The Partner Track: A Novel

by Wan, Helen

  The only offer of employment I even considered for a moment, though, came a few days after my public acquittal. I got home, flushed and sweaty, from a morning run in Central Park—a new habit I’d had time to cultivate since leaving the firm—to find Dennis handing me a lush arrangement of a dozen red roses. “These just arrived for you,” he said. “Secret admirer?”

  I plucked the tiny cream envelope from among the blooms and read it right there in the lobby.

  Slugger:

  Heard you’ve recently become a free agent. How about coming to play on our team? I still want the right lawyer running this, as you were all along. Just say the word.

  —Ted

  I smiled at Dennis. “Not so secret, actually,” I said.

  I went straight upstairs to my apartment and called Ted Lassiter.

  “I’m flattered, Ted, really I am. And yes, I’d still be delighted to close the Binney deal for you and SunCorp. But here’s the thing—I don’t think I’m ready to go back to working for somebody else.”

  “This will be different,” he said. “It won’t be like it was at the firm.”

  I hesitated. I thought about what Murph had said, about why Adler had wanted me at the SunCorp beauty pageant in the first place. “Tell me something,” I said.

  “Anything.”

  “Why didn’t you ever say anything to me about SunCorp’s minority vendor requirements? I know about them, okay?” I said. “I’m over it. It’s okay to talk about them.”

  “I’d be happy to talk about them, if I knew what the hell they were,” said Lassiter.

  “You mean your board of directors never passed a rule? That your outside law firm’s got to have at least one woman or one minority lawyer working on your deal?”

  Lassiter laughed. “If they had, I’d sure as hell hear about it. Look, the only rule we’ve got about who SunCorp does and does not hire is that we need the best lawyer out there running our deals. Period. And as far as I’m concerned, that’s you.”

  It was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to me. I exhaled the breath that, until then, I didn’t even know I was holding.

  “Now,” Lassiter said. “Are you sure you won’t consider coming on in-house at SunCorp? We’re looking at plenty more deals coming up in the near term. Big ones. Mark Traynor could really use a terrific deputy general counsel like you.”

  But I had a much better idea.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The law offices of Ingrid Yung PLLC officially opened for business that October. SunCorp still keeps me busy, as do all the other clients who began to buzz around one by one—shyly at first, circling warily like seventh graders at a dance, then approaching in a steadier, more confident stream, as CEOs and their general counsels began to realize that they actually recognized some of the companies on my client list, and that these other companies were getting cited and praised for being so “forward-thinking” in their selection of outside counsel.

  To be sure, the Fortune magazine story certainly helped. The article ran with a big glossy photo of me standing by the windows with sunlight streaming into my new corner office, under the title “The Mouse That Roared: One ‘Yung’ Woman Takes On the Old Boys Club”—a headline that was great for business.

  Also luckily for me, Margo took all of two seconds to accept the job I offered her. She then cheerfully scouted out my new office space, ordered our business cards, and set up appointments with website and logo designers and a publicist. I adore our new office—it is a lovely, light-filled, warm and inviting corner box in the sky. And yes, it has a view of the park.

  I had warned Margo there would likely be a pay cut compared to Parsons Valentine, but she said she didn’t care. Turns out, there wasn’t a pay cut at all—it was just criminal what assistants were earning over at Parsons Valentine. No wonder they could afford to pay the lawyers so much. Margo is now my executive assistant instead of my secretary—a simple and civilized change in nomenclature that the other attorneys at my firm have adopted, too.

  The other attorneys I’m talking about here are Dave Cavender, who handles our corporate tax matters (and who, now that he has more flexible hours, has been pursuing stand-up comedy on the weekends, and building up a bit of a following); Sofia Mateo, a brilliant lateral securities partner from Stratton and Thornwell, who read the Fortune story and called me up that same afternoon to pitch herself for a job; and our associates, Andrea Carr, Cameron Alexander, and Jason Steinberg, who all forwarded me their résumés the very same morning that my job posting went live on Above the Law, even though all three of them had already started working at Parsons Valentine.

  When Andrea Carr showed up for her interview, I asked her why she would want to quit an established, known quantity like Parsons Valentine to launch her career at a start-up like mine, and she told me without blinking that she wanted to help make history, that was why. I hired her on the spot.

  You might not be surprised to learn that it’s much harder heading up my own law firm, but it’s also the ride of my life. I love being my own boss, making up my own rules as I go along, never having to question whether I am liked, or well liked. It’s hard work, of course. There’s a lot more pressure to bring in clients, and I am, as it turns out, as Murph had tried to warn me in his own special way, always thinking about business development.

  There are plenty of ways, obviously, in which we can’t compete with the Parsons Valentines of the world. We don’t have a fancy cafeteria, unlimited expense accounts, or an in-house gym. We don’t take black town cars when the subway gets us where we need to go perfectly well. I can’t afford a lavish summer associate program, or an R&R suite with showers and cots. (I tell my associates that the real “R&R suite” is your own apartment. If it is two in the morning, by all means, go home already!) Our office pantry is tiny, and I keep meaning to buy us a new coffeemaker, as the old one kind of sucks.

  Having my own firm is both liberating and terrifying in equal parts.

  But it’s also encouraging to be surrounded by a bunch of smart, hardworking lawyers who come to work every day looking happier than I ever saw them before, who are more productive and engaged in the hours that we’re actually at work because we aren’t insulting each other’s intelligence having to account for what we are doing every second of the day. That’s right; I have dispensed with billable hours. We bill our clients by the type of transaction they want us to handle, and the results we get. This means that there is no incentive for Andrea, Cameron, or Jason to surf the Web at their desks until midnight every night, trying to rack up billable hours. It was a system that always struck me as ridiculous.

  I have a casual dress policy on Fridays, but not on the other four days of the week. I am still running a business here, after all.

  * * *

  “Any messages, Margo?” I stopped by her desk on my way back from lunch.

  “Your mom called,” she said. “Call her back. And here’s your afternoon mail.” She handed me a stack of journals, letters, and bills. I leaned against the ledge and sorted through the letters quickly. A request to be on a panel titled “M&A Transactions in the 21st Century,” a speaking invitation to a symposium called “Kicking In the Door: Women Leaders in the Law,” and a solicitation to sponsor a table at the Asian American Legal Defense and Education Fund’s Lunar New Year Gala. I handed them all back to Margo, nodding. “Check out the dates, but yes to all three.”

  I walked into my office, bumped the door closed with my hip, sank into my comfy desk chair, and swiveled around to face out the window. It was a gorgeous early fall day in Central Park.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “Ingrid-ah?”

  “Yes, it’s me!”

  She still wasn’t used to this; me actually calling her in the middle of a weekday. Now that I set my own hours and schedule, it had gotten a little easier.

  “Are you still coming down to visit me and Dad this weekend?”

  “Yep. I’m taking Amtrak. I’ll get i
n around noon on Saturday.”

  “Good.” She sounded happy. “That’s all I wanted to know.”

  “Wait, that’s it?” I said, glancing at the clock. “I still have a few minutes before my two o’clock. Nothing else you wanted to chat about?”

  “Not much is new here. We’ll chat when you get here.” Then she asked, “How’s your friend Rachel doing?”

  “Rachel’s fine, Mom, as always.” Actually, Rachel was better than fine. She had just gone back to work, three days a week, at Proskauer. So far, so good. Now that she was back in midtown on a regular basis, we met for lunch every other Tuesday.

  “That’s good.” I could hear my mother’s car keys jangling in the background. “Ingrid-ah, I have to go now. I’m meeting Auntie Wu for lunch. I’ll call you later, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Okay, we’ll see you Saturday.” My mother clicked off.

  It was kind of nice, not always being the one who had to rush off the phone first.

  Margo buzzed my intercom. “Ready for your two o’clock? She’s here, a few minutes early.”

  My two o’clock appointment was with a young woman named Grace Chen, who was interviewing for a first-year associate position with my firm. She’d already met with Dave, Cameron, and Andrea last week, and they’d given her a unanimous thumbs-up. I scanned the neatly formatted résumé lying on my desk.

  Name: Grace Xiao-Li Chen. College: Stanford University, summa cum laude, English and Economics. Law School: Harvard University, Order of the Coif; Harvard Law Review, Notes Editor; Harvard Law Women, President. Hobbies: Modern Dance, Italian Renaissance Architecture, Slam Poetry. Languages: Fluent in French and Italian; Conversationally Proficient in Mandarin Chinese.

  Wow. Sometimes, as I was reviewing one or another of these kids’ résumés, I felt that there was no way I would have gotten into law school had I been applying now.

  I threw open my door and leaned my head out. Margo was standing just outside my door, leaning against her ledge, chatting with a radiant young woman. She was pretty, with shiny shoulder-length black hair and bright, confident eyes. Her smile was heartbreakingly earnest.

  “Hi there,” I said, extending my hand, smiling, and looking directly into her eyes. “You must be Grace. I’m Ingrid. Welcome. Let’s talk in my office.”

  I was grateful that I wouldn’t have to pretend to ignore her, or anyone else, ever again.

  * * *

  That afternoon, Cameron Alexander knocked on my office door. “Sorry to bug. Got a second?”

  “Sure.” I waved her in. I have a liberal open-door policy at my firm.

  Cameron perched on one of the plush sage-colored armchairs opposite my desk.

  “Just one sec, I’m about to send this off,” I told her, my eyes glued to my computer screen. I was finalizing a subscription and shareholders agreement. It was the kind of simple document I’d normally leave to one of my associates, but Justin Keating’s tech start-up had just gotten an impressive round of angel financing, and I’d agreed to look at their deal as a personal favor.

  “There.” I clicked SEND and turned my full attention to Cameron. “What’s up?”

  She grinned. “So I saw Grace leaving in the elevator bank earlier. What’d you think? She’s pretty amazing, right?”

  “Pretty amazing,” I agreed. “We’re still bringing back a couple of others next week, though.”

  Cameron nodded. “I know. We still have a ton of great résumés coming in. You know that we’re the new destination firm for Harvard’s Office of Career Counseling, right? I heard they’re telling the top students to just apply directly. I think it’s because it makes the career counseling staff feel less guilty, or something.”

  I laughed and knocked on the table. “Let’s hope it stays that way.”

  Cameron cleared her throat and tucked a loose strand of golden hair back behind her ear. “So. Um, Andrea, Jason, and I have sort of been thinking…”

  I froze. “Yes?” What, were they asking for a raise? More days off? Were they all sick of our little lab experiment already, and going back to the safety of a juggernaut like Parsons Valentine?

  “We were thinking that it’s time we had a firm outing. All the other firms do it. You know, take a day off and spend it somewhere fun. Just the seven of us. While the weather’s still good.”

  Was that all? I was so happy in my relief that I laughed. I leaned back in my swivel chair and gave myself a little scoot off my desk, gliding gently toward the windows. I raised my arms and laced my fingers together behind my head. “Look. I’m fine with you guys taking a day off, you know that, but I think you also know that the Oak Hollow Country Club just really isn’t my style.”

  She gave a vehement shake of her head. “Who said anything about a country club? Are you kidding? None of us would want it to be there. But what about someplace completely different? Someplace that’s the total opposite of Oak Hollow.”

  I laughed. “What, like Coney Island?”

  Her eyes lit up. “Exactly.”

  Andrea stopped just outside my door, her arms loaded with files. “What’s this about Coney Island?”

  “We will be holding our first annual Yung and Associates official firm outing at Coney Island,” I informed her. “You’re all cordially invited.”

  Andrea grinned. “Seriously? No forced golf, squash, or tennis? We don’t have to eat a catered chicken puck at a white-tablecloth dinner?”

  “No forced golf! No chicken pucks!” I confirmed.

  Andrea and Cameron high-fived each other in the air.

  We had 100 percent attendance at the Yung & Associates firm outing. Actually, more than 100 percent, if you counted Tim Hollister, who came along as my date.

  Yes, that Tim Hollister. I’d bumped into him a month ago at a Corporate Legal Ethics CLE at the New York City Bar, and he’d stopped me on the way out. “Ingrid, it’s great to see you,” he’d said. “I hear your new firm’s going really well. That’s terrific.” I remember scanning his face for any signs of a smirk. I couldn’t find anything amiss.

  I admit to being a little cautious, both because Tim’s still a partner at Parsons Valentine and because I hadn’t really dated anyone since the whole debacle with Murph, but Tim seemed genuinely happy for me. We made plans for coffee the next week, and then lunch the week after that, which lasted for three hours, and led to dinner the following week. Which lasted til the wee hours of the morning. So we shall see.

  As we all meandered along the boardwalk, Tim and I polishing off a funnel cake between us, Cameron and Jason suddenly stopped short, looking up ahead.

  “Oh, it’s on,” Jason said.

  Cameron nodded. “It is so on.”

  I looked. They were staring straight ahead at the Cyclone.

  Cameron and Jason insisted on waiting three extra rounds just so they could get the first car of the roller coaster. But when it was finally their turn to ride in front, and the train came roaring with a loud clackety-clack into the rickety old station, the two of them stepped aside and motioned for me and Tim to get in the front car.

  “Seriously? You guys just waited three extra turns for the front,” I said.

  “Please. We insist.”

  “You sure?” said Tim.

  The muscular, impressively tattooed ride attendant looked at the crowd waiting behind us and growled, “Yeah, yeah, they’re sure. Come on. Today, people.”

  Tim grinned and grabbed my arm, and together we clambered into the front car of the Cyclone. Cameron and Jason, Margo and Sofia, and Dave and Andrea climbed into the three cars behind us.

  I looked down and scrabbled at the sides of our car. “Where’s the seat belt in this thing?”

  The ride attendant strode over and gruffly pushed the single crossbar down across our laps. “No seat belt required.”

  The train began to move. I grasped the single lap bar so hard my knuckles whitened.

  As the famous old wooden coaster slowly climbed to the crest of
the first hill, I snuck a sideways glance at Tim. He was smiling at me, peering down at the straight drop below and darting gleeful looks backward at the others, who were already squealing and pumping their fists in the air. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d been on a roller coaster. I used to really love them as a kid.

  The rickety clicks grew louder and slower and farther between, and suddenly we were stopped, as the train balanced for one precarious moment high on top, as if bracing itself before it went down for its first drop.

  Tim nudged my elbow. “Okay. Now let go.”

  “What?” I yelled, as we slowly nosed forward.

  “Let go!” he yelled back. As we started to dip, and everyone behind us began to squeal, Tim lifted his arms from the crossbar and let out a loud, joyous whoop.

  I slipped my hands off the crossbar and raised my arms high above my head in the precise moment that I felt the coaster pitch all the way forward. My stomach dropped, and I screamed at the top of my lungs. The wind rushed in my ears and my hair was loose and whipping across my face. I felt wildly free. I felt both young and fearless.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I owe many people thanks for helping to see this book into the world.

  I am so grateful to my editor, the wonderful Brenda Copeland, for giving this story a chance, and to all of the terrific people at St. Martin’s Press, especially Sally Richardson, George Witte, Laura Chasen, Stephanie Hargadon, India Cooper, and Malati Chavali.

  My fantastic literary agent, Josh Getzler, is responsible for the single best phone call I’ve ever received in my life. I’m also lucky to work with Danielle Burby and Mary Willems and everyone at HSG Agency. And thanks to Maddie Raffel, for plucking my manuscript out of the pile and insisting that Josh read it in the first place.

  Thank you to Tanya Farrell and her team, who have contributed so much energy and enthusiasm.

  I’m very fortunate to have a loving and supportive family: Peter, Catherine, and Linda Wan, and Steve, Kathie, and Mindy Burrell. My mom and dad had the foresight to get me a manual typewriter from Sears in the fourth grade, on which I happily banged out stories about an intrepid crime-fighting family called The Dixon Detectives. That old typewriter is still the best birthday present I’ve ever gotten.