“It’s true,” I said. Jack still didn’t look up from his computer. I continued to ramble on anyway. “When you rejected me after that South Carolina trip, I couldn’t stand it. I made up all of these excuses about why you weren’t right for me, and it kept me away from you for all of these years. But now —”
“I rejected you?” Jack said. “You were the one who rejected me. I was ready to leave the firm for you — something I’d worked my ass off for — and you barely gave it a day’s thought.”
“I did give it a day’s thought,” I said. “In fact, it was the only thing I thought about until Danielle Lewis took me for lunch and threatened me with my job. I got scared and I ran away from you. I was wrong. I should have fought for you. But all of that doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is now. What about now? Isn’t now what’s important?”
“There is no now,” he said. “You’re going to get back with Douglas.”
“I’m not back with Douglas. I will never get back together with Douglas. I’m sorry about everything that’s happened. I want to make everything all right now. I want to be with you. I love you.” I began to hop back into his office, certain that he would jump up from his desk and hold me to him and tell me that he loved me, too, but he didn’t even get up from his chair.
“Really?” he asked.
“Really,” I said, my voice almost a whisper.
“See, Brooke,” Jack said, pointing to his computer, “that’s why I’m so good at crafting surveys. I’m very good at knowing that just because a product’s label says one thing to you with a big beautiful smile, you’d have to be a fool to believe it.”
I stood there frozen. I couldn’t believe that Jack didn’t believe me, didn’t forgive me, didn’t want to be with me. There was nothing left to say. As I turned around and hobbled out of his office, I could feel his eyes burning into my back.
I hopped back to my office, slammed the door shut and slumped down into my chair. I set my crutches down, leaning them on my desk next to me, but before I could stop them, they slid down and fell to the ground. I considered picking them back up for a moment, but the thought of reaching over and then getting back up exhausted me.
I was right. Vanessa was wrong and I was right. It was done. It was over. Jack and I were over. Before we’d even had a chance to really begin. Whatever Jack and I had built, I had broken. And it couldn’t be fixed. Jack didn’t want it to be fixed.
As I swiveled around to my computer, certain that work would take my mind off Jack, the telephone rang. I didn’t recognize the number on caller ID, but I picked it up anyway.
“Hello?” I said into the phone, completely forgetting to be professional and answer the phone with a crisp “Brooke Miller.”
“Hi, is this Brooke Miller?” a voice asked.
“Yes,” I said, sitting up in my chair.
“My name is Michelle Berger and I do attorney placement. Do you have some time now to talk?”
I laughed to myself. A litigator never has time to talk. I looked at my computer, with the Healthy Foods memo I’d written for Jack still open in Word, and the assorted other case law and documents I still had to organize for the Healthy Foods case.
“As a matter of fact, Michelle,” I said, clicking the Healthy Foods memo off my computer, “I do.”
28
It’s amazing how similar a job interview is to a date. As I hobbled on my crutches across town to each of the small law firms where Michelle had secured me an interview, I couldn’t help but notice that all of the same benchmarks were there: you worry about your outfit; you stress out over what you will talk about; and everyone is trying to put his or her best face forward. There is little to no room for error; the slightest faux pas and you could be back at square one, jobless, or worse yet, single.
The screening interview is like a date over drinks or coffee — the other party hasn’t committed yet to the idea of giving you more than thirty minutes of their time. If said other party deems you good enough, then you get to the real interview, where you meet four or five members of the firm, and you curse the fact that you wore your best suit for the screening interview and told all of your best anecdotes. But still, it’s a second date.
All of the parties smile a lot and highlight their most positive attributes and leave out any negative ones. Everyone laughs at everyone else’s jokes and keeps their elbows off the table. I tried hard to remember how to fold my hands in the ladylike way my aunt Myrna taught me to when I was younger. The same topics are taboo — no one discusses politics or sex — except in the job interview, you are encouraged to immediately express how much you love the firm and how you want to stay there until your dying day.
In both the job interview and dating, you hope and pray for the Holy Grail — the job offer/marriage proposal — and then soon learn that the courting was actually the fun and easy part.
Michelle had set me up on six screening interviews/first dates, which I then parlayed into three second-round interviews/ second dates.
After interviewing at all three firms that had invited me back, I had secured offers from two of them.
I agonized over my decision for days, in striking contrast to the on-campus recruitment season when I was in law school. Back then, Vanessa and I sat in the Law Review office in the height of interview season and discussed our options:
“Which firm did you like the best?” Vanessa said.
“I was so busy trying to get them to like me that I wasn’t really paying attention to them….” I said as I leafed through The American Lawyer midlevel associate survey. “Which did you like the best?”
“Gilson Hecht is on Park Avenue, is only three blocks away from Saks and has the most attractive lawyers,” Vanessa said. “Probably because they’re close to Saks and can get really cute work outfits.”
“But,” I asked as the managing editor of the Law Review walked into the office, “where do they rank on the Law Journal list? How much experience do junior associates get early on? Number of female partners?”
“Good questions, Brooke,” Vanessa said, practically biting a hole in the side of her cheek as she tried not to laugh. We had decided early on in the on-campus interview process that all of the big firms were practically identical, so we were best off finding a place where we would just fit in and get along with the other associates. “I’m also curious to know the partner-to-associate ratio.”
The managing editor nodded at both of us as she grabbed the mail from her mailbox and left the office. We both fell into hysterical laughter the second she walked out of the office.
This time around was different, though. I actually cared about things like level of responsibility given to associates and the partner-to-associate ratio. I paid attention when I was at each firm, to every person, every word uttered, the subtext in what they said to me, the way they interacted with those around them, their body language. Because this time, I would not make a mistake. This time, I would not make an important life decision for the wrong reasons.
My first offer came from Anderton Frommer, another Park Avenue law firm like Gilson Hecht, with a similarly long and illustrious history. Much smaller than Gilson Hecht, it was a small intellectual property “boutique” firm with about fifty attorneys. I felt immediately at home when I walked into its offices. Michelle told me that it was the sort of place that attorneys who want to leave big firm life gravitate to; it still had the creature comforts you were used to at your old big firm, and you still would get the same thrill out of telling people where you worked.
My other offer was from Smith, Goldberg and Reede. I’d never heard of them before, but Michelle told me that they were a relatively young up-and-coming firm whose reputation in intellectual property work was growing due to their excellent work product and high ethical standards. Lawyers who worked with them and litigated against them routinely praised them for the way they did business.
Their offices on Third Avenue weren’t nearly as posh as Gilson Hecht’s offices, or e
ven Anderton Frommer’s, for that matter, but somehow that didn’t seem to matter anymore once I began to meet the people who worked there. There was no mahogany, no imported marble, and no room dedicated solely to supplies. More importantly, though, there was also no cafeteria — SGR attorneys weren’t expected to work through dinner.
I met two associates whom I really liked. One was junior to me and the other would be senior, and I could see myself working with both of them. I also met one of the founding members of the firm, Noah Goldberg, and was immediately impressed that he would take the time out of his schedule to meet a prospective new associate. He wasn’t as old as I expected him to be. None of the named partners were even still alive at Gilson Hecht, nor were they at most of the city’s large firms.
As Noah talked about his vision for the firm and the type of lawyer he was looking to hire, I began to remember why I’d wanted to be a lawyer in the first place — I loved to write and I loved to work with people. He talked about helping clients and being creative and working with good people. Hearing him talk about intellectual property law and why he chose the field got me excited about the law in a way I hadn’t been since my second-year Trademarks class. The work was what was important, not whether or not your case got into the paper. Having a life outside of work made you happy, not merely having the ability to tell people that you worked at a prestigious firm. As we talked about intellectual property law, I realized that I’d truly gotten excellent training at Gilson Hecht and that I was very much prepared for more responsibility and a new opportunity, which was what SGR was offering me.
Noah introduced me to my last interviewer of the day, a partner named Rosalyn Ford. Introducing the female candidates to a successful female partner was a trick the big firms used that I remembered from interviewing the first time around (“This firm is great for women, we’ll prove it to you by dangling a female partner in front of you!”), but I still appreciated the effort.
“Brooke Miller,” Rosalyn said as we shook hands and she helped me set my crutches next to my seat. “It can’t be easy running around Manhattan with these.”
“No, it’s not,” I said with a smile, noticing a picture on her desk of her and two toddlers.
“Now that I work here I actually get to see those little guys,” she said, catching me looking at the photo. I smiled back at her. “But then again, my kids stay up until midnight.”
“Oh,” I said, trying to formulate a response.
“I’m kidding,” she said. “Only kidding.” She told me a bit about herself and her family and how different her life had become since leaving big-firm life. We both agreed that the big-firm lifestyle could be punishing, though I was cautious in my answers to let her know that I was not opposed to working hard when circumstances called for it.
“So, what attracted you to Gilson Hecht?” she asked. “Actually, no, that’s a stupid question. I was seduced by the big-firm thing, too, right out of law school. It’s hard not to be, isn’t it? The offices are beautiful and state of the art, your clients are all famous and world-renowned brands, your cases are always in the paper, you have unlimited resources at your fingertips, and they pay you more than you really deserve your first year out of law school.” I couldn’t help but smile in response. She put it so succinctly, but she was right. Rosalyn reminded me of the sort of person I’d grown up with, down-to-earth and without airs, and I found her easy to be around. “And don’t you love saying that you work at Gilson Hecht?” she asked. I was slightly embarrassed by the question because the fact was that I had loved saying that I worked there, and somehow that now seemed silly.
Rosalyn and I talked a lot about why I wanted to leave Gilson Hecht and her own decision to leave a big firm. She told me about the types of cases she was working on and the types of cases that I could hope to work on. As the interview wound down, she summed it up for me: “Offices aren’t as fancy and the cases aren’t as sexy, but you’ll get better hours, and better experience. I’m happy I came here and I think that you will be, too.”
I was sold. Within weeks, I was on my way to SGR. They didn’t offer the big firm salary, but they did offer more substance, which seemed like an excellent trade-off.
I was off crutches by the time I gave my notice at Gilson Hecht and then spent the following two weeks wrapping things up on all of my active cases. The Healthy Foods case was wrapping itself up, actually, thanks to a successful survey Jack had crafted that showed that real consumers were not actually confused into thinking that Healthy Foods coffee was healthy, as the lawsuit claimed. The case would be disappearing in no time, due to Jack’s good work.
It took me most of the two weeks just to clean out my office, throwing out some things and giving away others. It was a long-standing Gilson Hecht tradition that as an associate left, that associate would give away most of his or her things to those he or she left behind. A changing of the guards of sorts. I had quite a few things on my own desk that had been handed down to me from more senior associates whom I’d looked up to before they’d left themselves.
I had Stephanie Paul’s old Gilson Hecht mug from before Trattner had become a named partner — a collector’s item for sure. I also had Bernard Mitnick’s old Etch A Sketch that he used to keep on top of his computer, still with the poorly drawn picture of a bird (a “free” bird) that he’d drawn for me on his way out. I took those with me.
I gave away my own Gilson Hecht mug that I’d received the first day I came to the firm as a summer associate and the stress ball that used to sit at the edge of my desk. I hoped that I wouldn’t need a stress ball at my new firm. I put my take-out menu collection into a legal folder and gave it to the first-year associate I was assigned to advise. I told her who to ask for at each place, along with what to order and what to avoid.
Vanessa came in and took all of my office supplies, from the desk calendar down to the paper clips, which she claimed were in much better condition than her own (something about my not using my stapler as much as she did — I was pretty sure it was a not-so-subtle dig at my work ethic, but I let it slide). She also dragged out my two visitor’s chairs. They were chocolate-brown distressed leather, whereas most of the associates all had the same standard fabric run-of-the-mill doctor’s waiting-room chairs in their offices. I had gotten them when I was a first-year associate — stolen them really — from the office of a recently disbarred partner. I’d felt it only fair that I have first dibs on his office furniture — I’d been working on a case for him at the time, and had been the first to know of his impending disbarment. I felt Gilson Hecht owed me something for the pain and suffering I endured from having watched a partner being taken out of the office in handcuffs right in the middle of a meeting.
I shuffled through my top desk drawer for more things to throw away or give away when I came upon the faux engagement ring Jack had bought me. It still shone brightly with its tiny fake baguettes and fake platinum band. I picked it up and looked at it for a moment just as Sherry Lee, one of my favorite first-year associates, came into my office.
“I knew it was true!” she said, walking into my office and sitting down on my empty credenza. She crossed her slim legs and I remembered how Vanessa and I used to get dressed up and wear skirts when we were first years.
“What was true?” I asked.
“That you got engaged to Douglas in L.A.! It’s why you quit, isn’t it? Let me see the ring!” Sherry said, leaning over my desk.
“This isn’t the ring,” I explained. “I didn’t get engaged to Douglas. We’re not together anymore.”
“Then what’s that in your hand?” she asked me.
“This?” I asked, looking at the ring. “This is nothing.”
“Oh,” she said. “Sorry. Well, then, I’ll see you at your going-away party tomorrow night.”
I smiled at her as she walked out. I turned the ring over and over in my hands, unsure of what to do with it. I couldn’t throw it out and I most certainly couldn’t give it away. I turned it over and ov
er again, remembering how much fun Jack and I had had together on the day that he’d bought it for me.
I put the ring into an interoffice envelope and put it in my Out box.
29
I didn’t even know I was going to do it when I walked into the place, but the moment I got there, something overcame me and I just knew that the time was right. Something was different — somehow I was different — and I decided all at once.
“I usually don’t recommend doing this after you’ve had a traumatic situation,” Starleen said.
“I haven’t had a traumatic situation,” I said simply.
“Let’s see,” she said, “Douglas broke up with you and threw you out of your apartment after proposing to some bimbo, which left you dateless for Trip’s wedding. Then, you realized you were in love with your best friend, but Douglas came back and ruined that, too. And now, you’re about to start a new job. You’re right, Brooke, that’s no stress at all.”
“Do it,” I said, looking at myself in the mirror. “I’m ready.”
“After you do this,” she said, “you can’t just go back, you know.”
Actually, you could. As I walked into the hair salon that day, there was a huge sign advertising a summer special on hair extensions. You could cut all of your hair off one day, and then return to the salon the very next day and have extensions put in that would make your hair the exact same length that it had been. But that didn’t matter. I wouldn’t need to go back.
“Cut it all off,” I said to Starleen, who had been my hairstylist for the last ten years. When I’d first started seeing her, she’d been a mere assistant to the namesake of the salon (read: charged really cheap rates), but she had worked her way up to become a senior stylist (read: so expensive that I’m actually embarrassed to admit the price). She’d seen me through Trip and Douglas and about a million other bad dates in between. So, I could understand her apprehension to change my style so drastically after such a long time.
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