by Hoff, Stacy
CHAPTER 5
At home, I receive a voice mail message that assures me it’s better to be ignored than hated. “Sue,” says a high-pitched, cold, calculating voice. “This is Helen. You were sent a letter last week advising you to return my family law book. I’m sure you’ve received it. You haven’t responded, however, so I’m assuming your intent is to keep it. Please don’t anger me any more than you already have. Return the book now. After all, I’m sure you want to maintain an amicable relationship with your past employer.” Click.
After taking a deep breath, I take out my laptop and respond more professionally. Professionalism is all I had ever wanted from this firm anyway.
Dear Helen,
I do not have your book, Winning Family Law Cases in Connecticut. I don’t have any of your office’s other materials, either. Please do not contact me again.
Regards,
Susan
I had settled on Stone & Sommers for the sole reason that it was the first firm to offer me a job after I passed the bar exam. A small firm, it had just two partners, a paralegal, a secretary, and a receptionist. The pay was lousy, not even enough to cover my student loans and rent. Happy to start working (and not default on my financial obligations), I accepted their offer without having first read the employee handbook shoved at me. It turned out that the “great benefits” they pitched were not great. The handbook spelled them out as follows:
“After completing a year of service, the employee vests a week of paid vacation. After three years of service, the employee vests two weeks paid vacation. After five years of service, the partners agree to draft a Last Will & Testament for the employee at half-price. As to pregnant employees, Office baby showers, if any, shall be at the sole discretion of the partners. Any baby showers held for employees in the past does not waive the right of the partners to prevent and / or decline employee baby showers in the future.”
Good thing I wasn’t contemplating pregnancy anytime soon.
The partners had identical personality traits but opposite body types. Helen Stone was way over six-foot tall, emaciated, and vain to the point of complete self-absorption. Her white hair was cropped very short and spiked up, in a military grandma kind of way. Laced up pumps with very low splayed heels should have belonged to a school marm from yesteryear. This stern look screamed out, “don’t mess with me.” Helen’s shriek-first-ask questions-later attitude did nothing to dilute this message.
Pat Sommers, the other partner, was twenty years younger and barely over four feet tall. One day, Pat brought her seven-year old son to the firm after school. The boy was polite, pleasant, and quietly went about his homework. After several hours, I had almost forgotten that he was there, but remembered his presence quite suddenly when I heard him shout joyfully through the halls that he found a quarter. Excitedly, he called for his mother who reluctantly came out of her office.
“What is all this yelling?” Pat yelled at her son.
“Mom, I found a quarter,” the boy replied. “Look how shiny and new it is!”
“I can’t believe you are bothering me and the rest of the firm over a quarter,” Pat spat. “Besides, since you obviously found that quarter inside the firm, it must belong to somebody here. Are you trying to steal?” The boy silently handed the quarter over to his mother.
The rest of the staff wasn’t any better. They’d talk amongst themselves, suddenly stopping mid-sentence if I walked over. They’d give me a tight-lipped smile and hurry back to their desks. They weren’t overtly rude—they just excluded me. I tried being pleasant. If they dropped something, I’d pick it up. If I was going outside to buy a Coke, I’d ask if they wanted me to pick one up for them. If they had any questions about drafting a document, I’d carefully explain everything. Nothing worked.
I couldn’t please Pat or Helen either. Working full days and working hard was apparently not enough for them. On my last night at the firm they called me into their tiny conference room. They had “caught” me putting on my coat to leave at 5:30 p.m.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Pat asked.
“Yes, where?” echoed Helen.
“I was planning on going home. Was there something you asked me to do that I forgot? If so I apologize, and I’ll be happy to stay late to get whatever it was done for you now.”
“That’s not the point,” Pat said.
“The point,” Helen said, “is that your hours in general aren’t near late enough. We worked late hours back when we were first year associates. You’re not putting in the same amount of hours we did.”
“I thought I was going to be judged on how well I did your work and whether I completed my projects in a timely fashion, not whether I stayed late just for the sake of staying late.”
“Whatever you’re doing, you could be doing more of it, if you stayed later,” Pat argued.
“We’re paying you very good money. Don’t you think so, Pat?”
“Very good money,” Pat echoed.
The United States’ Synchronized Torture Team. If I were one of the sport’s judges, I would have given them the gold. Very good money? Were they kidding? With the increased schedule I re-calculated my per hour wage. Work until eleven or twelve at night? I don’t think so.
“Pat, Helen,” I heard myself saying, “I quit.”
Not thinking of the subsequent consequences, it felt good.
I walked out of the office. The firm was physically small so I was sure the staff heard everything. They didn’t say anything to me, so I left without a single good-bye.
I had already left one bad situation. Am I in another? Grovas & Cleval is better, yes. At least Jordan Grant pays me well and attempts pleasantries on occasion. I don’t have to deal too much with his staff. I’m left alone to do my work. The isolation is the same, but at least the situation is professionally better.
I have to speak with Jordan. I dread our meetings because it’s always an uncomfortable situation for me. He never looks at me when we’re talking. His eyes stay glued to his computer, smart phone, or whatever document he’s working on. I tried not taking it personally. Not much luck with that. Am I really that bad to deal with? Was my last firm right about me? Taking a deep breath, I knock on his door and walk into his office.
“Hi, Jordan. You said for me to come talk to you.”
“Yeah. A minute,” he says blandly without looking up.
It’s true—he doesn’t think I’m worth his time or attention. My hands quiver as I try to control my temper. What I’m about to do is going to be harmful to my professional health. But I have to stand up for myself, just like I did when I quit Stone & Sommers.
God, I am going to regret this. Pride should not override one’s natural instinct to protect against poverty.
I hesitate long enough to cool down—at least a smidgen. “You know, Jordan, I really go out of my way not to bother you. I don’t ask you a bunch of stupid questions. I figure out almost everything myself. So when you ask for a meeting but you don’t want to give me your attention, I get frustrated.”
“You don’t hold back on saying what you feel, do you?”
Believe me, I am holding back. I just look at him. At least one of us has no problem making eye contact.
“Okay,” he says. He puts down his pen, folds his arms, and looks directly at me. “I’m listening.”
This catches me off guard. Pleasantly. “When I was at town hall, I heard the P & Z clerk say our proposal will be rejected because the homes are too close together.”
“Are you sure they were talking about our proposal?”
“I saw our plans on the counter while they were discussing it.”
“Okay, that is very critical information.” He pauses. “Really, I’m sorry. I should act better. In fact, I’ll start now. Let’s get out of the office for a few minute
s. I’ll buy you a coffee.”
“But we have coffee in the break room.”
“We have iced mocha in our break room? Really? I didn’t know that.”
I smile. Amazing—he looks even more attractive when he’s being sociable. The warm look on his face suddenly makes me feel hot in places I don’t want to think about. Shit. “Er, where are we going?” I ask, forcing my mind to stay focused. And my body to stay celibate.
“Around the block to the schmancy new coffee joint that opened up, Java Mama.”
“It’s Java Lava.”
“Whatever. I hear it’s a cool place to get coffee. Do you need your coat?” When I shake my head he chuckles and says, “Right. We’ll be brave against the elements.”
So he really does have the ability to be personable. I follow him downstairs and out of the building. The weather outside is frosty but tolerable. Trotting after him, my breath forms foggy clouds. “You’ve got long legs. Wait for me!” I laugh, despite the awkwardness of now having a few moments of fun with the boss I barely know.
“It’s an associate’s job to keep up.” He looks behind his shoulder but doesn’t slow down.
I keep up my trot until we reach Java Lava. I’ve passed by this place a few times since it opened a month ago but haven’t had a chance to go in. Inside, the smell of coffee and cinnamon engulfs me. I inhale, stopping short of snorting like a horse. I should close my eyes to help savor the scent, but it’s impossible not to stare at the walls. They’re painted with the scene of a volcano spewing magma chunks on a small Italian town.
We wait in line to order. “I told you I got the name right,” I say. “It’s got a Mount Vesuvius theme, not a pregnancy theme. So Java Lava is a much better fit than Java Mama, don’t you think?”
He laughs. “Sure, crazy name to go with crazy décor. Have you been here before?”
“No. My boss doesn’t normally let me out of the office.” Am I pushing my luck with this guy? Most likely, but at least I’m actually having a pleasant conversation with him.
“It’s my first time too. Unless I’m entertaining clients, I don’t venture out of the office too much either, albeit by choice. So this is a new experience for both of us.” He pauses then gives me a small smile. “Look, Sue,” he says in a surprisingly soft voice, “I’m sorry if you think I’m unconscionably rude. I do value your input and do want to hear what you have to say.”
“Can I help you?” says a small Asian man behind the counter. He’s dressed in a red-orange jumper, I assume to go with the lava theme.
Jordan looks at me. “Think we can pass on getting something iced, given the weather? Hot chocolate, perhaps?”
Nodding in response, I take my drink and follow him to a small slate table next to a window. We sit there together for a minute or two in silence. I take off the lid and blow into the cup to cool it down. Tilting it up to my mouth, I inch my tongue forward for a tentative temperature gauge. Not too scalding. Bracing myself for a full blast of heat, I sip some.
“Why did you leave your last job?” he asks suddenly.
I almost choke. “Umm, the firm wasn’t a good fit for me.”
“I guessed that. I meant why?”
I hesitate for a second. “I’ll sum it up by saying I didn’t feel valued.”
“Why was that?”
“My work was good, if that’s what you mean.” Be calm, Sue. Stop bristling.
“I’m sure your work was good. That’s why I’m surprised they didn’t value you. I’m wondering what their reason was.”
I try to surreptitiously wipe my sweaty hands on the corrugated jacket encircling my paper cup. “I’m not sure. I’m a quiet person, very focused on doing my job.” I take another sip of chocolate and clear my throat. “Having a real connection with people is important, don’t you think? Even in a professional environment, people need to feel like they belong.”
“You care about fitting in. Interesting. I never focus on that, myself.”
Of course you don’t. People gravitate to you. It takes me a moment to respond to him. Not wanting to reveal any information about myself, I turn the tables. “Why did your associate leave you?”
“We didn’t have the connection she was hoping for.” He looks down at his watch. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got a client coming by in a few minutes. Ready to head back?”
I nod and follow him back to the office. It looks like he’s not going to reveal a whole lot, either.
CHAPTER 6
The day of Jordan’s Planning and Zoning presentation is finally here, set to start at 7:00 p.m. I’m to be in the office to help him with any last minute items. This is the first time I’m to work a whole weekday in the office. It’s weird to suddenly be a part of it.
My being around is apparently weird for the staff, too. Amber stares at me when I set up shop. I’ve picked the only space available, a conference room taken over by the project’s maps, plans, reports, and drawings. Closing the door, I fantasize that this is a real office, my office. The place is a mess, but I could clean it, maybe add a potted plant to make myself look settled.
But before my butt can even warm the chair, Jordan shoves open the door with his foot, barks new orders at me, scowls, then flies off. This crazy pattern continues for hours. I leave the door open to avoid having black scuffmarks mar the door. Obviously this is never going to be my office, it’s just an extension of his.
When lunchtime rolls around, a Greek salad appears on my desk with my name scrawled on it. I would have preferred a Jewish deli platter, but hey, someone thought enough of me to realize I eat and ordered me something. Maybe I’m moving out of the professional basement. Nope. Jordan comes back and barks more orders.
Finally it’s 6:00 p.m. and it’s time to leave for the presentation. The staff is gone and only Jordan and I remain. I poke my head into his office and see him frantically scratching away on a legal pad. He’s obviously panicking. And here I thought panic only happened to me.
“Jordan,” I say gently. “We really have to go.”
“Can’t. A new component of the buildings’ specs just came in, and I need to make sure I address them. So here’s what we do—you go and stall the P & Z Board.”
“Umm. And how would I do that?”
“By using better communication skills than you’re using right now.”
“I’m serious. How am I supposed to stall a government board?”
“When they call our matter, don’t waive any rights. That will force them to read into the record all the metes and bounds of the parcel. That will take them about an hour.”
“But won’t that aggravate them?” I ask incredulously. From the very little I know about this field, most lawyers waive this formality because having the boundary lines read into the record is an enormous waste of time. The P & Z Board will either think we’re crazy or that we’re stalling. Either way they’ll be right.
“Yes, it will,” he agrees flatly, going back to his work. I gather he’s done with this discussion. I put the box of materials on an office trolley cart and wheel it down to my car.
I pay no attention to the road because now I’m in a panic, too. I do manage to pay attention to my heart banging away inside my chest, threatening to bust out of my body. Luckily, a part of my brain must be able to navigate to this place automatically because somehow I make it to Canton, despite the tremendous traffic.
Driving around the parking lot twice, I finally settle for the only free spot, partially over-taken by two mini-vans. After two aborted attempts, I manage to successfully slide the Volvo in. Opening my door a hair’s breadth almost dents the left mini-van. I scrunch out of the car. Hustling to the back of the car, I grab the box out of the trunk and balance it on my hip while jogging into town hall. The materials slosh around. I pray they don’t fall out.
Once in town hall, I quickly go to the hearing room. The dual swinging doors are banged open by my box. The room is huge and packed with people. Angry people. One side of the room has tall, formal looking chairs with placards on a large semi-circular table that identifies the names of the P & Z members. The table also holds a projector.
Because of the traffic, I’m right on time for the clerk’s reading of the agenda. So much for being early like I’d planned. Glancing down at my copy, I see our matter is number eight on the list. I’m hopeful that the agenda will move so slowly that I don’t have to try to stall.
An hour and half later, it’s almost time for item number eight.
