“What?”
“Yeah. He didn’t want to pay for food.”
“Tell him to go home to his mother.”
“I did.”
“Good. I set you up with Don for next Saturday afternoon. Dim sum. You’ll like him. His father is a chef.”
“Yes, you already told me that, Dad. I’m really not interested.”
“How do you know? You haven’t even met him yet.”
“Does he speak English?”
“Yes, of course he speaks English.”
“With or without a Chinese accent?”
“He was born here, Fiona.”
“So was Thomas. He had an accent.”
“Oh. Well, no. I don’t think he has an accent. You’ll like him.”
“Whatever, Dad. I’m going to take a shower.”
“Next Saturday, Fiona.”
“Yeah, I know. I’ll wear lipstick.”
I needed more roofies.
CHAPTER
TEN
ON MONDAY MORNING, the LLP in Toller Benning LLP took on a new meaning. Land of Laid-Off Persons. The firm told me and eighty-four other associates that the quality of our work plummeted below firm standards overnight. And sent us packing with one banker’s box each.
Jack told me over the phone even though his office was less than fifty feet away.
Nice man, Jack was.
“Sorry, Fi. Your performance has been mediocre lately and we are going to have to let you go.”
“But Jack, you gave me top ratings three months ago at my last performance review.”
“Yeah, three months ago. You have to keep the quality of your work up.”
“You praised the Purchase and Sale Agreement I drafted for Hexcon, Inc. just last week.”
“Wake up and smell the crap. It’s everywhere. Read your own timesheet.”
Jack was right.
I had billed only twenty-five hours last week. Most of the entries read:
Prepare mailing list for shareholder notifications. 5.0
Arrange, coordinate, and manage shareholder notification mailing. 4.3
Confirm notification mailing. 2.0
I guess the client no longer wanted to pay me to type up address labels, fill out FedEx mailing forms, and spend two hours double-checking each package tracking number with FedEx on the phone. All at two hundred and seventy-five dollars an hour.
Who could blame them?
Layoffs. Downsizing. Performance cuts. Or what law firm management calls “normal attrition based on performance reviews.” It’s legalese for dumping associates when business takes a nose dive. When there isn’t enough work for associates to churn out those eighty billable hours every week.
Hence, performance-related dismissals.
No one was more distraught about the news than Laurie.
“Fi, it’s not fair! I had been getting top-rate reviews every year!”
“Laurie, we’re not the only ones. Eighty-three more of us are marching out in a couple of hours. It’s a massive layoff. No work. No profit. No associates.”
“But I pulled all-nighters.”
“All-nighters for licking envelopes. No one is going to pay the firm two-seventy-five an hour for us to stuff envelopes. Come on, pack your stuff.”
“I have too much stuff.”
Laurie sank down into her chair and sobbed. She did have too much stuff. Framed Ansel Adams posters. Deal cubes. Two silver sansevieria plants. Books, books, and more books. Mugs, photos, lotions.
“We’ll need you to vacate the premises in two hours,” Jack said.
Two hours. Get your shit and get out.
I didn’t have much in my office. Spartan. My décor of choice. Not one personal item, except for a box of Kleenex. I left it. And Ted Bundy with the gallery of noted miscreants on my computer desktop. I walked out with my Louis Vuitton purse. Like I was going out to lunch.
I wanted to tell my secretary, Tiffany, that I was going out for coffee. But her cubicle stood empty, along with the front desk. She, along with fifty-eight other staff members, including the receptionist, had been summoned into a conference room that morning. They never returned to their work stations.
I called Sean and whined about losing my job. He invited me over for drinks. When I arrived, he handed me a scotch on the rocks.
“I can’t drink that, Sean.”
“Sure, you can. You pour it into your mouth. Like this.”
Sean took a swig of his scotch. I followed suit, wincing as the alcohol burned my throat.
“At least you didn’t get canned for having a bum uterus, Fi.”
“Or for not having a hymen, right? Yeah, that definitely would have sucked worse.”
“See? There you go.”
It was true.
One San Francisco firm had kicked an Asian-American associate out after she suffered a miscarriage. Six days after she got her uterus scraped, they told her to get the hell out. In one week, Hello Kitty lost her baby and her job. The legendary humanity of big law firms at its finest.
No one wanted a Hello Kitty with a defective uterus. Or worse, a Hello Kitty with one that worked properly, churning out more baby kitties, stealing away valuable billable time from the firm. Yes, that was much worse.
“At least you have your parents, Fi. Have you told them yet?”
“No, not yet. And I’d really rather not, but there’s no avoiding it. But yes, thank God for them. Or I’d be out on my ass.”
“No, you’ll get unemployment. Can’t buy Dior shoes with that though.”
“Shoes are the last things I need right now, Sean. What I really need is another job.”
Sean tilted his head and closed his eyes. His thinking stance.
“Fi, where do young associates go to hang out after work in your area?”
“What?”
“Bar. What bar?”
“A lot of them go to Harringtons, or the Wine Table.”
“The Wine Table. Is that the fancy one that just opened up at your complex?”
“Yup. And it’s expensive. I’m not going. I like your alcohol. It’s free.”
“Get up. We’re going to the Wine Table.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “No way.”
“You said you needed another job, right?”
“Yeah, so?”
“So, let’s go get you one.”
“One what?”
“Job. Christ, Fi. Wake up.”
Sean winked at me. He took my glass, grabbed my hand, and pulled me up off his couch. He glanced at my Armani suit and nodded.
“Perfect,” Sean said.
AT THE WINE TABLE, Sean and I crept into a discreet corner booth and ordered two glasses of wine. Thirty or forty young professionals were gathered around the bar, vying for attention from the pretty bartender and each other. Men and women dressed in Tahari suits, Zegna ties, Pink shirts, Prada heels, Bruno Magli loafers. Young, successful, moneyed America getting drunk after a hard day at the office.
“Which one looks like a young associate, Fi?”
“What?”
“I said, which one looks like a young associate?”
“At a law firm?”
“Yes, Fi. Are you still drunk?”
“Kinda.”
“Pay attention. You want to work at a law firm, right?”
“Oh no, Sean. Associates don’t have that kind of clout. I have a better chance answering ads in The Recorder. In fact, I should be at home right now doing just that, even though I doubt there are any immediate openings.”
“That’s not what I meant. Just tell me which one.”
Sean stared at me, waiting. I stared back, knowing what he was thinking, but wishing I didn’t. I started to feel sick.
“No, no, Sean. Let’s just sit here.”
“Do you want a job or not?”
“Of course, but...”
“Then tell me which one.”
Sean smiled, grabbed my hand, and kissed it.
“P
lease, Fi, be a good girl and tell me which one. The night’s not getting any younger. And I’m bored.”
Sean’s charm was absolute, undeniable, irresistible. And he was right. I really did need a job. And the market wasn’t getting any better.
So I scanned the bar, searching for someone who looked like an overpaid mid-level associate. A handsome young man with wavy blond hair caught me looking at him. He glanced back, then averted his eyes to his friend. Late twenties, early thirties. Fit. Dark wool suit, Hugo Boss tie. Onyx cufflinks.
I kept staring at him. He looked at me again, and then turned away.
The classic bar brush-off. Not pretty enough. Not his type. Not worth his time chatting up. Not worth a drink. Because he could have anyone he wanted.
A sudden wave of resentment and jealousy gripped me. I hated the smug stranger. Because he would never have to stand out in the rain for taking a drumstick. Because he was just plain freer than I would ever be. So I told myself that I didn’t pick him. He picked himself. I nudged Sean and pointed.
“That one.”
“What makes you think he’s an associate?”
“He’s got the I’m-such-hot-shit-now-because-I-bill-out-at two-hundred-and-seventy-five-dollars-an-hour look. I know. I had that same look once.”
“The please-give-it-to-me-because-I’m-so-asking-for-it-look.”
“Yup.”
“Cool. Finish your drink and go home, Fi.”
I raised my glass, following his direction, but paused. “Wait, but... he’s a guy.”
“So? You think I can only work women?” Sean’s eyes glinted at me dangerously.
Oy vey.
Okay. Have a good night at work, Sean.
And I left.
“ARE YOU DRUNK, Fiona?” asked my father, when I stumbled up the stairs to my bedroom.
“Yes, I am. Very.”
“Drinking? You’ve been drinking? How are you going to go to work tomorrow?”
“I’m not, Daddy. Got laid off today.”
“What?”
“Laid off, Daddy. Lost my job today. I’m going to bed.”
“Why?”
“Because business is bad.”
“Were you not working hard enough?”
“Not enough work. Business is bad. No work.”
“Were you drinking at work, Fi? Did you get fired for drinking?”
“What? No, Dad. I got laid off. Laurie got laid off. So did eighty-some-odd associates.”
“But not everyone got fired.”
“Nope, just us.”
“What are you going to do, Fiona?
“First, I’m going to go to bed. Tomorrow, I’ll look for another job.”
“You must have done something bad.”
I sighed, letting all the stale air out of me.
“Yes, I was very bad, Dad. I wouldn’t wear lipstick.”
“Fiona, don’t be cheeky. Go to bed.”
Hai, Daddy.
THE NEXT DAY, SEAN called me at home during what normal working people called lunch hour. What the unemployed called nap hour.
“There’s a job opening at Beamer Hodgins. Apply now.”
“What?”
“Christ. Have you read the news, Fi?”
“No, I hate the news.”
“You really should keep up with the news. Go online. SFGate.com.”
Sean hung up.
I rolled off the couch, turned on my computer, and logged onto the Internet. The blessed Internet, the World Wide Web, my connection to the world itself.
The Breaking News tab on SFGate.com featured an article entitled:
Local Attorney Died Drinking: David Keener, 30, of San Francisco died yesterday evening at the Wine Table, the new, trendy Downtown bar after consuming a large quantity of alcohol and unknown sedatives. Keener was discovered after he passed out in the restroom by another patron. He was pronounced dead at the scene when the paramedics failed to revive him after repeated attempts. Keener was an associate in the corporate and securities group at the prestigious San Francisco law firm of Beamer Hodgins LLP.
The article continued with a trite discussion about binge drinking being an occupational hazard of the law profession, how young associates turned to the bottle after toiling through ninety-hour billable weeks and enduring abusive senior partners, how law firms needed to reexamine the culture and environment in which they operated, how senior attorneys needed to set better examples.
None of which mattered to me.
I logged onto Beamer Hodgins’ web site and searched for David Keener, hoping that the IT department had not yet deleted his profile from the firm directory. Keener’s profile popped up, along with his firm photo.
The pixilated image smiled insipidly at me. I recognized the dark wool suit, the perfect wavy blond hair, and the Hugo Boss tie.
I did what anyone would do. I drafted a cover letter and updated my resume. I researched Beamer Hodgins and its corporate and securities department. And Keener’s senior partner. Jack Betner. Another Jack. Also white, also old, also with the I’m-such-an-asshole look.
Same shit, different toilet.
I emailed my cover letter and resume directly to Jack. Then I clicked onto the firm bios to learn about the other associates in the corporate and securities group. One girl looked almost exactly like Laurie. Face like a pie. Rimless glasses.
I typed Keener’s name into the search box again.
NO RESULTS MATCHING YOUR SEARCH CRITERIA.
Half a day. Keener had been dead half a day. Beamer Hodgins LLP had deleted him in less than twenty-four hours. The IT guys had made good use of their lunch hour. Clean, cold, efficient. My kind of firm.
Sean was right.
Beamer Hodgins LLP had a job opening.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
AN EMPTY OFFICE IS BAD for business. Law firms pay a lot of money to rent fancy digs to impress the clients. And when there isn’t an associate sitting in an office billing furiously, the firm loses money. Lots of it.
An empty office also makes other associates uncomfortable. It’s like a slight hiccup in the world of bi-weekly big paychecks, graded pay scales, set bonuses, unlimited Westlaw legal research, unlimited pens, paper clips, legal pads, Post-It notes, unlimited Alhambra drinking water.
David Keener’s death gave Beamer Hodgins LLP the hiccups.
Jack Betner knew that.
Jack needed to fill Keener’s office with a warm body. Any warm body with a J.D. from a decent school who was willing to put up with his crap and bill ninety hours a week in exchange for a six-figure salary.
A warm body like mine.
“So do you golf, Fiona?”
“No, Mr. Betner, I do not.”
“It’s Jack. And good. Means you’ll be here every weekend instead of out farting about on the golf course.”
No, I’ll be going on arranged dates orchestrated by my father instead.
But it was a trick question, typical in a law firm interview. No way to know what answer Jack wanted.
And it really didn’t matter.
Either way I answered the question, Jack already knew what he was going to say. It’s a hallmark of a great lawyer.
Oh good. I’m a big golfer myself too. What’s your handicap?
Or
Oh good. Means you’ll be here every weekend instead of out farting about on the golf course.
His call. He opted for the latter as he needed to put someone in Keener’s office.
“Okay, you’ll be talking with Steve next, Fiona.”
Round robin interviews. That’s how they do it in big firms. You get passed around from associates to partners to associates to anyone who’s free. People you’ll be working with in your department. People you’ll never see again in your life. Everyone will get a chance to drill you with silly questions and to decide whether you’ll be what they call a “good fit” for the firm.
“Good fit” should mean whether you are competent to do the work required for th
e position. Whether you are a good lawyer. A smart lawyer.
But it doesn’t.
“Good fit” means exactly that. Whether you’ll fit in with the established crowd. It’s like going back to high school all over again. You’re getting interviewed to join the Goths, the Geeks, the Posers, the Jocks, the In-Crowd.
Firms don’t like Outcasts. They are not a “good fit.”
“So what do you like to do, Fiona?” asked Hannah, a first-year associate.
“Salsa dancing, when I have time. And flying.”
“Flying? Oh my God, you’re so daring.”
Yes, flying. I zip around in a two-seater Cessna at an airspeed of one hundred twenty knots per hour five thousand feet above the ground and my father sends me off with “have a good time.” I guess the thought of me nosediving into the earth at terminal velocity in great balls of fire wasn’t as bad as some boy playing with my vagina. Go figure.
“That’s so cool. You sound fun. We like fun people here. We want someone fun,” continued Hannah.
Something exotic. Something expensive. Something fun. Something the firm can brag about.
Our lawyers are also pilots, skiers, dancers, sailors. We’re a well-rounded firm. Our associates do well enough to take flying lessons and go sailing on the weekend. Even though the associates will probably never do any of that together. Even though no one has time to do anything because they are billing one hundred hours a week. And end up dead tired. Or just dead.
What kind of hobbies do you have? Where do you live? Do you like the city? What high school did you go to? Do you like to drink? Do you like to dance? Do you golf? Do you work out?
No one asked whether I knew anything about purchase and sale agreements or venture financing. No one asked what happened at Toller Benning LLP. No one asked whether I had even passed the bar. No one asked how I knew they had a job opening in their department.
It didn’t matter.
They just wanted someone fun to cure their hiccups.
On Friday, Jack called me.
“Fiona, everyone liked you. Can you start on Monday?”
Yes, Jack.
Of course I can, Jack.
Anything you say, Jack.
I CALLED SEAN, BUT he was in the operating room, repairing a hymen. Making his living. Salvaging a woman’s ruptured honor. Doing God’s work. And most importantly, putting food in the mouth of his porcupine puffer.
Hello Kitty Must Die Page 8
