The Boys' Club

by Erica Katz

  As soon as her top was off, she turned her back to me, and I had to shut my eyes for a moment. Her back was a collage of patchwork violence. I couldn’t imagine which instruments made most of the marks, but there had to have been belts or whips involved. I took in the scratch marks, bloody and raw, and the bite marks up by her shoulder. I held open the robe as she eased her arms through the armholes, and she turned back to me as she pulled the two sides of the robe across her chest.

  “I don’t have insurance,” she said.

  “Don’t worry. I got it.” I could barely get the words out through my tears.

  The PA returned with a tall, balding physician, both of their expressions serious.

  “Are you family?” the doctor asked.

  I shook my head, and they politely asked me to wait outside, though I could still make out most of what they were saying through the thin curtain forming her ER “room.” She adamantly refused a rape kit. Her breast implant had somehow been flipped. “He kicked it,” she kept repeating. There was a flutter of movement, and from what I could gather from the whispers, she had tried to stand and fallen slightly. I could hear her yelling for them to take their hands off her, when I assumed they were trying to help. Then there was silence. Then crying. I plugged my ears with my fingers and sank to the floor.

  As soon as the doctor left, I slipped back in to find Kristen getting dressed.

  “You’re finished?” I asked, though I knew she couldn’t have been.

  “Thanks so much,” she said, avoiding my eyes as she did.

  “Where are you headed now?” I asked.

  “Home,” she said with a shrug. “I just email his assistant to say when I want the plane to be ready. And I guess they ask you to get us the car. But that didn’t happen this time. So, I’ll cab it to LaGuardia.” She sounded angry with me, rather than with the man who’d beaten her black and blue.

  “You’ve done this before?” I asked, looking at her in disbelief.

  Her sharp gaze pierced through any notion I’d had of being a hero. “Don’t look at me like some victim. He pays us twenty-five g’s to beat the shit out of us. He just got out of control this time. No matter how many times I screamed our safe word, he just kept hitting and hitting and hitting . . .” Her voice trailed off as her brain seemed to go to some dark place, and then retreat from it. “It happens. I’ll definitely pay you back for the hospital bill. I just need a little time.”

  I shook my head. “Us?”

  “He flies us up from Miami. Because we don’t know people here, I guess.”

  “But . . . how? I mean . . . where? Where is his wife during all of this?”

  “I don’t know. I assume somewhere else? Not like we hang out at his apartment. He has a whole separate entrance for us. A separate space. Just four walls and some beds and . . . contraptions.” She shuddered, seeing something in her mind that terrified her. “Look, I have a kid. I’m too old to model anymore. I do what I have to. We all do.”

  “So you’re just going to let him do this? You’re going to let him get away with it?” I couldn’t believe I was yelling at her, a woman who had just taken the beating of her life, but the words came before I knew it.

  She took a few cautious steps toward me and bent her impossibly long legs to bring her face level with mine. “You don’t get it. He is a monster,” she hissed at me before taking a step back, menace in her tone. “This is nothing compared to what he could do to me. To my family.”

  Her words were an echo of what Gary had said the night of The Incident. She won’t talk. The Incident flooded back to me. I heard their laughter and my screams. I recalled how I had trusted his words, his power to ruin me. I nodded at her slowly, empathetically.

  I stepped to the side to leave her to fill out her discharge paperwork. What other option did I have?

  Still standing in the emergency room, I took out my cell phone and called Carmen’s office line. She picked it up right away with a “Hey.”

  “Hey. Did you go to management?”

  “Yeah,” she said, her tone hard to read.

  “And?” I asked.

  “And . . . I think I’m going to take some time away from Klasko. From BigLaw, actually,” she said quietly. They offered her money to sign an NDA, I thought. Those assholes. And Peter was just going about his business, enabling Gary Kaplan’s monstrous violence.

  “Did you sign anything yet?”

  “Alex . . . I can’t talk about it.”

  “Carmen! Did you? Don’t say anything if you haven’t signed it yet.” I waited a full five seconds. “Good. Don’t sign anything. I have a plan.”

  I walked back into the lobby just as my colleagues were returning from their long lunches at Wolfgang’s and The Grill. As soon as I sat down at my desk, I immediately emailed Matt and Jordan and asked them to come to my office. I sat in my chair and stared at the open door, biting at the callus on my thumb as the unread emails stacked up in my in-box. When they appeared in my doorway, I motioned for them to close my door.

  “I’ve got a dead-body situation,” I said to them as soon as they sat, taking a tissue and wrapping my thumb in it, now bloody from where I’d bitten my cuticle. “I think I need help.” I wasn’t fully certain I’d ever uttered that phrase before.

  “What have you gotten yourself into, Skippy?” Matt’s tone was calm, measured, and I understood immediately why people wanted him as their attorney.

  I stopped fighting the tears that streamed down my cheeks. “There is a laundry list of very screwed-up shit happening to women at this firm. Peter Dunn, who is not even the worst part, has had sex with both Carmen and with me,” I said, spitting the words out as though they were poison. I tried to ignore their facial expressions, which seemed to freeze in shock and then melt in disappointment, and forced myself to continue. “The most egregious, possibly criminal act with which the firm is involved is the facilitation of Gary Kaplan beating women half to death by arming him with airtight NDAs prior to engaging in such activity. We then call cars for the bruised and beaten women, from our own car service, to take them to the airport. I just met one of the women. She was all messed up.”

  I paused. They were staring at me, looking uncertain whether I was serious.

  Finally Jordan cleared his throat and forced a half smile. “I had my money on you being way too deep into a coke habit.”

  Matt ignored him as he squinted, trying to make sense of it all. “I assume you can prove this Gary thing?”

  I shrugged. “Well, I guess there’s enough evidence with the cars. And I’m not trying to prove this in a court of law. I just want the firm to stop it. I have enough to prove to Mike Baccard that it’s happening.”

  “And Carmen? Is she willing to speak?” Matt asked.

  “She already did.”

  Matt leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head, ready to analyze all the angles of the situation, then dropped his hands and straightened his tie, preparing for battle. “Okay, Skip. What do you need from me?”

  “Come with me to a meeting with Mike Baccard?”

  He nodded. “Of course. And I know it’s not worth much, but for what it’s worth, I’m really sorry. . . . I wish I could have shielded you from this.”

  “Yeah, Skip. You’re our girl. I’m so sorry this happened to you, that we didn’t protect you,” Jordan added.

  I nodded in gratitude as I fought the urge to correct them. I didn’t need their protection. Not any longer. I could protect myself.

  I shifted my weight in my seat as I forced myself to recount the mistakes I had made with Peter and what I had discovered about Gary Kaplan to Mike Baccard. I heard my own words in my ears, but my brain was focused on the brittle hairs of whatever hide Mike’s designer chairs were made out of digging uncomfortably into the back of my thighs. Only when I had finished speaking did I notice the thudding in my chest. I immediately regretted saying anything at all. What was I thinking, telling the chair of my firm that I’d had an affair w
ith a senior partner? This was the dumbest thing I could have done. My career was over. I breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly, calming my pressured breaths, and then turned to Matt. He gave me an encouraging nod of approval before we both looked back at Mike, who nodded deliberately, leaning his balding head back in his plush leather chair in his massive office.

  “I’m so sorry that this has been your experience thus far at Klasko. I’m terribly displeased,” he said, transforming from an attorney into a politician. His face somehow revealed nothing at all about what he was thinking, making my effort to determine whether he already knew any of what I had told him entirely futile. “And I cannot speak to the situation with Carmen Greyson, but we would very much like to make you whole after this experience.”

  I glared at him. “I don’t want money. I want things to change. Are you going to address the situation with Stag River and Gary Kaplan?”

  Matt spoke up from next to me. “Mike, we need to do something about it.”

  “I’m sure your information is accurate,” Mike said slickly. “But we have no proof.”

  “I have proof that Gary Kaplan’s a sexual predator,” I said, and they both snapped to attention.

  “What did you say, dear?” Mike asked me. Did he just call me “dear”?

  “I have a recording of Gary attempting to sexually assault me. I left myself a voice-mail message of the entire thing. It’s fuzzy, but his voice is clear enough that you would know it’s him. A jury might, too.” In reality, I knew that the message was probably an indiscernible blur of noise, but at this moment it was the only leverage I seemed to have.

  “Gary Kaplan sexually assaulted you?” Mike leaned in toward me.

  “He did,” I said as calmly as I could manage.

  The two of them stared at me with slack jaws. Matt put his hand on my shoulder, and then took it away, as if suddenly thinking it was inappropriate.

  “If you don’t want money, what do you want?” Mike asked measuredly.

  “I do want money. Just not for myself. Sorry if that wasn’t clear. I want an annual budget. A women’s initiative budget of two million dollars. That’s the amount of our legal fees on one or two deals every year for Stag River. We must do thirty of them each year.”

  “Two million? Annually?” Matt clarified.

  I nodded.

  Mike grunted. “You couldn’t possibly spend that in a year.”

  “We can. I’m thinking globally. I want to start a BigLaw women’s initiative, with events throughout the year and one large global event annually in New York or London with guest speakers, breakout sessions, empowerment and self-defense seminars, the whole nine yards. It will be free for all women in BigLaw. Klasko will graciously offer to finance it. At least for the first few years. I’d imagine other firms will want to sponsor going forward.” I looked down for a moment before continuing. “The only way I’m ever going to feel normal again after what happened is if I use it to make a difference.”

  Matt puffed out his chest. “We have to make sure this kind of thing never happens again.”

  “It will happen again,” I said, stopping just shy of snapping at him. “Many times, I’m sure. My goal is to teach people how to deal with it. And to create a system of accountability and repercussions and support.”

  Matt and Mike looked at each other, and Mike’s expression grayed over as he opened his mouth to speak. My mind clicked through a montage of the countless occasions in which I had watched Matt and Peter negotiate terms in their favor. I saw before me a series of choices: Speak or listen? Firm or friendly? Lowball or overshoot?

  I cut Mike off. “If I’m not given the funds, I’ll forward that email of the recording to every contact I have. Below the Belt would eat it up. I’ll ruin Stag River. Can you really survive without them as a client?” I narrowed my eyes. “Thank god for digital voice mail, right?”

  Mike stared at me, looking defensive. “You’d take down Gary Kaplan. Not Stag River.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you so sure?” I saw Matt trying not to smile as he recognized his own signature move on my face.

  “Young lady, I know you’d like to join the ranks of the M&A team, and destroying their largest client is not the way—”

  I almost leapt across the table at his use of the diminutive, but Matt felt the change in my energy and intervened before I could. “Give her the funds, Mike,” he said, cutting him off. “You don’t really have a choice.”

  Mike stared him down for a protracted moment as I squirmed in my seat, then blinked first. “I’ll need to convince the executive team. This will come out of the global budget.”

  I exhaled and allowed my shoulders to drop below my earlobes. It was essentially a yes.

  As we left Mike Baccard’s office together, Matt’s eyes were glistening. I gave him a smile and shook my head as if to tell him, Don’t be sad for me.

  “I’m proud of you, Skippy. And a little scared of you, to be honest.” He gave a small laugh as he walked down the hallway.

  I’d sent Carmen and Nancy a cryptic email asking them both to stop by my office, and recounted the story of the assault, the diner, and the budget I’d secured for the women’s initiative, barely stopping for a breath. “So?” I finally asked. “What do you say?”

  They sat staring at me, which I hadn’t anticipated. I’d expected excitement, even gratitude, given what we’d all been through.

  “Say something,” I said, my tone almost pleading.

  “It’s so awful” was all Carmen could manage.

  Nancy nodded. “I can’t believe that happened to you.”

  “No! I mean about being VP and secretary of the Women’s Initiative.” They were focusing on entirely the wrong part of my story. “I need you guys.”

  Nancy seemed to process it, and began to nod. “I’m in. Whatever you need. I think we can make it really great. We can—”

  “I can’t,” Carmen blurted out. Nancy and I watched her with bated breath, hoping that she’d change her mind. “I just need to get out of here. Make a clean break.” She crossed her hands and pulled them apart like an umpire calling somebody safe.

  She’d rather take the money. I started to leap to judgment, but stopped myself. However disappointed I was, I couldn’t fault her for taking it and starting a new life. I almost wondered if I’d have done the same if I had seen whatever they were willing to offer me in black and white, a check waiting to be deposited.

  A few days later I rose with the sun and made my way to midtown to handle some paperwork before my lunch with Mike Baccard and the global chair of the firm. They’d signed the papers guaranteeing to sponsor the annual seminar for posterity in an amount not to exceed $2 million per annum, with a minimum of 1 percent of Stag River billings to be donated to the Klasko Women’s Initiative budget. We were meeting to discuss my experience, my goals for the initiative. I wondered whether they would ask me to sign an NDA. I never would, of course. They could either give me what I wanted and hope I never spoke up, or they could not give me what I wanted and be certain I’d go to the press. I assumed they were smart enough to proceed with the former.

  As I approached my office, Anna stood to greet me. “Vivienne White is waiting for you in your office,” she said nervously.

  I pushed through my door, and Vivienne glanced up briefly from my guest chair and gave a tight smile. Her gray Moreau bag was tossed carelessly on the floor beside her. I held my breath as I made my way to sit behind my desk.

  She stared at me for a protracted moment. She’s heard about The Incident. She’s going to want to talk about it. My legs bounced, and when I pressed down on my knees, my palm bounced too.

  “I heard about what you’re doing. The women’s initiative,” she said. I looked up at her, hoping I wouldn’t need to tell her what had precipitated the initiative. I could use her help, after all. I’d accept it graciously, crediting her mentorship for all the work I’d done; I’d figure out a large role for her to play—maybe even VP.


  She cleared her throat. “I understand the inclination, but first off, this place won’t change. This industry won’t change. And second, you need to be careful not to undo the hard work that women in my generation did to get things to where they are now.”

  I pushed my spine up against the back of my chair, lifting my chin. “I appreciate the advice,” I managed.

  Vivienne’s eyes narrowed. She uncrossed her legs and recrossed them, then enmeshed her fingers together in her lap. We stared at one another, anger boiling underneath our perfect posture and designer blouses.

  She broke first, to my delight. Her tone was low and angry. “I gave everything I have so this place would invest in female associates. I swallowed my pride and fetched coffee so you’d get invited to board meetings and charity balls. I let clients sweat on me and drool over me so you could be here now and walk into Mike Baccard’s office and ask for firm funds to be allocated to the betterment of women in the workplace and he wouldn’t laugh you the fuck out of there.” She leaned back and smoothed her beige silk blouse into her navy pleated skirt, then readjusted her diamond drop necklace so it lay back in the center of her chest.

  She has no idea why Mike didn’t laugh me out of his office, I thought. Not because she made great strides for women. It was because I almost got raped by a client. I tried to view her reaction more rationally. She was right, of course. I owed her and her generation a debt of gratitude for making the firm care about its diversity statistics and its ratio of female to male partners. But BigLaw, big business, had gotten off course somewhere, missing the mark entirely.