II
When he had finally got home from work the previous night, exhausted as he was, Maserov’s inability to stop imagining the impending morning’s meeting had kept him awake till the early hours of the next day. The exhaustion had already sabotaged the new day and possibly his career and it wasn’t even 7 am. He’d slept through his alarm. Stephen Maserov, a mere Second Year, was about to be late to a meeting, one he had been informed about the previous day, with Mr Malcolm Torrent of Torrent Industries and Mike Hamilton, the partner among partners, the first among unequals, il Duce of Freely Savage Carter Blanche.
Everyone in and around the firm feared Hamilton. His clients feared him and so continued to hire him believing that their commercial competitors would fear him even more than they did. Their fear would often explode into admiration as they witnessed his brazenness, even to them, as he explained in a chilly nonchalant manner that, while he billed for his services in units of six minutes he might, at his own discretion, also bill them by taking a lien on the client’s property. A client, often unsure what a ‘lien’ was, but sensing that, whatever it meant, it bode ill, might smile uneasily as though perhaps it was a joke.
‘I’m sure you understand this,’ Hamilton would say about taking a lien, returning the smile to show he was serious and that he didn’t care whether the client had understood him.
‘I’m also billing for the time I spend telling you this. We both know I have to.’
‘You have to?’ a client had asked.
‘If only to remain competitive,’ Hamilton had explained.
‘Competitive? With whom?’
‘My partners.’
His partners feared Hamilton because he had more power within the partnership than anyone else. This was so because he had more voting rights than any of the other partners and he had more voting rights because he billed more than anyone else. And this because he was listed on more files as the ‘partner responsible’ (the partner responsible for bringing the work to the firm and thereafter for keeping the client happy). The more a partner billed the more votes he got at partnership meetings. It was as simple as that.
But it was more than just fear. Hamilton’s partners also hated him. One had asked a Catholic priest whether it was wrong to pray for a man’s death if it could be painless and was certain to bring comfort to others. When told Catholicism could not condone prayer for a man’s death, the partner thanked the priest for his time but said he would continue his spiritual quest with a more accommodating religion. Yet another partner regularly role-played his interactions with Hamilton with his therapist. None of these people worked for Hamilton. They were not his employees; they were his partners. The employee lawyers could not afford the pleasure of hating him but the depth of fear they felt for him was uniformly unfathomable.
Maserov could almost fathom it. Riding up to the fifty-first floor, he could sense internal organs whose presence he had never previously been conscious of. By the time he reached Hamilton’s office he still hadn’t managed to catch his breath entirely. As the Joy in his dream had predicted, he was late, by less than five minutes, for the meeting but it put him in the wrong before he had even opened his mouth.
He didn’t know they had started the meeting forty minutes earlier. When he knocked on the door in advance of the quotidian Joy announcing him and apologised for being late, around 270 seconds late, both Malcolm Torrent and Hamilton looked at him as though they had no idea who he was or what he was doing there. Human Resources had forgotten to remind Hamilton that he was obliged by the rules of the firm to have a second-year lawyer sit in on a conference once every two months. This was the only reason Stephen Maserov was there.
‘What did you say your name was?’ Hamilton asked.
‘Stephen Maserov.’
‘And why are you here?’
‘Human Resources told me you wanted me in this conference?’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But . . . you work here, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s your name again?’
‘Stephen Maserov.’
‘Is he a relative?’ Hamilton asked Malcolm Torrent.
‘Not of mine,’ answered Torrent.
‘Why did Human Resources send you here? Are you a Second Year?’
‘I’m not sure. Oh, yes. I’m a second-year lawyer and —’
‘Oh, he’s a Second Year! Okay, well, sit over there and don’t touch anything. Joy, bring me the records of this Second Year. Maserov, I think it is.’
‘Yes sir, Stephen Maserov,’ Maserov tried to help.
‘Let me know how long until he’s a Third Year,’ Hamilton directed Joy before returning to Maserov. ‘Well, just sit over there.’ Then Hamilton turned back to Torrent. ‘We have to do this. It’s an HR thing,’ he said by way of explanation. Malcolm Torrent continued as though Maserov wasn’t there.
‘Isn’t there something called a “vexatious litigant”? Can’t you get them declared a “vexatious litigant”?’ Malcolm Torrent asked.
‘For a court to declare someone a vexatious litigant the person or company instituting proceedings must be found to be doing so “habitually, persistently and without any reasonable grounds” merely to harass, annoy or embarrass the person being sued. None of these women can be said to be harassing you. Their claim is that you, or rather your employees harassed, sexually harassed, them. Don’t worry; we’ll see to it that Torrent Industries vigorously defends the accusations.’
‘Mike, this is a spate of sexual harassment cases. It speaks to the culture of the whole business.’
‘Malcolm, it’s the construction industry. Boys will be boys.’
‘Is that going to be your defence?’
‘No, we’ll tailor a separate defence in each case. We’ll take care of it, but litigation takes time. You know that. You know how often things settle on the steps of the court and it can take years to get there. In the meantime you do not need to be thinking about this.’
‘It’s no good saying “it’s the construction industry” and that “boys will be boys”,’ Malcolm Torrent countered. ‘We’re not talking about allegations of sexual harassment on a building site. That wouldn’t be so bad. The allegations are that my executives are sexually harassing secretaries and support staff right there in my building, under my nose.’
‘I understand your being upset by these women using their wiles – their bodies really – to attack the integrity of the company to gouge out some cash for themselves like so many unmarried mothers do but it’s not a spate. Four cases hardly constitutes a spate. Nobody knows about this, it won’t affect the share price and, anyway, we’re going to make it all go away.’
Malcolm Torrent was not so easily convinced. ‘You said that when the first case emerged and then two more popped up. And nobody knows about this yet, but they could at any time and if it goes public it very well might affect the share price,’ he contended.
‘No, trust me Malcolm; it wouldn’t affect the share price. People don’t care about this sort of thing, investors don’t, certainly not the institutional investors.’
‘I think you’re wrong. I think investors do care about this sort of thing. There exist now what they call “ethical investors”. This kind of investor scares the life out of me.’
‘Ah yes, ethical investors,’ Hamilton chuckled. ‘I always enjoy the emergence of these faddish niche markets. Malcolm, I’ve never met anyone who would forgo an extremely healthy dividend in a blue chip company with tremendous growth potential because a lassie made a fellow jump out of his skin. Quite right too. This sort of thing happens every day. The economy can’t stop every time someone pops their cork. Listen to me, things are very good for you. You’ve got all those Middle East deals and, of course, there’s India. It’s not a spate, maybe a little cluster. There’s nothing that should worry you in this. You’re making a mountain out of a boner.’
‘Is this all you can say to me, Hamilton?’<
br />
‘Relax Malcolm, it’s the best advice I can give you.’
The two men exchanged an uneasy handshake and walked towards the door of Hamilton’s office. It was only then that they remembered Maserov was in the room. Stephen Maserov stood up and nervously gave a half wave to Malcolm Torrent.
‘Bye,’ he said meekly, regretting it as the sound of the one-syllable word was leaving his mouth. He hadn’t been expecting to have to speak, and he hadn’t until then. Completely enervated by his frenzied effort to get to the meeting on time after waking up late, the silence demanded of him by his total superfluity to the meeting suited him perfectly. He would never know whether Torrent was going to respond because at the moment he might have been expected to reply he was distracted by the sudden appearance of Joy, who walked him out.
‘You still here?’ Hamilton said to Stephen Maserov when they were alone.
‘I’m sorry Mr Hamilton, was I meant to have left the meeting sooner?’
‘You’re a Second Year, right?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And when do you become a Third Year?’
‘In about five months.’
‘Probably won’t ever have to see you again then,’ Hamilton said to himself as he sat down and began checking his email.
‘I’m sorry, did you say something?’ Maserov asked.
‘You can go.’
‘Did you say something?’
‘No. You can go.’
‘You did . . . about not having to see me again?’
‘That wasn’t meant to alarm you.’
‘Why not?’
‘You weren’t meant to hear it.’
‘But I did hear it.’
‘Apparently,’ Hamilton said quietly, scrolling distractedly through his inbox.
‘Why will you probably not have to see me again?’
At this Hamilton looked up. ‘Because you’ll probably be gone in a matter of months.’
‘Why? I’ll be a Third Year by then.’
‘I know.’
‘But doesn’t the firm cull at the end of first year?’
‘Traditionally, yes, but now we also cull at the beginning of Third Year. It’s an innovation; I innovated it. It came to me in the back of a cab. Then I tabled it at the partners’ meeting the next morning and they really went for it.’
‘But how do you know I’ll be one of the ones culled?’ Maserov asked. ‘Well,’ began Hamilton, ‘I’m not aware of any of the partners pushing you forward, grooming you, preparing you for an exciting dynamic future. Is there anyone at partnership level doing that?’
‘Well . . . Mr Radhakrishnan —’
‘Radhakrishnan?’
‘Yes.’
‘From Emerging Markets?’
‘Yes.’
‘How much of your billings come from Radhakrishnan?’
‘Do you mean what proportion?’
‘Yes.’
‘At the moment?’
‘Integrated over the last twelve months, yes.’
‘Integrated over the last twelve months . . . I’d have to say . . . about . . .’
‘You know I can check. I can have Joy find out the proportion of your work that comes from Radhakrishnan before you can say —’
‘None,’ Maserov admitted by way of interruption.
‘Integrated over the last twelve months none per cent of your work has come from Radhakrishnan in Emerging Markets?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then why did you mention Radhakrishnan?’
Maserov tried to clear his throat. ‘I’ve felt for a while that he’s probably going to try to get me in on a few things.’
‘You think he’s probably going to try to get you in on a few things?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why do you think this?’
‘Well, he . . . Whenever we . . . When we pass each other . . . in the hall . . . he generally . . . He pretty much always . . . smiles . . . at me.’
‘He smiles at you?’
‘Yes. I think so.’
‘You think Radhakrishnan of Emerging Markets is going to bring you in on a few things because when you pass each other in the hall he always smiles at you?’
‘Yes, he generally . . . That’s been my feeling . . . for a little while now.’
‘What do you know about emerging markets?’
‘Well,’ started Maserov, trying to swallow despite a dry mouth, ‘. . . they’re markets that haven’t finished, they, they haven’t quite finished . . . emerging.’
‘Have you ever seen Radhakrishnan’s face when he’s not looking at you?’
‘When he’s not looking at me? I don’t think that’s possible, is it?’
‘If it’s not possible then you can’t have done it.’
‘No, that’s true.’
‘Do you know where Radhakrishnan’s from?’
‘Emerging Markets?’
‘Let me tell you something, I’ve seen his face when he wasn’t looking at you. Guess what? He was smiling.’
‘He smiles at you too?’
‘He smiles at everyone! He’s from India! It’s an emerging market. They smile there, especially the ones who get out. Are there any other partners at the firm helping you avoid anonymity? Anyone smiling at you who isn’t Indian?’
‘Not regularly . . . Not intentionally,’ Maserov replied.
‘Do any of the partners here even know your name?’
‘You know my name, don’t you?’
‘I don’t know your name.’
‘Well then —’
‘Then none of the partners know your name, do they?’ Hamilton said.
‘No,’ answered Maserov.
‘So who will be here to argue that you shouldn’t be culled?’
‘No one.’
‘That’s why you’ll be gone in a few months. You can go now.’
Maserov stood on the spot for a moment in shock and Hamilton looked up from his computer screen, surprised to see the second-year lawyer still there.
‘Nothing personal . . . prob’ly. It’s . . . you know . . .’ Hamilton said, ripping open a novelty-sized envelope, ‘Darwinian. Might be personal . . . Don’t know.’
‘Is it personal?’
‘No, can’t be personal. No one knows you’re here. We’re done now,’ Hamilton said with a flick of his hand.
Maserov left Hamilton’s office holding his pen and legal pad with nothing written on it but the date and the names of the people present at the meeting. As he walked past Joy’s workstation he thought he felt a wave of sympathy emanate from the warmth of her perfumed bosom and up her neck to the smooth painted skin on her face, becoming for a moment a smile that winged swiftly and gracefully up across her face like a beautiful and rare bird away from its natural habitat, which then flew off in panic the instant Hamilton called her name. He had summoned her to clear the glasses he and Torrent had used. Hamilton would bill Torrent for the time it took Joy to clear the glasses as well as for the time he spent watching her do this. It was the same time counted twice but it was, Hamilton reasoned, occupied by two actions.
III
Stephen Maserov stood waiting for the elevator that was to take him down the three floors to where he would be sitting at his workstation for many hours over the next few months, trying to make budget in units of six minutes from the scraps of work people only slightly above him in the hierarchy would sprinkle haphazardly around him like breadcrumbs tossed to pigeons in a public square. There was no one in the firm looking out for him and so all the time he sat there he would be waiting to be told that he was through, that the end had arrived. Many others above and below him in the firm and in the neighbouring competing firms in the adjacent steel and glass towers were in the same position but they didn’t know it. Some might have suspected it but Maserov knew it with certainty, almost to the date.
He looked at his sadly almost blank legal notepad and read all of the words written on it, his minutes of the meeting: ‘Hamilton
(partner), Torrent (client), Maserov (me)’. He had written this on arriving at the meeting and then had simply sat there listening without writing anything else. He was finished at the firm. It was widely known though little discussed that other law firms were not hiring, in fact they were shedding staff as quietly as they could to avoid the appearance of anything other than success. Even so, all of Maserov’s contemporaries spoke to each other as though things were fine for them and fine for the firm. And not just among themselves but privately to themselves as well.
There was an increasing trend for legal jobs to be sent offshore to where so many other people’s jobs had gone many years earlier. Now it was happening to lawyers and accountants. Now their jobs were going on a one-way trip to emerging markets as part of the global freeing up of everything. Soon would come the day when only the elite would be employed, and they did no work at all. But before the dawning of this diaphanous day, offices hummed with strip lights and anxiety twenty-four seven. With all of this spinning in his mind, Stephen Maserov, second-year lawyer, former teacher, estranged husband of Eleanor, with a five-year-old son and a two-year-old son, was waiting in shock for the elevator to take him to a brief stay in purgatory.
Maybe the Horse Will Talk Page 2
