Big Law

by Lindsay Cameron

  Merry and bright was not exactly how I was feeling right now. I’d just come back from Ben’s office, where, after mustering up the courage, I’d asked if I could go home for a few days for Christmas. I might as well have been Oliver holding out my bowl. Please sir.

  It was no secret that Biglaw partners did not take kindly to vacation requests. Years back, an associate found a PowerPoint presentation, titled “Associate Communication,” on the firm’s internal document system, presumably used to teach partners how to interact with associates. The stealthy associate posted it on the legal blog Above the Law for all to see. Slide after slide urged partners to “say ‘thank you’ and ‘good work’” when dealing with associates. One slide suggested that partners “be sensitive to cancelling associates’ vacations,” reminding them that associates have families too. I remember wondering what kind of adult was so socially inept that he had to be taught to say please and thank you. But clearly Ben had missed the memo because his response was, “This isn’t a good time. Can’t you just move your vacation?”

  I blinked at him. Ummm … not unless I can move the birth of Jesus. “Well, I’m going for Christmas, so …”

  “Right, right,” Ben interrupted, his tone exasperated from my perceived foolishness. “But Mackenzie, don’t you think we all would like to see our families over the holidays?” He raised a condescending eyebrow.

  The thought occurred to me that very few people in this firm wanted to spend any time with their families. If they did, they would stop reviewing a document for the fifth time, hoping to catch a comma out of place, and go home and actually be with their families. But of course I didn’t say that. I merely nodded remorsefully.

  “It’s the nature of the beast, Mackenzie,” he said before his stern expression softened. “You’re doing a great job with Highlander and your hard work is not going unnoticed, but we’re coming up on crunch time. Look, I won’t require you to cancel your trip altogether, but I’ll expect you back bright and early on the 26th, and take a laptop so you can work remotely on Christmas Day. Good?” He flashed what I’m sure he thought was a benevolent smile. In his mind he’d just fulfilled his charitable giving quota for the season.

  “Of course,” I’d affirmed, biting my lower lip. “Thanks, Ben.” God bless us everyone.

  “What’d ya think, Mackenzie?” Rita called out now, posing with her hands in the air.

  I squinted through the heavy fog of aerosol. If her dress were any lower cut I would’ve seen nipple; if it were any shorter I would’ve seen butt cheek. Just the look she was going for, I was sure. Rita recently had breast implants and it looked like she was ready to show off her new assets. They’d been large enough before—probably a size C, but she was certain even bigger boobs were the missing link to landing a man.

  “No guy evah says, ‘I can’t get with her—her boobs are too big,’” she’d explained, as I signed her sick leave request form for her surgery. When she’d returned to work two weeks later, she came into my office with her twenty-three-year old daughter in tow, both sticking out their chests, smiling proudly. They’d received the mother-daughter special and insisted that I touch them to see how they felt. “Totally natural,” Rita’s daughter Skyler squealed. I poked the side of one awkwardly as Rita explained how she had to massage them daily to keep them soft. “It’s like being forced to play with ya’ self!” Rita cackled. Rita wasn’t exactly the boundaries type.

  I shuffled through the secretaries, avoiding their glares, trying to get closer to Rita. “You look gorgeous!” I lied.

  She grinned mischievously. “Every year Freddie and I make out at the holiday party—kinda a tradition,” she said, applying her lipstick and smacking her lips together. That was one holiday tradition I really did not want to know about. Not exactly the “leave cookies out for Santa” kind. I wondered if Freddie stopped mid-make-out to pick his nose.

  “You going?” Rita asked, thankfully cutting short my visual of her and Freddie. Despite the fact that office festivity was essentially forbidden, everyone was encouraged to attend the annual firm holiday party. “No guests,” the invitation instructed, just the firm family—lawyers, paralegals, secretaries, and those on the F&D payroll. I’d attended the party last year and for the most part it was your typical drunken debauchery office party, but there was always some partner trolling for associates who don’t have enough work on their plates and hitting them with the dreaded “What are you working on these days?” question. Associates hate this question—it’s cloaked in a friendly interest in your life, but really means, “Can I stick you with some tedious weekend due diligence?”

  “If I ever finish the research Ben gave me.” Another lie.

  Rita waved her finger at me accusingly. “Nahhhh … you’re going to skip it and have wild sex with that cute boyfriend of yours instead, aren’t you?” She whooped and hooted at her own joke.

  “You know me too well,” I chuckled, playing along, trying to remember how long it had been since Jason and I even had any kind of sex, let alone wild sex. Lately, we’d fallen into a pretty lackluster routine of cuddling for a few minutes before passing out asleep. That needed to be remedied ASAP. Well, maybe not the going down to his office this minute and doing it on his desk type of ASAP, but tonight at least.

  Mackenzie: Wanna blow off the party tonight and have more fun at my place ;)

  Jason: Ummm … do you even have to ask?

  Mackenzie: See you there at 9!

  At 8 P.M. I was huddled in my office, long after Rita and her cohorts had left for the party, when Jason and Alex appeared at my door. “Come on, keener—libations await,” Alex announced.

  “You’re going to have to head over without me. I need to finish this research for Ben.” I let out a long exhale, trying to sound particularly overwhelmed. I knew Alex wouldn’t accept the “Jason and I need time alone” excuse. For Alex there is no good reason not to take advantage of free booze and food. I gave Jason a significant look, assuring he was in on the ruse.

  “Ben? Ben isn’t going to read anything tonight. He left an hour ago—which means he’s been feeding some poor secretary overly strong drinks for, oh …” Alex looked at his watch, “the past forty-five minutes in hopes of getting her drunk enough to let him grope her.”

  “Ew.” I made a face. “You’re not exactly selling this party to me. I’ve already had the disgusting visual of Freddie making out with Rita. I don’t need you throwing Ben into the mix.”

  “Threesome with Ben, Rita, and Freddie—kinky, Mac, kinky.” Alex looked as though he was contemplating the possibility. “Anyway, no one will read what you produce tonight, so get your ass off that chair and come get drunk with us,” he said, shaking my chair. “It’s celebration time, in case you’re too busy with work to be reading your emails. Our golden handcuffs just got tighter.”

  The managing partner had sent around the bonus memo a few hours ago, informing us there would be a $10,000 increase in bonuses across the board, and heartfelt thanks from the partners for our dedication and efforts. It had been met by gleeful fist pumps from the associates and promises of a night of hearty celebrating. If it was true that we were selling our souls, it was good to know our souls were worth $10,000 more than they were last year. But I had my own celebration in mind and it didn’t involve F&D.

  “Look at me!” I gestured up and down at my makeup-free face, my hair desperately in need of a haircut, my wrinkled shirt which I’d done my best to iron, but still looked like I’d slept in it. “Do I really look like I’m dressed for a party?” I glanced down at my feet. “Look!” I pointed to my toes visible in my Stuart Weitzman peep toe pumps. “My polish is even chipped!” Using my appearance as one more reason I couldn’t go to the party made me realize how much it had slipped. When I had time I really needed to attend to that. To-do list: 1. Get haircut 2. Pick up dry cleaning 3. Get pedicure.

  “You look as beautiful as you always do.” Jason placed his hands on my shoulders, giving me a ten second mass
age.

  Mmmm … tonight is going to be good.

  “And I think Jason has a lot of work to do too …” I trailed off, waiting for Jason to pipe up.

  “This guy?” Alex pointed to Jason with an amused expression. “When have you ever known this guy to work late? I think it may even be outlawed in the Trusts department.”

  I lifted my head and locked eyes with Jason, attempting a silent, coded conversation.

  “Could be fun. We do need to celebrate.” He shrugged, giving a sheepish half smile.

  I shook my head in mock disapproval. He’d fallen prey to the powers of Alex’s persuasion.

  Jason cleared his throat. “Maybe I’ll wait here until Mac is ready and we’ll meet—”

  “She’s ready.” Alex stopped him midsentence, waving his hand dismissively. “Even with your laissez faire attitude towards your appearance, which I’ve been meaning to tell you isn’t exactly working for you, you know you still look better than the majority of those horse faces at that party, and you can hide those unsightly toes with a pair of those.” He pointed down to the mini shoe closet that had sprung up underneath my desk. “And I know your next excuse is going to be you’re too tired, but we can just prop you up ‘Weekend at Bernie’s’ style and stick a drink in your hand.”

  I had to hand it to him—Alex was persuasive. Even when my decisions were set in stone, he could always convince me otherwise. I couldn’t blame Jason for folding too.

  “Now up, up!” He gestured towards the door. “Libations await!”

  Walking into the ballroom of the W Hotel in Midtown, I was overwhelmed by the sheer opulence. Crab legs, shrimp, and lobster tails sat piled high on an ice sculpture, a giant, decorative gingerbread arch marked the way to the dessert room (a whole room filled with every kind of dessert I had ever seen or even dreamed of seeing), and champagne was being poured into elegant towers of glasses. Waitresses were making their way around the room with trays of sushi and cocktail napkins emblazoned with the firm logo. The setting was striking, but the location was selected strategically, of course—close enough to the firm office so that lawyers could easily return to bill more hours after the party.

  A waiter passed with a tray of champagne glasses and we each took one. “Bottoms up,” Alex called out as we clinked glasses and looked around, taking it all in. The room was crowded, buzzing with conversation, and the dance floor was full. The secretaries and mail staff danced to the beat of the live band enthusiastically, while the associates stood off to the side, drinking and scrolling through their email. A few drunk male partners attempted to dance, seizing their one opportunity to grind up against the secretaries, but it just looked like spastic pelvic motions.

  “Well, good to see superfluous over-spending is alive and well in Biglaw.” Alex raised his glass in a mock toast.

  “Hear, hear.” I drained my champagne and put the glass down on the empty table beside us.

  “Looks like we need another,” Alex announced before weaving through a crowd of paralegals doing shots of Patrón. I watched for a moment with morbid fascination as two of them started dirty dancing, complete with Miley Cyrus-style twerking.

  “And he’s off!” Jason gestured to the bar, where Alex was surrounded by a group of admiring, giggling girls just as he was at every firm party, and probably every day since he’d grown into his ruggedly handsome good looks.

  “If I hear him call them ‘fresh meat’ one more time I’m going to be sick,” I said, glaring at the display. Every year before the new class of first year associates join the firm, a book of their headshots appears in each employee’s inbox, with a short bio beside each picture. It was supposed to give us some information about the incoming class so we could call them by name, thus making them feel welcome, but instead its arrival resulted in male lawyers huddling in each other’s offices assessing the “fresh meat,” as Alex put it. Not exactly the warm, welcoming display HR had in mind.

  “Ahhh … and it’s Monica,” Jason pointed out. Monica was the one Alex had deemed the hottest from the headshots. I knew from her bio that she enjoyed traveling, learning new languages, and step aerobics. Seriously—step aerobics. What was this, 1992?

  “Guess we won’t be hearing from him the rest of the night. Or tomorrow morning for that matter,” he joked and I felt a tiny twinge of jealousy. “So,” Jason started, switching gears. “Should we plan this vacation?”

  “Yes—let’s.” I smiled, turning my attention back to him.

  After the anniversary debacle I’d come up with the brilliant idea of taking a vacation together after the Highlander deal was over. “Someplace with no BlackBerry reception,” I’d promised, selling the idea to Jason. Did that even exist anymore? I hoped so. I pictured myself lounging in an oversized chair in the sand sipping a fruity cocktail with an umbrella in it, watching Jason surf … or snorkel … or whatever it is people on vacation do. I could get a tan, forget my troubles, wear something other than boring office clothes. Of course, I knew Jason had his complaints about this relationship lately, and frankly so did I. I wasn’t too far gone to notice that things hadn’t been the same between us. But a vacation could make that all right. We could finally get to spend some real time together—not just the tail-end of a stressful day. It was exactly what we needed.

  We drained another glass of champagne and ran through the details. Should we pick Aruba, Saint Lucia, or the Bahamas? (He thought Saint Lucia, I thought Aruba.) Should we get a suite? (Definitely—preferably with an ocean view.) Should we do all inclusive? (No—we wanted the freedom to try different local restaurants.) Part of the fun of vacations is the anticipation and I was enjoying bringing this trip to life with Jason.

  “One more?” Jason pointed down to our empty glasses.

  “Sounds good. Let’s try one of those red ones.” I gestured to the waiter carrying a tray full of festive looking red cocktails garnished with green berries. It was called the “F&D Holiday Cheer,” a specialty cocktail designed by the W Hotel’s resident mixologist specifically for the party — peach nectar, two kids of rum, pomegranate juice, and club soda. We ordered two from the bartender and headed towards an empty table.

  “Be right back,” Jason announced, putting the cocktails down on the table and turning to snake through the crowds to the bathroom.

  I stood by the table, sipping my F&D Holiday Cheer and swaying to the beat of the music. I was feeling loose from the alcohol when I heard the familiar voice.

  “Three olive martini. Got that? THREE. OLIVE. MARTINI.” Pause. “Say it back to me then so I know you get it. I don’t have the time for you to screw it up,” Saul barked from a table right beside me.

  I froze, like a gazelle trying to avoid being detected by a stalking cheetah. No. Sudden. Movements.

  “Three. Olive. Martini,” the waitress responded with a visible eye roll.

  “Right: not ONE, not TWO, THREE.” Saul held up three fingers condescendingly.

  I slunk into myself and started to back away, ensuring I didn’t turn my back on my predator. To do so would surely result in an immediate strike.

  I need to get out of here, I thought, frantically scanning the room for Jason. I spotted him outside the bathroom animatedly telling a story to a group of associates. Now I just needed to figure out a way to signal him to pull the fire alarm to create a diversion.

  “Mackenzie,” Saul called out, interrupting my thoughts.

  Shit. Should I play dead?

  “One of the many corporate junior associates I’ve seen tonight. Clearly we aren’t keeping you guys busy enough.” A smattering of spittle hit my cheek as he spoke. I surreptitiously picked up a cocktail napkin to wipe it off, as his eyes wandered to my chest and stayed there. He seemed to have an inability to look me in the eye when he was drunk, and not just because I was two inches taller than him.

  “Oh, I won’t be staying long—plenty to do back at the office,” I responded enthusiastically, unsure if he was being facetious. The last thing I wanted was Sau
l to think I had any gaps in my time sheet. Gaps that could be filled by his torturous work. The waitress returned with Saul’s three olive martini. Not surprisingly, it contained a trio of olives, and likely a huge wad of spit.

  “Glad to hear it.” He paused to burp and picked up his fresh drink. “Try this for me,” he demanded, aggressively placing it down in front of me. “Tell me if it’s okay. The last one had way too much fucking vermouth and I’m going to tear that fucking bartender a new asshole if he’s done it to me again.” For a moment I thought he was joking, but judging from the permanent scowl on his face, I was fairly certain Saul wasn’t exactly the joshing type.

  I tentatively picked up the martini glass and put my lips to the rim. My eyes darted around the room for the waitress, hopeful she’d give me a sign if there was something disgusting in the drink meant for Saul. “It’s … um … it’s good,” I said, returning the drink to the table and sliding it back to him.

  Shooting me a skeptical glare, he picked up the glass and took a hostile gulp. “I’m happy to hear you have other work keeping you busy. I can’t fucking stand it when a deal dies on a Friday, making associates idle. Nothing worse than an entire weekend with no billable hours.”

  “Friday?” I must have misheard. I tried to block out the loud music in the background. The deal hadn’t died on Friday—it died on a Monday. After the weekend. After the disastrous interrupted anniversary dinner. After I worked on his spur of the moment research request. After I seriously considered clubbing Sarah, Tonya Harding-style. Monday.

  “I told Sarah after it died that I wanted everyone’s hours posted by Friday evening,” he said, ignoring my question. “And I noticed you were the only one who didn’t have them in. Not until Monday. You too fucking busy to get your hours in?” He glared at me, gulped down the last of his drink, and immediately looked around the room for a waitress.