunched in the pockets of his hoodie, and his shoulders were all hunched up, as if he were cold. He looked so young, standing there at that moment, much younger, in fact, than his twenty-three years.
“I was just wondering, I mean, I’m curious…” I stopped and began again. “I’m just wondering why you’re doing this for me. I was always—kind of hard on you.”
He paused and thought for a moment. “I don’t know,” he said, shrugging. “I guess maybe because you never seemed to care who my dad was. You weren’t just pretending to like me because of him.” He looked at me and smirked, and some of the old slyness crept back into his face.
“You were the only lawyer at the firm who treated me like crap, just like I was any other paralegal.”
TWENTY-THREE
Monday morning, I paid my cab driver, thanked him, and then, on a whim, tipped him more, much more, than I could really afford. “Hey, thanks,” he said, and twisted around in the driver’s seat to look at me.
I said, “Wish me luck, will you?”
“Don’t know what you need it for, but good luck, miss.”
I stepped out onto the sidewalk. The cab peeled away with a screech and nosed back into the stream of Madison Avenue traffic. I stared after it for a moment. No turning back now.
I reached into my handbag and put on my big, dark Audrey Hepburn–style sunglasses, the ones I imagined lent a certain aura of mystery. I lifted my chin, tilted my head way back, and stared up at the familiar fifty-story building, its flags rippling above the entrance, its bronze corporate sculpture out front, its landscaped terrace up top, the blue sky and a few wisps of white cloud perfectly framing my view of the glittering silver tower. I was nervous—of course I was—but I also felt better than I had in weeks. It felt terrific to be in heels again, to hear them clicking confidently along beneath me on the sidewalk, to have someplace I needed to be. I was wearing my favorite killer black crepe suit with a classic georgette blouse, diamond stud earrings, and ladylike alligator pumps. I was wearing a black pencil skirt, and feeling unapologetic about it.
I drew myself up to my full height—all five feet three inches of me—took several deep breaths, and walked into the building. For one fleeting moment, I felt like I could simply blend back into the crowd of scrubbed, powdered and groomed, immaculately jacketed-and-tied Parsons Valentine foot soldiers spinning in through those revolving glass doors.
But far too much had happened for that.
I clicked across the marble lobby, as I had done on thousands of other mornings just like this one, past the imposing mahogany-paneled walls, past the elegantly backlit corporate art exhibit—this month, a series of Walker Evans Depression-era photographs on loan from the Whitney—right up to the granite reception desk bearing the large burnished gold letters that spelled out PARSONS VALENTINE & HUNT LLP.
Ricardo was on duty.
He grinned upon seeing me, but it quickly faded as he remembered the last time I’d been here, being frog-marched out of the building by a uniformed guard. Ricardo glanced around quickly before saying in a low voice, “Ingrid. It’s really good to see you.”
“It’s great to see you, RC. How’ve you been?”
“Fine, fine.” He looked around again. “But the question is, how’ve you been?”
“You know what? I’ve been all right.”
“That’s good. I’m glad to know that.” He darted another look around, then asked, “So, what are you doing here?”
I looked at the huge round clock above the reception desk. It was almost ten forty-five. At this point in the morning everyone would already be settled in at their desks upstairs. For the moment, Ricardo and I were alone.
“RC,” I said, “I need to ask you for a big favor. I need you to let me up to see Marty Adler.”
He hesitated. Then he reached into a desk drawer in front of him and quickly slid a blue plastic keycard across the granite counter at me. “Anyone asks, somebody dropped that near the elevators, got it?”
“Got it.” I smiled. “Thanks, RC. I knew I could count on you.”
I
made my way over to the last bank of elevators and pressed the button for thirty-seven. The ascent was smooth and swift, the quiet swoosh oddly calming as we climbed higher and higher up from street level.
I was jolted back to reality by a warning ding. The car stopped on Adler’s floor, and I stepped out.
Luckily, no one happened to be walking by, and I dashed over to the interior glass doors, slid the keycard into the panel, and pulled as the green light clicked on. I really hoped Adler would be in his office. The way I figured it, I’d have four or five seconds to convince him to see me before he picked up the house security phone.
Feeling a weird rush of adrenaline, I surged down the hall. I rounded the corner and ran smack into Sharon, Adler’s secretary, who’d been balancing a foam coffee cup that was now upended on the floor, the hot black liquid seeping into the carpet. She cursed under her breath, then looked up at me. “How on earth did you get in here?” she asked in a nasty voice. “You know I’m going to have to call Security—”
“You do that,” I said, before striding to Marty Adler’s office and letting myself in.
He was alone, sitting at his desk with his Starbucks, his Wall Street Journal, and his blueberry muffin. The bright midmorning sunlight streamed in behind him, illuminating his head and shoulders, almost like a halo.
“Ingrid.” He jumped up.
“Marty, before you say anything, please just hear me out,” I said.
He backed away from me in slow, careful steps. He actually held both palms up, as if I were a masked gunman.
“Listen, Marty,” I said, my voice strong and clear and steady. “Murph accessed the SunCorp term sheet, the night before our meeting. He went in and deliberately made those errors in my document so I’d be humiliated in front of you and Lassiter. And I can prove it to you.”
Adler had backed all the way up against the window, and now he stood there, both hands gripping the ledge behind him, as if for ballast. He had a deeply pained expression on his face.