The Tenth Song

by Ragen, Naomi

  “If it was your parents, what would you do?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, avoiding her gaze.

  “Yes, you do.”

  “Okay. I do.”

  “But this is my father, right? Not yours.”

  What could he say to that? he thought, ashamed. It was sadly true. A father-in-law, especially a prospective one, was not a father. There were no blood ties and never would be.

  “I’m going now, Seth.”

  “What should I tell the reporters?”

  “Why would they call you? Our engagement isn’t even official yet. And you know what, it never has to be,” she added bitterly. “So don’t worry. This isn’t your problem.”

  “Kayla,” he protested, trying too late to put his arms around her. She shrugged him off.

  “I know you’re angry at me now. But I’m just telling you the truth. And I’ll say it again, for your own good: You need to distance yourself.”

  “Whose idea is that anyway? Your mom’s or your dad’s?”

  He made no reply, his face reddening.

  She got up and went to the door, opening it.

  “Kayla!”

  But the door had already closed.

  She walked aimlessly through the streets, feeling dazed, like someone who has survived a terrorist attack with no physical injuries, the horrible details running through her head like a dark, viscous liquid, clogging all her rational thoughts. What was going to happen to her parents? Knowing what she did now about the unpredictability of the law, she was terrified.

  Like mercury spilling from a broken thermometer, the law was fluid and impossible to grasp. It changed and altered daily, hourly, with every judgment of every judge in every court in the world. And the legal tricks and maneuvers lawyers used to manipulate the system were really beyond the grasp and imagination of an ordinary person. Bleak House is what Dickens had called law courts. Which is why no sane person should every willingly enter one. Like people volunteering for elective surgery in the hope of emerging better off—richer, more honored, more beautiful—the great majority were badly mistaken. Except for throwing enormous amounts of money overboard, there was nothing the least bit certain about the outcome and final destination when embarking for a sail on legal seas.

  But in her father’s case, there was simply no choice. He had been targeted. Why, how, fairly or unfairly, she had no idea, except that there were those who would benefit from destroying him. She needed to call home but didn’t know what to say or what to do.

  She needed Seth’s arms around her. They were engaged. He was the man who said he loved her. He was the man with all the answers.

  She remembered their first blind date, how he’d knocked on her dorm room and how she had given herself a quick, clinical review in the mirror, approving her shining mass of freshly shampooed strawberry blonde curls, large hazel eyes, and rosy, freckled complexion. She’d tugged the white cashmere turtleneck down over her black-satin pants, slipping her feet into open-toed shoes with three-inch heels. Pearls to swine, she’d told herself with a groan, already regretting the hours not spent studying. She’d gone to the door reluctantly.

  Then there had been that moment of shock, seeing it was him, the fair-haired boy from orientation. He stood there, not saying a word, for at least fifteen seconds. He didn’t look anything like the scruffy Pitt in Thelma and Louise, she thought. He was the spitting image of the suave, preppy Robert Redford in The Way We Were.

  “Did you know,” he said finally, “that research has shown it takes less than thirty seconds to form a lasting impression, and it can take up to twenty-one repeated occasions for someone to alter a first impression?”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” she answered. “And goodness knows, I’m looking for Mr. Right, as long as his first name isn’t ‘Always.’ ”

  He blinked, then slowly inclined his head in admiration, nodding, the way fencing partners do to acknowledge a good thrust.

  “My point is—”

  “I was wondering exactly that,” she cut him off, wondering if she was going to have to hunt down Shana’s boyfriend and kill him.

  “. . . that you don’t look like a One L . . .”

  “What did you expect me to look like?” She bristled, annoyed, passing her fingers through her curls, trying not to notice how gorgeous he was since he was obviously hopelessly full of himself.

  “Glasses. Creased around the eyes from too many nights falling face-first into books. Hair that hasn’t been washed in a while because there’s no time, held back by a red rubber band. Fingers stained with ink. Overweight or anorexic because of food issues triggered by the horrors of outlining and study groups and six-hour exams on tax law . . .”

  “And your point is . . . ?” Her voice rose in perfect imitation of her terrifying corporate law professor’s, a man fond of cryptic non sequiturs like: “Shall we use the key rather than kick down the door?”

  “Just that you don’t look like someone who needs to be fixed up with blind dates. But that’s just my first impression. I’ll need to meet you at least twenty-one more times to test this theory.” He smiled, a big, white, charming, lopsided grin in a big, handsome face framed by perfectly cut and probably blow-dried golden hair.

  She exhaled, deciding to let Shana’s boyfriend live.

  He took her to a Chinese vegetarian restaurant. The food was mysterious and warm, full of fungi and heady sauces. He had wonderful manners, tilting his soupspoon away from him, and bringing it to his mouth for small, noiseless sips. He cut his vegetables into neat, precise bites, and ate almost daintily, wiping his mouth discreetly at intervals even though she could see no reason for it. She watched in admiration.

  “So, how do you like law school so far?” he asked.

  Mellowed by the candlelight, a glass of sake drunk too fast on an empty stomach, she found tears filling her eyes.

  “I just think it’s a horrible mistake.” She shook her head, amazed at her candor. “I can’t even count the number of times I’ve wanted to throw my books out the window and follow them!”

  “What did you think it would be like?” Seth asked her, grinning.

  She wiped her eyes, embarrassed at his amusement. “I don’t know. Learning about how to save the world, maybe. But what we’re doing is such crap. It has nothing to do with practicing law.”

  He put his hand into his pocket and took out a well-worn book. It was Mark Herrmann’s The Curmudgeon’s Guide to Practicing Law. “Here, listen to this: ‘You always thought law school exams were ridiculous. . . . Cram irrelevant crap into your head . . . spill it all out . . . forget about it, and move on to the next set of irrelevant crap. . . .’ ”

  She threw back her head and laughed. “That’s exactly what I think!”

  “Well, according to Herrmann you’re ‘Wrong, wrong, and wrong again.’ ”

  “Care to explain?”

  “This is what he says: ‘when [you] argue a motion [you] . . . cram irrelevant crap into your head . . . spill it all out . . . forget about it, and move on to the next set of irrelevant crap. . . .’ ”

  “It doesn’t make the profession sound very appealing. There has to be more!”

  “There is!” He picked up the book again. “’What do I do when I take a deposition?’ ”

  “Wait, don’t tell me! Cram irrelevant crap into my head; spill it out . . . forget about it, and move on.”

  “Exactly. According to Herrmann, ‘If you don’t enjoy cramming, spewing, and moving on, you picked the wrong profession.’ ”

  “Oh, hmm, well, maybe,” she’d said, laughing, filling her sake glass for the second time. “So, I guess you’re just breezing through it then?”

  He shrugged. “It’s manageable. If you know what you’re doing.”

  “I guess I don’t then.” She sniffed, searching vainly for a tissue.

  “I can never resist a damsel in distress,” he said, pulling a clean package of tissues from his pocket, which, for a man, was impressive as
hell, she thought. “And along with the tissue, I’m now going to throw in, absolutely free of extra charge, my secret formula for One L success.”

  “Better than a set of steak knives!” She smiled skeptically. “What do you have behind that curtain, Mr. Wizard?”

  “Three things: One, keep up with the reading; two, don’t get bogged down with details; and three, use commercial outlines,” he said.

  “That’s it?”

  He held out his hands palms upward. “Easy as that. Now, what have you got lined up for your summer internship?”

  She pressed her lips together. It was a sore point. She had already been on several failed interviews, something she preferred to keep to herself. “Oh, it’s too early to worry about that.”

  “Early? Absolutely not! It’s late.”

  “Where are you interviewing?”

  “I’m not. I’ve already got a job.”

  Of course. Figures, she thought. “Where is it?”

  “Bradley, Bradley and Ehrenreich in New York.”

  “Wow, they don’t come any bigger than that!” She wanted to ask him how he’d done it. But looking him over, she suddenly thought: Why bother? He exuded privilege, and upper-class noblesse oblige. It was no accident that recruiters on campus had zeroed in on him, and that his first job offer had started at the top.

  “The truth is, I’ve been on a few interviews with the big law firms, but haven’t gotten a single callback. They just don’t seem to take me seriously. It’s not my fault.”

  “Have you ever heard of Charlotte’s Rule?”

  “Huh?”

  “Remember, in Charlotte’s Web, when spider saves pig from becoming bacon by spinning a slogan over her doomed head which reads: ‘One terrific pig’? Everyone believes it! People will believe about you anything you tell them to believe as long as you look the part. What did you wear to these interviews?”

  “I don’t remember . . . Wait. A black pantsuit. With a V?neck sweater. Why?”

  “Wrong, wrong, and wrong some more! You need a dark suit in blue or grey—black is too funereal—with a skirt cut to the knee and a shirt buttoned up to the neck. What kind of shoes did you wear?”

  “I wore my boots.”

  “No way! Shoes with heels no higher than two inches, and God forbid anything open-toed or slingback! Men never show their toes or their necklines in any formal setting; neither should women. In fact, the higher up on the neckline you wear a scarf or collar, the more in command you look. That’s why airline staff always wear collars and scarves up to their chins.”

  “How did you become such an expert?”

  “In the summer after I graduated high school, I got this minimum-wage job as an usher at a convention center that held a Dress for Success Seminar. It was a revelation. The lecturer was a little middle-aged woman wearing a blue suit and a beautiful silk scarf. She made volunteers from the audience come up one by one, then had the rest of the group guess who they were and what they did. You wouldn’t believe how drastically people lowered their expectations based on the slightest imperfection. A run in a stocking made them demote a CEO to a checkout girl in Walmart. A bad haircut convinced them a systems analyst worked frying burgers. They were merciless!”

  “How nineteenth-century!”

  “That’s just the way the world works.” He shrugged. “Employers just figure if you know how to dress and present yourself, you are probably competent in other fields as well. Get used to it. So you can retire early and wear anything you want.”

  “You can’t be serious!”

  He looked very serious. “You think because your grades were off the charts in high school and you aced college and the LSATs that your work is over? The express elevator up the corporate ladder to the six-figure paycheck isn’t holding open its doors waiting for you. In case you haven’t read about it, the job market out there sucks.”

  “That’s what they always say . . .”

  “Yes, but this time, it’s true. That’s why the likability factor is more important than ever.”

  “The what?”

  “Let’s face it. People hire people they like. Were you friendly? Did you ask them about themselves? People love to talk about themselves.”

  “Certain people,” she murmured pointedly. “Anyhow, I’m not sure I want to work in a big firm. I’m really more interested in child advocacy, nonprofits . . .”

  He looked flabbergasted. “It suicide. It means only nonprofits will consider you next summer, and then when you graduate, your résumé will have nothing to offer a top law firm. Your father must have some connections. Go down the list. Take anything. Pay them! But it’s going to be hard, even with help, because you are a woman . . .”

  She glared at him.

  “Look, I didn’t make these things up. Whom did they hire in the end, the jobs you wanted?

  She shrugged. “Men.”

  “I rest my case, counselor. And, Kayla, one more thing . . . You are a stunningly beautiful girl. I love the way you look. But do yourself a favor. Get your hair cut and straightened. And get rid of those freckles.”

  “Well, it’s getting late,” she said, running her fingers through her curls, then looking at her watch meaningfully.

  “Is it?” He looked around at the bustling restaurant, where the night was just beginning.

  “I’ve got lots of work to do this weekend, especially since I’ve just learned I’m doing everything wrong.”

  Comprehension dawned on him. “Oh, you weren’t offended, were you? I was just trying to help . . .”

  “No . . . why should I be offended? Just because you’ve told me off, insulted my appearance, and made me feel like an idiot?” She got up abruptly.

  He paid the bill, hurrying after her.

  They drove back in silence.

  “Look, I’m sorry I came on a little strong . . .”

  A little strong?

  “I’m not usually like this,” he said softly.

  She had one hand on the door handle, about to escape. She turned around, curious. “What are you usually like?”

  “It’s just . . . when you opened your door, I was just bowled over. You looked like that iconic poster of Farrah Fawcett hanging in the bedroom of every horny teenage boy in America—all hair and white teeth. Except you weren’t blond and didn’t exude easy virtue. And then you seemed so upset about school, and your interviews. I just wanted to help.”

  “And you,” she told him, “reminded me of that bad performance of Ryan O’Neal in Love Story, trying to be witty and clever, and just sounding pushy and offensive. Let’s say there are more than adequate grounds for reasonable doubt,” she said in that husky low tone she found herself using when attempting to sound lawyerly.

  “I am a little pushy . . . but only on matters I know about, and to people I care about.” He reached out to take her hand. “Truce?”

  His hand was warm. And he was so good-looking. And some of his advice, she’d already begun to admit to herself, hurtful as it was, might even prove useful.

  She didn’t answer, reaching out to give him her other hand.

  He pulled her gently toward him, taking her in his arms and kissing her tenderly.

  “I’ll call you,” he whispered.

  She bought the commercial outlines, and kept up with her reading, not allowing herself to get stuck on the details. She bought clothes and shoes she would never before have been caught dead in except in the synagogue on Yom Kippur. She got rid of her curls and freckles, remaking herself.

  To her utter amazement, she found that not only did her professors take her more seriously, but she was beginning to take herself more seriously, even if that self was a person she hardly knew when she looked in the mirror. Her father helped her arrange a number of interviews. She arrived dressed for the part, was as friendly as a Southern preacher’s daughter and inquisitive as Dr. Phil. She had her pick of job offers, one of them in a Boston district court.

  Seth was thrilled, except for the fact that
they’d be apart all summer.

  “I’ll fly up to visit you on the weekends,” he promised.

  “And I’ll come to Manhattan.”

  They were together every weekend, and spent many nights working together, sharing notes. The decision to sleep together came naturally as did their decision to get engaged. In fact, it happened so casually, she almost missed it.

  “I’m going to have to decide about job offers,” he’d said in June. “Where do you want to live?”

  She twisted her engagement ring around her finger, the lovely band and stone suddenly heavy and constricting. He was never wrong about anything. But now he had given her advice she just couldn’t take. She was on her own.

  7

  The phone began ringing that evening. Her best friend, Debra, was the first, of course.

  “How are you holding up, Abby?”

  “I’m not,” she said, relieved she could finally tell someone the truth.

  “What’s going on?”

  “It’s all a big lie, Deb. But the worst kind, with some tiny bits of truth thrown in. Of course you know Adam would never . . .”

  “Oh, please. You don’t have to explain. I know Adam. So what’s the story?”

  “Honestly? I have no idea. All I know is that Adam innocently transferred money to an investment fund in England that turned out to be a front for Al-Qaeda and other terrorist groups. It’s horrible, Deb. The phone doesn’t stop ringing. I’m scared.”

  There was a long pause and a sigh. “Take a virtual hug,” Deb said. “And you can call me anytime, day or night.”

  “I love you.”

  “And I love you. Hug Adam for me.”

  “Hello? Abigail. Stephen just showed me the article on the Internet. How awful! How are you both holding up?”

  “Henrietta, it’s so good of you to call. What can I say?”

  “Is it true that he transferred money to terrorists who killed American soldiers?”

  “Of course not! I mean, not knowingly. I . . . it’s complicated.”

  “Because the Internet and that picture . . . It was unbelievably damaging. It’s the kind of thing that just buries a person’s reputation.”