Big Law

by Lindsay Cameron

  “Let’s …” Jason murmured, his eyes closed, kissing my ear in that way that sends a tingle all the way from my neck to my toes.

  And then … Bing!

  My whole body stiffened as the ping of a new email suddenly filled the room.

  Fuck. And just like that, the surge of passion receded, like a wave washing back out to sea.

  “I hate the sound of that chime.” I whimpered, running my fingers through the hair on the back of his head, trying desperately to reclaim the moment. I wanted his lips back where they were, doing what they were doing.

  Jason shook his head, seemingly wiping clean the words he’d been about to use to finish his sentence. We were still embracing, but his body language was subdued.

  “I’ve been wearing these, thinking about you.” I gestured to my ears, hoping to lighten the mood.

  His face suddenly brightened as he gently brushed back my hair. “I have good taste, huh?”

  “You sure do.” I wrapped my arms around him. I didn’t want to ask, but I wondered if he’d changed his stance on not accepting family money. Because if he hadn’t, I was probably wearing his entire bonus dangling from my ears, in the only real diamonds I’d ever owned. “They’re beautiful,” I whispered in his ear. “You didn’t need to buy me such an extravagant present, though.”

  “I know. I just wanted you to know I was thinking about you.” He kissed me on the head. “Oh, I almost forgot. I have something else for you.” There was a broad smile on his face as he passed me an envelope.

  “What’s this?”

  He shrugged, still smiling. “Open it.”

  A gasp escaped my mouth when I pulled the check out of the envelope.

  Jason rubbed my shoulders. “I know you said you wanted to wait for your lease to run out in April before we move in together, so I figured I’d buy out your lease.”

  “But,” I said slowly. “This is for twenty thousand dollars.”

  He shrugged. “I threw some money in for the vacation we’ll take when you land the StarCorp secondment.”

  “Jason,” I hesitated. “You can’t just …” I trailed off, unsure how I wanted to finish the sentence. I pressed the check into his hand. “It’s so sweet and I appreciate the gesture, but I can’t take it.”

  “Mackenzie!” My intercom blared with Rita’s voice. “They need you in the war room.”

  “I’ll be right there,” I croaked, still staring into Jason’s eyes.

  There was a heavy silence before Jason spoke. “Think about it. I know you’re busy on this deal, so I won’t bug you about it. Just think about it.” He put the check back into the envelope and dropped it in my inbox before heading out the door.

  Sitting at my desk the next morning, I knew I couldn’t put it off any longer. It was Friday morning, time to send Ben the weekly status update on our due diligence. My stomach was tight as I pecked away at the keys, drafting an email detailing the impediment we were encountering as we continued our review. Highlander had yet to provide hundreds of necessary documents, including agreements they’d listed on the disclosure schedules of the purchase agreement. Documents that were listed on the disclosure schedules were exceptions to Highlander’s representations and warranties contained in the purchase agreement. We definitely needed to review them before our client could sign a binding agreement.

  I hit send and braced myself, sensing a shit storm on the horizon.

  Two minutes later Ben appeared at my door. He looked surprisingly fresh and well rested in a pressed, navy blue suit. I, on the other hand, was dazed and still dressed in the clothes I’d put on twenty-four hours ago.

  “Let me understand this,” he started, breathing heavily. “Those fuckers have included documents on the disclosure schedules that they haven’t even PROVIDED?” His voice rose with each word, as he reached down and adjusted his testicles. This is the default posture of a Biglaw lawyer—the unconscious crotch grab. They all do it—whatever the time, place, or audience.

  No matter how many times I see it, it still puzzles me. I mean, are they checking that they’re still there or do testicles really need to be readjusted that frequently? You don’t see me adjusting my boobs in public. And, yes, sometimes I’d like to, but I at least show some discretion. Why can’t men show the same discretion? More specifically, why couldn’t Ben? He was constantly rubbing his balls as if a genie would pop out.

  “That’s correct,” I said, trying to avoid looking at him. He was going in for a real dig, even slightly lifting one of his legs.

  “Fucking assholes!” He slapped my door frame. “They’re playing with us. Those fuckers are playing with us.” Ben always seemed to think everyone was “playing with him,” which probably stemmed from the fact that he was constantly playing with himself.

  “We need an all-hands-on-deck call to discuss this shit with the client. Set it for noon today,” he barked, then whirled around and left.

  “Will do,” I mumbled, conscious that the shit storm was picking up speed.

  Three hours later, I was sitting at a conference room table with the firm’s top rainmakers. There was always something energizing about an all-hands-on-deck call, but my Biglaw spidey senses told me this one would not end well.

  The others began to filter in. Vincent took his seat in front of the triangular speaker phone and turned off the mute button.

  “You have F&D,” he boomed.

  “Okay, Vince. Let’s hear what the fuck is going on,” Oren, one of the managing partners of Pegasus Partners, the potential buyer of Highlander, responded. “What the fuck is the problem now?”

  Vincent took a deep breath and clenched his hands together. “Look, the last round of diligence is moving slower than expected. We have the manpower to review the documents that are coming in, but the other side is barely dribbling them out to us. We still haven’t received what we consider to be the major documents and it’s really throwing a wrench in the process.”

  There was a beat of silence before Oren responded. “Are you fucking kidding me? Seriously. Are you fucking kidding me? What the FUCK?”

  “I think the problem is they’re running this out of LA and don’t have anyone on the ground here who knows what the fuck they’re doing.” Vincent’s voice remained calm.

  I added another tick to the five already on my page. Sometimes I kept a running tally of the number of times “fuck” was said on conference calls to keep my mind from wandering, but I usually ended up losing count.

  Oren could barely control his rage. “I want someone to get on the FUCKING phone with the fucking CEO and let him know that he needs to send a FUCKING team out to New York, with the documents fucking IN HAND,” Oren bellowed. “Documents fucking IN HAND,” he repeated. “If they need to rent planes to get their fucking guys to New York, then that’s what they need to do. I want those documents in our fucking hands and reviewed by Monday.”

  The only thing more predictable than the swearing on conference calls is the blatant male posturing. It would have been so much more efficient if they all just put their dicks on the table to see whose was bigger so we could all move on. I looked down at my notes—thirteen ticks so far. Considering we were only a few minutes in, I was on pace to break a record.

  “Oren …” Vincent started.

  “Vince,” Oren interrupted. “Listen to me. I don’t give a fuck if people EAT, SLEEP, or SHIT before then—these documents will be reviewed by MONDAY. No excuses—life ain’t all motherhood and popsicles.”

  I snickered silently. “Motherhood and popsicles”—that was a new one. It was somewhat entertaining to witness the roles change, with the partners being the ones yelled at. It reminded me of that Bob Dylan song: Well, it may be the Devil or it may be the Lord, but you’re gonna have to serve somebody.

  Vincent didn’t even flinch at Oren’s rant—a career spent dealing with these guys had made him immune. He took a deep breath and continued. “Just wanted to make sure you wanted us to take a hard line with these guys, Oren. W
e have our marching orders now.” He looked around the room, ensuring we all understood that this new timeline was a direct order from the client. The shit storm had become a full blown fecal hurricane.

  I shook my head in disbelief. I was the lowest person on the totem pole, but it seemed like I was the only one in the room with any sense of reality. Clearly, fear of delivering a reasonable deadline to the client had triumphed over good sense. I tried to imagine what it would be like to be Oren. What would it feel like to be so confident about your place in the world, to feel like you should get whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted it? No matter how you treated people. What gives someone that sense of entitlement? And what would I do if I had it?

  To: Mackenzie Corbett

  From: Jason Kermode

  Are you going to be able to get out before midnight tonight? If not, I’ll just head home and see you tomorrow. 1-4-3

  To: Jason Kermode

  From: Mackenzie Corbett

  Midnight would be pushing it, so I’ll see you tomorrow instead. Hopefully it will be an earlier night.

  1-4-3

  Mackenzie: Still at the office? Caffeine break? You still have to see what’s in Sheldon’s office. Hint … it’s life sized.

  Alex: Still here, but sadly holed up in a conference room with Russ drafting a purchase agreement for Empire Investments. Life sized? I’m intrigued …

  Mackenzie: Just sent you a purchase agreement from a deal I worked on for Empire Investments a few months ago. Take a look—might help.

  20

  I DUG THROUGH MY top drawer for my industrial-size bottle of Advil. It had been a week since Oren commanded that no one could eat, sleep, or shit and I’d made a healthy dent in my emergency stash of pain relievers. I popped two in my mouth, chased them with warm Diet Coke, and began scanning my to-do list for the day ahead.

  “So what do you think?” Alex asked, walking into my office and flopping down in my guest chair. The bags under his eyes reminded me I wasn’t the only one working late nights.

  “Of?” I slipped off my shoes and sat cross legged in my chair, thankful for the opportunity to chat.

  “Look under your desk.” He grinned.

  I eyed him curiously and peeked under. “Where did this come from?” I squealed.

  Alex held a finger up to his lips. “Keep it down. People aren’t used to joyful noises around here.” He stood up to close the door before explaining, “I heard Sadir is out of the office today at a closing, so I figured he wouldn’t miss his prized foot massager. You have until tomorrow morning to sneak it back in there.”

  “How did you know that at this very moment I was dying for this?” I was so excited that I clapped. “I’m surprised Sadir doesn’t have this thing alarmed.” I put my feet on the massager and selected “slow pulse” mode.

  He looked pleased. “That contract you sent me was the perfect precedent for the deal I’m working on. You saved me hours of work. Just figured I’d return the favor. Another late night for the Project Mojo team?”

  I nodded. “It seems Ben likes to celebrate his birthday by working all night.”

  “It was his birthday?”

  “Yup, I overheard his kids singing him happy birthday over the speakerphone when I walked by his office. It was like he was hiding from his family or something.”

  “Well, you would too if you had to go home to that crazy woman.”

  “True.” I nodded, pondering for a moment. “But I thought Ben was actually one of the happier partners.”

  “Oh, honey.” He looked at me in the same way you would look at a sad child who’d just lost her puppy. Alex was the one person in the world who could call a woman “honey” without sounding like a lecherous misogynist or the gay friend in a bad romcom. “Please don’t tell me you’re still living in the land of gumdrop houses where you actually think that happiness and working in Biglaw are NOT mutually exclusive.”

  “You really think there’s no way to be happy working here?” I asked, eyeballing him curiously.

  “Wake up and smell the Prozac, Mackenzie. No one in Biglaw is happy. Not even the guys making the biggest money. We work for morally bankrupt clients who squabble over pedantic bullshit, and the firm throws booze and money at us so we don’t notice the fact that we have no personal life.”

  “Geez, don’t try to sugar-coat it for my sake.” I snickered. “Well, this isn’t Prozac, but it’s sure helping.” I leaned back, relishing my twelve hour window with the Brookstone X180.

  “Just make sure to get it back to Sadir’s office by tomorrow morning,” he called on his way out.

  My day was already looking up. With any luck I would be left alone for the morning so I could review the work done by Gavin last night. Hopefully he wasn’t too coked up when he did it. I settled back in my chair and began flipping through the summaries he’d put together.

  “Knock, knock!” Ben poked his smiling face into my office, his two young daughters in tow, dressed in Girl Scout uniforms. “I’ve brought a couple of saleswomen who wanted to ask you a question.” He looked down eagerly at his fresh-faced girls. “Alyssa, Rachel,” he prompted in the friendliest tone I’d heard him use. In sync they sing-songed, “Do you want to buy some Girl Scout cookies?”

  “That sounds delicious,” I said with as much enthusiasm as I could muster with only a couple hours of sleep and a full day ahead of me. “I’ll take two boxes!”

  “Oh, I’m sure you could use more than that,” Ben responded with a wink. “Alyssa and Rachel are gunning for the lead in their troop for the most cookies sold.”

  “Yeah, Mariah Williams is in first place right now, but we really, really, really want to be first!” Alyssa exclaimed in a voice that veered close to whiny.

  I looked down at their eager, determined faces. I felt like I could see into their future—it starts with wanting to sell the most Girl Scout cookies, and the next thing you know it’s wanting to bill the most hours. I had to resist the urge to grab them by their little shoulders, look them square in the eyes, and advise them. You don’t always have to strive for the highest dangling carrot. Put down those cookie boxes, girls, and go enjoy your childhood!

  “You’ve convinced me.” I gave my best saccharine smile. “I’ll take four boxes—two Thin Mints and two Samoas.” I hoped the gesture might garner some goodwill from Ben in return.

  “See how persuasive you can be, girls! I think I see a career in law in your future,” Ben said, giving me another wink while leading Alyssa and Rachel out the door.

  “Oh—Ben, did you get a chance to look at those distribution sections I sent you last night?” I asked, seizing my opportunity to get some feedback so I could make any revisions he needed and avoid another late night.

  “What distribution sections?” He looked puzzled.

  Um, the distribution sections I worked most of the night to get to you because you needed them ASAP? The ones that kept me from getting a decent night’s sleep (for the umpteenth time) because you simply had to see them? Those distribution sections?

  “Oh, yah, yah.” Ben clued in, as if reading my mind. “I won’t get a chance to look at those today, too much on my plate. You’ll need those to keep your energy up, Mackenzie.” He pointed to my boxes of cookies. “It’s going to be another late night tonight! But make sure you don’t eat them all in one sitting or you’ll wind up looking like one of the secretaries.” He inflated his cheeks like a blowfish and made a face at the giggling girls as he pulled the door shut behind him.

  So much for goodwill. Twelve hours and two rows of thin mints later, I was still in my office when I heard the familiar bing indicating a new email. Stuffing a cookie into my mouth, I nearly choked when I saw it—an email from Vincent Krieder. An email directly to me from Vincent. Vincent never directly emailed an associate. Frankly, I was shocked Vincent even knew who I was (even though I’d been in multiple meetings with him, his office was right next to mine, and we shared a secretary). “Junior associates are like Oompa Loompas,�
�� Vincent had once drunkenly uttered at the Christmas party. “How am I supposed to tell the difference between them?”

  If Vincent was emailing me directly instead of going through Ben, it had to be a major fire drill. Above all, Biglaw associates feared the fire drill. They always had completely unrealistic demands and even more unrealistic deadlines. They’re sort of like those reality TV shows that involve ridiculously impossible challenges. You have four hours to plan a wedding for one hundred guests using the following products … a weed whacker, a wicker basket, two chairs, and a tube of lipstick. Go!

  After a year and a half at F&D, I was used to the intensity and insanity that came with the fire drill. At least, I thought I was used to it. I held my breath and clicked on Vincent’s email.

  To: Mackenzie Corbett

  From: Vincent Krieder

  FIND THIS NOW

  -----------------Forwarded message---------------

  To: Vincent Krieder

  From: Oren Silverman

  Vincent,

  Our finance guys have alerted us to a joint venture agreement between Highlander Hotels and WorldRes Europe that we will need to terminate due to antitrust concerns. Is this permissible under the contract?

  Oren

  My grogginess burned off in a blaze of panic. ASAP didn’t exist in Vincent’s world. It was NOW. As in “If you’re still looking at this email you’re already behind.” Oompa loompa doompadee doo, I’ve got another puzzle for you.

  The joint venture agreements had only been made available at Highlander’s lawyers’ offices and were not permitted to be photocopied due to their extremely confidential subject matter, so Gavin had spent three days summarizing them in a conference room at the offices of Wexler & Reed. Which meant our only source of information about these agreements was his notes.