The Boys' Club

by Erica Katz

  “I appreciate what you’ve done. But you must know things aren’t right around here. They’re better—in large part due to you. But they’re not good.” I watched her carefully and added, “And women like you and I would never settle for good enough.”

  Her lip curled as she shrugged and plastered a small smile on her face, then grabbed her Moreau and rose from her seat. “Good luck to you, Alexandra. I mean it.”

  “Oh, by the way, I always meant to tell you—I love your bag,” I said, standing to show her out. I hope everything you did to be able to afford it was worth it.

  I arched my back, folded my arms, and turned to stare down at all the people scurrying about on the street below my window like ants. I heard a faint knock on my door.

  “Come in!”

  Anna poked her head in and stepped over the threshold. “If you need anything today, let me know,” she stammered. “I don’t mean to pry, but are you okay?”

  “I am,” I told her with a small smile, appreciating her concern.

  Anna pushed the door against the frame without shutting it all the way. “I’ve seen thousands of associates start here. Everybody gets tired. Everybody starts dressing better. Some get fat. Some get skinny. But you . . . you have a lunch with Mike Baccard on your calendar today.” She paused. “I’ve never seen somebody with so many important partners in her office in her first year.” I didn’t know what to say. It didn’t exactly feel like a compliment. Or a question. “You’re doing something right.”

  “Or very wrong!” I looked at the ceiling and laughed.

  Anna nodded, apparently having said what she came to say, and slipped back out to the hallway.

  I turned back to my window, trying to work out what my view would be like from the fifty-sixth floor. I mentally placed myself in the office and oriented my mental image. It would be totally different. I’d be looking uptown.

  Epilogue

  Q.Do you currently represent Stag River or Gary Kaplan in any capacity?

  A.My firm did until recently. I have not personally worked on a Stag River matter or for Gary Kaplan since my first year as an associate.

  Q.Thank you, Ms. Vogel. That concludes our questions regarding your experience at Klasko & Fitch. Thank you for your candor. One last question, for the record: Do you know or have any relationship with the plaintiff, Sheila Platt?

  A.No. Well, I understand she is Gary Kaplan’s longtime assistant, so it’s possible that at some point I spoke with her when I was working for Stag River. But no, no relationship I am aware of.

  Q.Thank you, Ms. Vogel. That concludes our deposition. The questions and answers today will be typed up by the court reporter into a deposition transcript. You have the right to read the deposition and review the answers prior to signing a statement as to their accuracy.

  A.Thank you.

  Q.Trial is slated to begin on October 1st. We will be in touch about the day of your witness testimony. It is at the judge’s discretion whether you will be permitted to attend the entire trial. Do you have any further questions at this time?

  A.No. Thank you.

  I heard nothing except a tinny ringing in my ears as the judge banged her gavel. Her lips moved resolutely above the collar of her robe, but when they stopped, I thought I could detect disappointment in their slope. I inhaled sharply and looked at Gary, wishing I could hear anything at all. He hugged his attorney close before falling into a tearful embrace with his wife. His wife looked grave, as if she’d aged twenty years in the past few since I’d seen her at the Met. His daughter, now a young woman with long dark hair and an elegant long neck, hung back slightly, seeming to wrestle with something in her head, before leaning in and hugging her father. I wished desperately that they were saying goodbye to one another. But their tears were decidedly happy ones. They were celebrating.

  Suddenly the courtroom cacophony rushed in on me—uproarious joy from some pockets and the silent endurance of agony from others. I was now painfully aware of the wooden bench digging into my backside, which was less padded than usual after a week of a stomach in knots and intermittent vomiting.

  “Excuse me,” the couple to my right said, making their way into the aisle. They looked pleased. The woman was the female version of Gary. Must be his sister and her husband. Her calf-length mink coat brushed my legs, and her perfume pervaded the air around me, perverting it further, choking me.

  I forced myself to stand and make my way out of the large, dark wooden doors and into the marble-floored hallway, staring straight ahead as people filed past me. I pushed my feet forward and into step with the crowd.

  It had been futile. All of it. There’d been no purpose to my public recounting of that night, and the nights that led up to it, and the aftermath. No sweet end to reliving the bitter nightmare aloud to a room full of stoic strangers and unfeeling recording devices. Gary Kaplan’s poor secretary, who had accused him of rape, who had relied on me to provide convincing witness testimony, would have to live with the fact that he’d simply gotten away with it. He was innocent under the law. And in my world, the law was the only thing that mattered. I felt that the system had somehow failed me, and attempted to mollify my racing thoughts with the soothing idea of the women’s initiative, now successfully celebrating its third anniversary, but it did little to help.

  I continued down the marble steps, avoiding the sideways glances and whispers from the people who’d seen me testify, and filed out of the double doors with the crowd, allowing the hibernal air to rouse me out of my trance. I moved off to the side of the courthouse steps, the sun forcing me to squint, and I suddenly felt, saw, and heard everything, as I began to process what had just happened in the courtroom. I had the sense of a bottomless black hole appearing below me, of being in free fall. I doubled over and pressed my palms into my bent knees to steady myself. I could hear my heart thudding.

  I’m having a heart attack. I’m dying. This is it.

  When death didn’t arrive, I wiggled my fingers to confirm I was still among the living, then straightened my spine. As I did, I locked eyes with a woman who stood a few steps below me, her light red waves of hair spilling out from beneath a powder-blue hat as she contemplated me with an unsmiling expression. My stomach flipped as I recalled her bruised, slashed back. She continued to stare at me, but then she suddenly dipped her head forward from the tip of her long neck in an almost imperceptible bow of gratitude, before turning away and descending the stairs.

  I remained frozen in place as my breathing slowed, then craned my neck to the sky and let the sun warm my face for a prolonged moment before heading down the steps, into the subway, and back to my office on the fifty-sixth floor. I held on to the metal bar above my head for balance as the 4 train jerked its way uptown, scanning the faces of those on the train with me, wondering how many of the women around me had been victims of unwanted advances, unwelcome touching, and assault.

  I hurried out of the elevator and into my office, eager to dive into work and put the trial out of my mind. I’d spoken the truth, I reminded myself. But Gary Kaplan wouldn’t be going to jail, and he could always accurately claim he was an innocent man. Still, Klasko had fired Stag River and Gary as a client as soon as the alleged extent of the abuses came to light when charges were filed, unwilling to be publicly affiliated with such a scandal in any capacity. Whether of his own volition or a not-so-gentle urging from the partnership, Peter left the firm even before the trial had begun. He had already joined Pennybaker & Neff, another top-ten firm, and I knew he would have a whole host of associates working for him who had no awareness of his past. I knew he might be replaced at Klasko by new transgressors. But I had to reassure myself that in speaking the truth, there is a kind of victory. Though I wanted nothing more than to see Gary put away for a long time, I had to find a bit of peace in the justice inherent in the process, more than in the verdict.

  As I rushed by Anna, the phone on her desk rang. “Alex Vogel’s office . . . I’m sorry, she’s not in right now.” I pa
used to listen. “I’ll give her the message.” Anna hung up and stared at me without saying anything. Reporters. I pushed through the glass door into my office and slipped out of my coat. Before I even sat, there was a knock on my doorframe, even though the door was open.

  “Hey!” I sank into my desk chair as I looked up to see Nancy. She measured me with her eyes for a moment, and I knew from the way she cocked her head to the side that she had heard the verdict. “Not my best day,” I sighed, admitting it so she didn’t have to ask.

  Nancy gave me a small smile. “I’m so sorry, Alex. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  I nodded, because there was. “Let’s get to work. We’ve got a lot ahead of us.”

  Acknowledgments

  To Michael, Risa, Mindy, and Greg, thank you for tempering the lows and heightening the highs of this publishing process. Thank you to Jude and Liv for giving me the extra hugs and kisses I needed while editing. One day when you’re older, I’ll show you this Acknowledgments page and let you read this book. And to Liv in particular, and all little girls, may the working world be more level for your generation than it was for mine.

  To Allison Hunter, I do not know where I would be were it not for your faith, friendship, and guidance. This book would not be without you. And if somehow it were, it would certainly be titled something else.

  To Emily Griffin, thank you for making my book the best book it could be, for your meticulous attention to detail, for your patience, and your support.

  To Debbee Klein, Sally Willcox, and Valarie Phillips, thank you for seeing the movie this book could be before it was ever even a book.

  To Carey and Courtney, who yelled a resounding “Do it! Start today!” when I said I was thinking of writing a book.

  To my dear friends, for always asking me how my writing was going, for never making me feel silly for trying to write a novel in my minimal free time, for knowing when I needed your encouragement, and for knowing when I just needed your company . . . and some wine.

  To Jennifer and Brendan, for the keen and gentle eyes with which you read.

  To Peter Gethers, thank you for telling me to “keep going” and for telling me I was so close when you knew just how far I was.

  To the young man on West Twenty-third Street who stood in my path and told me to smile when I was taking one of my nightly walks to contemplate my book, get out of my way. I wasn’t thinking happy thoughts. I was thinking big thoughts.

  To everyone who sees the ugly parts of themselves in these characters and wonders if I’m writing about them, I’m not. (But I am . . .)

  About the Author

  ERICA KATZ is the pseudonym for a graduate of the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, and Columbia Law School who began her career at a major Manhattan law firm. A native of New Jersey, she now lives in New York City, where she’s employed at another large law firm. The Boys’ Club is her first novel.

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  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, business names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  THE BOYS’ CLUB. Copyright © 2020 by Erica Katz. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  FIRST EDITION

  Cover design by Joanne O’Neill

  Cover photographs © Chen Liu/Eyeem/Getty Images (staircase); © Ismagilov/iStock/Getty Images (woman)

  Digital Edition AUGUST 2020 ISBN: 978-0-06-296150-1

  Version 06182020

  Print ISBN: 978-0-06-296148-8

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