by Erica Katz
A.I’ve answered this. [Pause.] I knew he was an important client of the firm, and perhaps that made me slightly more . . . accommodating than I would have otherwise been.
Q.Was anybody else present the first time you met him?
A.Yes. Peter Dunn.
Q.Please describe your first meeting with Gary Kaplan.
[Let the record show Witness is conferring with her attorney.]
A.My answer will be altered to honor anything privileged by nature of the attorney-client privilege.
Q.I will remind you that privilege only extends to communications related to the purposes of giving or obtaining legal advice that are intended to be confidential.
A.Thank you. I am aware of what privilege covers.
Q.Could you please recount that initial meeting for us, as well as your impressions?
Chapter 8
I walked down the hallway to Peter’s office and was about to give a courtesy knock on the closed door before entering for our scheduled call regarding the merger he’d staffed me on when I heard another male voice emanating from his office. Maybe his secretary had double-booked him? I almost welcomed the excuse to turn and leave. Each assignment working for a new partner was both an opportunity to prove myself and an opportunity to mess up. Matt and Jordan now knew I was sharp and hardworking, whereas Peter knew nothing about me. Instead, I knocked lightly on the door.
“Come on in!” Peter shouted from beyond the door. I cracked it open, and he waved me in. As I opened the door farther, I saw another man in Peter’s guest chair.
“Gary Kaplan, this is Alex Vogel,” Peter offered, gesturing for me to take the seat next to a dark-haired man wearing a tailored charcoal suit, white shirt, and baby-blue tie. The famous Gary Kaplan. Founder and general partner of Stag River, the firm’s largest client. Don’t say anything stupid. As I took him in, I was surprised to see that Gary didn’t look powerful. He appeared to me meek, almost ill, with dark, sunken eyes and a sallow complexion. His suit looked expensive, but his skinny frame did it no favors.
“I’ll have a coffee. Black. Please,” Gary said curtly, not acknowledging me in any other way.
I stared at him for a prolonged moment and then looked to Peter to make sure I’d heard correctly.
“Oh. Alex is an associate. She’s not . . .”
I looked down at the dark gray Theory suit I had splurged on at Saks after my first paycheck and wondered what about my general demeanor screamed “assistant.”
“Apologies,” Gary said without a trace of contrition. “But I’d still like that coffee.” He looked over to Peter, whose discomfort was apparent.
“Actually, I could use one too,” I said brightly. “Glad to get you one while I’m there.”
Peter smiled gratefully. “And Alex? I pushed our call back by thirty minutes, so we have time.”
I made myself a decaf and Gary a black coffee in the kitchenette across from Peter’s office and returned moments later with both in hand. Gary took his drink and set it on the table in front of him without thanking me.
“I have dinner with my family downtown, so I need to run soon,” Gary said, then paused. “Can you print me an NDA before I leave?”
“At the Nomad?” Peter asked.
“The only place I’ll dine below Fifty-Seventh Street,” Gary snorted.
“Alex, would you mind printing an NDA for Gary?” Peter asked. “It’s on the system.”
Relieved to be out of that room, I ran down the hall to my office and opened the online library of firm documents. I searched for “Stag River” and “NDA.” Nothing. I searched for “Stag River.” Nope. “Nondisclosure” and “Stag.” Three results. Boom. I printed the one labeled “FORM” without any of the details filled in and returned to Peter’s office triumphantly, where I handed it to Gary.
“Thanks, but could you be a doll and print a few?” He didn’t look up at me. “This isn’t right. An NDA for me. Personally. Not for Stag River.”
I turned and headed back to my office without a word.
“I’m in a bit of a rush,” he yelled after me. I rolled my eyes with my back to him but still quickened my pace. I attempted to visualize my possible reactions on the runway of gray hallway carpet before me. He was the most powerful man in finance, and he was Klasko’s client. I could either accept Gary’s behavior as an insult or accept it as a challenge. But either way, I had to accept it.
I took a seat at my desk and quickly found “Gary R. Kaplan NDA” in the library, then printed five and walked once more to Peter’s office.
Gary flipped to the signature page and nodded. “A few is three,” he commented under his breath before he got up, shook hands with Peter, and brushed past me and out the door.
“Thanks, Alex. He’s a peculiar guy,” Peter offered once Gary was out of earshot. He’s an asshole. “I appreciate how you handled that. He’s an important client. He gives us more than a hundred—”
I didn’t want to make excuses for Gary, but I didn’t want Peter to think I hadn’t noticed his behavior. “Yep, I get it. That’s why I didn’t say anything.”
Just then Peter’s calendar alarm dinged, and he gestured for me to take a seat for our call.
The call with our client led to a call with the investment bankers, which led to a call with the target company’s counsel. Almost four hours later, I was struggling to keep my lids open as our third call droned on.
Peter nodded at the grated speaker on his phone. “That’s our understanding as well.” I combed through my greasy hair with my nails, then wiped my finger under my eyes and looked at the smudged eyeliner I had just cleared. I couldn’t imagine what I looked like to Peter, whose perfectly unwrinkled shirt made me wonder if he could have changed clothes in the last hour without me noticing.
David Ramirez, the company’s lawyer, launched into another five-minute monologue about noncompetition restrictions potentially triggering antitrust violation issues.
“Sure, we can run that by our client, but between you and me, I think it’s not happening.” Peter gave a small smile as if we shared a secret, and I smiled back, though not understanding what it might be. He sat up suddenly and scratched under his collarbone, and I allowed my eyes to graze his chest and then rest on his bicep—at the brim of his white undershirt—noting how it clung closely to the muscle below it.
“I gotta tell you, David, you know I’m fair, but this is just a nonstarter. Gary will never ever agree to this. I’m not trying to be a dick. It’s just the truth,” Peter said calmly. He mouthed “I’m sorry” to me at the use of his language, then muted the phone. “What time is it?”
“Nine.”
“Have you eaten?” He looked concerned.
How could I have eaten? I haven’t left your office since five.
“I’m okay,” I mouthed, even though we were on mute.
David was rambling on, and while I was failing to catch anything he said, Peter appeared to have entirely forgotten he was still on the line.
“You’re not hungry?”
I shrugged.
“We’ll get food.” He clicked the mute button off. “Good. Glad to hear that. Alex will send the updated draft tomorrow morning. Nothing will move before Monday, so no sense in us losing more sleep before then. Good night,” Peter said, and clicked off the call.
I felt like I’d just missed something crucial. What had David just agreed to? Why was it good?
“No steak, right?” Peter said.
How could I update the draft if I had no idea what had just happened? Why wouldn’t anything move before Monday? It was only Thursday.
“Alex?”
“I’m sorry, I . . .”
“You don’t eat steak, right?” I nodded, but looked back down at my notepad. “Meet you in the lobby in ten,” he said. “We’ll discuss the changes over dinner.”
I buried my chin farther into my coat, hiding from the unseasonable November wind as we made our way to our Quality car. Once we were inside it, Peter alte
rnated between typing carefully and scrolling furiously, interrupting the silence only once. “Hey, can you just call a Quality car to do a pickup at the Starlight Diner on Seventy-Second between Park and Madison? You can bill it to Stag River.”
I nodded and began to type the request into my phone.
“Call. Don’t email,” he clarified. I picked up my phone, calling the Klasko operator to be connected to our car service, slightly confused as to why somebody from Stag River would call their attorney for a ride home.
“Who do I say the car is for?” I asked as the line rang. Peter continued to type without a response. Shit. Did I piss him off? He didn’t look upset, though, more like he hadn’t heard me.
The ringing stopped as the operator’s voice piped into my ear. “Good evening. Klasko & Fitch, how can I help you?” I ordered the car, and as soon as the operator heard the Stag River billing number, she bypassed the usual step of asking for passenger name and destination. I hung up and gazed out the window at the intersection of Fiftieth Street and Park Avenue, where a young couple made out passionately as they waited for the light to change.
“That’s good,” Peter said. I looked over at him to see that he was finally off the phone. “When you stop taking joy in the happiness of others, just do everybody a favor and end it.” I realized there’d been a sleepy smile on my lips, and I straightened them. “Did you have a moment to review the teaser language I sent you for our sell-side?”
“I did. Should I be diligencing the actual revenue numbers to confirm that they’re accurate?”
“The whole point of a teaser is for the company to garner interest from the market. If the document isn’t accurate, even by a little, it can destroy any potential interest—out of mistrust for the seller. It’s our job to make sure the deal goes through. And companies need to know exactly who they’re getting into bed with.”
I nodded slowly while still mulling over his words, thinking how much the merger of companies paralleled the merger of people.
As we walked through Grand Central Terminal, the stores and restaurants were rapidly shutting down for the evening and I was growing increasingly annoyed that our dinner was really just me accompanying him on the first leg of his trip home to Westchester. The “Hours of Operation” on the glass doors of the Oyster Bar indicated that there were only three minutes left of service, but they’d already been bolted shut. Peter knocked on the glass, and one of the servers wagged his finger at us before spinning around to hear something being shouted at him by the bartender.
“Ever been here?” Peter asked as he loosened his tie. I gave a small shake of my head and peered inside at the bone-colored rectangular tile ceiling that arched cavernously and continuously in a way I thought only churches or caves did. The air looked warm behind the closed glass door, glowing with an auburn light that I much preferred to the contrived fluorescent white of the office. It was casual. Charming. No pomp or circumstance. Its confidence was raw, nothing like the places I had been to for other work dinners. My annoyance at his choice of location melted into a sort of calm awe at the grandeur of the iconic restaurant, which until that moment, I’d had no idea was actually located within the terminal.
A young waiter scurried to the door and unlocked the deadbolt. “Didn’t recognize you, Mr. Dunn. Apologies,” he said, looking nervous. Peter shook him off genially and pointed to the bar. The waiter nodded, and Peter led me into the restaurant, which was nearly empty. I spotted one couple finishing their wine at a table, but busboys were sweeping up around them while a few servers were gathered in the corner, counting their tips.
“Don’t even worry! We’re the ones here past closing!” I said to the waiter, enjoying the power of being able to calm him, and he seemed to exhale.
Peter chatted with the silver-haired bartender, whose porcelain skin and lack of facial hair made it impossible to tell whether he was gray at thirty-five or aging extremely well at sixty, and I hoisted myself onto the barstool beside Peter. I pulled my skirt down below my knees and retucked my shirt in the back as nonchalantly as possible.
“Do you do oysters?” Peter asked.
I nodded, wondering if the bartender was too polite or professional to rush us to place our orders.
“Dominic,” Peter said, turning toward the bartender, “two dozen. One from the gulf or whatever is meaty, and one of the smaller. The young lady thinks she likes oysters. But she’s never been here before.” He looked over at me. “We’re going to show her how good they can be.”
Dominic smiled at me, and I grinned back, unable to contain the thrill of being there after hours. I had never witnessed a man as in control as Peter was—people did exactly as he instructed them to.
“What’ll you be drinking?” Dominic asked me, his voice and demeanor leading me to believe he was an older man who aged well.
“Rosé and oysters is my favorite summer meal,” I announced, striving to sound casually sophisticated, but Peter and Dominic glanced at one another with wry smiles. I had somehow revealed my naïveté, though I had no idea how.
“Would you be open to trying it with a white?” Dominic suggested. “We have a Poulsard and a sauvignon blanc that are drinking so nicely right now.”
I quickly conjured up the scene from the dinner with National Bank. What had Didier said with his nose shoved in the sauvignon blanc? Lime?
“I’d imagine the Poulsard is drinking well this year, but I love the idea of the citrus from a sauvignon blanc with oysters. Is that okay?” I asked Peter, the words falling clumsily out of my mouth.
Dominic’s lip curl indicated amusement, but Peter simply said “Your world,” locking his green eyes with mine. His were no longer tired and were now bright and full of mischief. The sense that he was looking straight through me was more unsettling than gratifying. “We’ll have a bottle, Dom,” he said, turning from me.
“So, maybe you know wine,” Peter said. I didn’t. “But you don’t know oysters. Dom here has taught me everything I know about them.”
I became painfully aware of my feet dangling from the barstool, and placed them firmly on the crossbar between the stool legs to repress the feeling that I was just a stupid child playing at being a grown-up.
“Are you doing only oysters tonight?” Dom called over his shoulder.
“Yes! Send the kitchen home, for God’s sake!” Peter said, taking off his jacket. His arm brushed mine as he twisted it out of the sleeve. “Pardon me.” He touched my arm, on purpose this time. “I just want to call my wife. I’ll be right back.”
I took out my phone and texted Sam.
Alex: Quitting Klasko and playing the lottery aggressively starting tomorrow.
Sam: Ha! Stuck?
Alex: Home by 11. Love you.
Peter was back at my side just as Dominic put two glasses down in front of us. He presented the bottle to Peter and chatted about the Mets as he took out a knife and worked open the foil in a fluid sweep.
“Cheers.” Peter held out his glass, and we clinked.
I inhaled perfunctorily before taking a long sip. “Good?” Peter asked. “I have no idea what I’m supposed to smell when I smell wine.”
The oysters were placed before us, lining the perimeter of a circular tray of ice.
“Moving from west to east in doubles.” Dominic pointed with two fingers, his palm upturned. “Deer Creek. Humboldt . . .”
I stared at them as the next ten types of oysters played in the background. I took in the gray of their flesh—the sheen of their brine.
Naked. Naked? Had somebody just said the word naked? I needed sleep. I didn’t even know why I was at dinner right now. I should be working. Or sleeping.
I looked up at Peter.
“Okay? Just for the first one. Just to get the taste.” He held an oyster with no cocktail sauce or horseradish up in the air. I nodded and lifted its counterpart from the ice. We loosened the meat with the tiny forks in silent synchronicity and tipped our heads backward, shells to our lips.
> “What do you think?” Peter asked.
“Yum!” I blurted out, blushing at my choice of words.
“I know. The liquor is so creamy. So is the flesh. And they burst so nicely with just a bit of a chew.”
I leaned forward, taking copious mental notes. It was proper to chew them slightly. I always just swallowed them. I felt the first gulps of wine work their magic on my empty stomach. The warmth spread down from my abdomen to my legs and up to my chest.
“How are we doing?” Dominic’s voice slowed my blood flow.
“Excellent. Just what we needed after a long day at the office. Grab us a few shrimp cocktails too, please. Will you eat New England clam chowder?” Peter turned to me. I shook my head and wrinkled my nose, just tired and just buzzed enough to not be completely amenable. “Fried calamari?” I smiled and nodded. Dominic turned and made his way to the kitchen.
Hadn’t he just told them we weren’t eating, and the kitchen staff should go home? Did anybody ever say no to this man?
I took another sip of the wine, tasting the citrus mingling with the milky residue of the oyster on my tongue, and felt Peter watching me.
“Oysters are best in the winter. The whole month with an r thing is true, you know,” he said.
“A very smart man once told me that I could be perfect or I could be alive. I think that gives me license to eat oysters in summer.” I cocked my head playfully.
Peter leaned back and laughed freely, as though I had released something chaining him down. He had the confident, windblown quality of somebody who had been on adventures in foreign lands, gotten in a fair bit of trouble, and had never experienced darkness or loneliness. It made me want to be close to him, to steal it from him when his head was turned.
“You’re different from the other first-years,” Peter said, then shook his head, as if remembering himself. “You know, the first job I ever had was shucking oysters at this fish shack in the town where I grew up.”
I couldn’t picture him wearing anything but a suit. “Where did you grow up?”
“Boston. You know, prep school and lobster rolls. My old man made me work on the dock to learn the value of a dollar. Came in handy for summers on the Cape. Embarrassingly cliché.” He held out his hands and pointed to the small white lines of faded scars on his large palms. “As you can see, I wasn’t very good at first.”
