Lawfully Yours (2 page)

CHAPTER 2

Morning. My bleary eyes squint at the nightstand’s clock. 6:30 a.m. I peel off my sweaty sheets. The ratty, tatty, floral flannels I wore to bed were actually a worse choice than yesterday’s velour ensemble. Not just because of appearance either. The flannel, or my nervousness about today, made it too hot to sleep. Climbing out of bed, I open the window to breathe in the frigid January air. I wonder if today’s interview will give me a cold reception, too.

The shower’s hot steam doesn’t relax my pre-job jitters. My shoulder muscles stay at attention like a soldier’s while the water pounds down on me. I will not be washed up at twenty-six!

I feel pretty washed up, though. The sleepless night didn’t help. So much for going into the interview with an up and at ‘em attitude. Chemical assistance is needed. Aspirin. Black coffee. Mega-powered mouthwash.
Getting out of the shower, I wipe the steam off the mirror. Do I look as tense as I feel? Yep.

Putting on my best suit, I notice a dark brown stain on the beige collar. Putting on my second best suit, I detect a yellow-brown stain on the white collar. What I’m putting on now is a full-fledged migraine. Damned coffee. Note to self—stop drinking that crap when wearing my good suits.

The tally of garments falling into the “hotshot firm acceptable” category is nil. I don’t have any experience in dressing “corporate.” Plus, law school loans have prevented me from improving my wardrobe anyway. The six stain-free suits I have left were all bought at Goodwill. Fortunately my olive green ensemble doesn’t look too worn. I hope.

Thinking I might have to do a lot of walking around this large firm, I opt for the flat brown loafers I wore to Barnes & Noble. I dig up a scarf to spruce up the drabness and put it on. The tan and orange scarf is satiny and has short white fringe hanging from it. The fringe doesn’t seem to fit the rest of the outfit’s overall look, but I figure something noticeable around my neck is probably better than leaving the suit plain. After several attempts to tie the scarf, I fold it like a bandana. The mirror shows the finished result—a cross between Ruth Bader Ginsberg and Daisy Mae Yokum. Should I be going for this look on an interview? Probably not.

I catch a glimpse of the clock. Late! Stress level kicking into high gear, my hands are shaky and sweaty. Ditching the scarf and swapping the loafers for low heels, I head out the door.

My twelve-year-old Volvo is hopefully going to get me to the firm, because if it doesn’t, I don’t have any way to get here. I mentally block out the pop music gurgling from the car’s radio to focus on my situation. I should suck up to my interviewer. Why would anyone possibly hire me? My only job out of law school was with a small, obscure firm.

Should I explain why I barely lasted a year at Frosty Firm? Or gloss over it instead? Would a human resource department really appreciate an honest response to their standard job application question: “Why did you leave your last job?” I picture my large, loopy handwriting filling in the blank space on a printed form: “Because working with mean-spirited people sucks.”

I realize I have inadvertently slowed down my vehicle while contemplating all this. Speeding up, I make up time on the highway, but almost miss the turn for the office building in my haste. Instantly braking to enter the parking garage, car horns blare behind me. But I get to the building before 9:00 a.m.

The address is one of Hartford’s best. Standing in the lobby with my mouth agape, I must look like a backwater tourist on her first day in the big city. I get myself mentally together enough to start walking again, my heels clicking against the white marble tiles. Smelling fresh flowers, I spot two black marble urns bearing tiger lilies framing the information desk.

I approach the desk and am directed to take an elevator in the third bank to the fourteenth floor. Stepping inside, I punch fourteen. It shoots upward, nicely enhancing the pit in my stomach. A miniature television monitor flashes the stock market’s up-to-the minute figures. The elevator stops so smoothly it takes me a second to realize it’s not moving. The doors slide open.

Rose-colored marble blankets the floor and covers the walls. Floor to ceiling Corinthian columns embellish the reception area. An enormous mahogany reception desk bears scrollwork so intricate it must be hand carved. The desk bears the firm’s name, Grovas & Cleval.

The appearance of the firm’s receptionist is no less intimidating than the appearance of the reception area. She’s a life-sized substitute for Marty’s Barbie doll. Her clothes are feminine, but not so tight or revealing as to be cheap. Her hair is in an ornate up-do. I struggle to remember if I used a brush this morning. I’m pretty sure I did, though I can’t actually recall doing so. With all that looking I did in the mirror, I’m sure I would have noticed if I hadn’t. I rake my fingers through my hair, just to be on the safe side. I’m sorry as soon as I do—the receptionist stares at me, lips tightly pursed. Great!

“Can I help you?” She sounds doubtful.

“Um, yes. Thanks. I’m here for Jordan Grant.”

“You’re here for Jordan Grant? What does that mean?”

“I have an interview with him?” My attempt at a sentence comes off sounding more like a question. Between my umms and my question-sentences, this woman probably thinks I’m an idiot. Worse, I could be working with this woman who probably thinks I’m an idiot. And worse still, she could spread the word to others that I’m an idiot. Stop being so nervous! I switch to a more authoritative voice. “I’m Sue Linkovitch.” Raising my arm high in the air to reach over the great mahogany desk, I extend my hand to her.

Her handshake and attempt at an enthusiastic voice are halfhearted. She takes back her hand and flips through papers. “Oh, your name is on the list. Sorry for my confusion. You said you’re here for an interview? I suppose you want to be a paralegal for Mr. Grant. How nice. Beverly is his other paralegal.” More to herself than to me, she mutters, “I hope Bev knows about this.”

Look-alike Barbie tells me to take the central staircase up to the firm’s second floor, take a left and two rights, and I’ll find him in the back corner office. I decide not to correct her as to my prospective job title but instead try to figure out where the central staircase is. It isn’t hard to find. True to its name, the big, swooping, marble and mahogany staircase is centrally located. A person only has to walk a little ways past reception and voila, there is a staircase wide enough to be an upright highway. All I can think of is, How much money would I make here? I assume the corresponding thought by clients is, How much will I be charged here?

I am going to do my best to impress Jordan Grant. Panting, I arrive at the commercial real estate wing. It has its own section, an entire corridor with lots of windows. The area is divided further into smaller sections, each with its own type of decor, and each clustered around a partner. I find the last section labeled “Jordan Grant.”

I give a quick scan. His area has all the accouterments of a law office. It’s traditionally designed and clearly expensive. Jordan Grant is apparently the type of guy who refuses to hang art prints not signed by the artist, who has an aversion to any wood not mahogany. Not very classy myself, I wonder what value he’ll find in me.

The one thing I don’t see is his staff. Where are they? Well, at least I won’t be getting any hateful glares from Paralegal Bev. Tentatively, I walk toward the lion’s lair. His door is open, and I can see straight into his office. Mustering up my best smile, I walk over and peek in.

My eyes bulge.

I choke as if I swallowed my heart.

At the sound of my gasps he glances up and drops his pen.

“You!” he shouts out.

“You,” I repeat meekly.

CHAPTER 3

We stare at each other dumbly. Me and the man from Barnes & Scalded.
Eventually he shakes himself out of it. “Did you follow me home, wait the whole night outside my apartment building, then follow me here to my office?” he asks dryly. “All that, just so you could offer to pay my cleaning expenses?”

“No,” I choke out. “I’m interviewing for the associate position.” A cat expelling a hairball would divulge this with smoother finesse. He stares at me wide-eyed. Now I know where his daughter got the expression. God, Sue, get a grip. “To be your associate,” I add authoritatively.

Maybe it’s not such a good idea to highlight this fact. He’s probably thinking Watch out, my beloved Brooks Brothers beauties! Clumzilla is on the loose! But that would be unfair. Employing me would benefit him, too—he’d become best friends with the manager of the Drip & Dry down the street.

I start talking again to break the deafening silence. “How’s your daughter doing?” I ask, taking a seat.

“Fine. You didn’t scald her.”

My right foot jiggles rapidly, up and down. “I’m sorry about what happened,” I squeak out.

“It’s okay. I’ve mostly healed.”

Is he enjoying my discomfort? “I was trying to help, remember?” I say, quiet but firm. “My good intention backfired.”

“I’m just kidding.” He smiles. “Really, I’m not that much of an ass. At least that’s what my friends tell me.” He sits back in his seat and picks up his coffee cup only to put it back down without drinking. If I had forgotten the firm’s name in my shock of seeing him, no problem—it’s embossed in gold on the over-sized black mug.

“Well, my surprise at seeing you is sincere,” he adds. Was there amusement in his voice? “Anyway,” he coughs, “let’s get on with the interview, shall we?”

“Sure,” I croak. Do not tell him I only got a “B” in property law.

He picks up my resume. “So you’re Susan Linkovitch. Do you go by Sue or Susan?”

“You can call me Sue, thanks.”

“A lawyer named Sue. Do clients find you naturally litigious?”

I blink at him. Hilarious. Like I didn’t hear that a million times in law school.

He clears his throat. “Tell me, Sue, have you ever done any commercial real estate?”

“Not directly, but I did a law school internship at a firm that handled a lot of property transactions.”

“I see that. I recognized the name of the firm when I looked at your resume. I figured a solid, small firm would give interns a good background, and I need someone who is ready to hit the ground running. But you didn’t say too much on your resume as to what you actually did.”

Exactly. “Prepared HUD-1 forms for residential closings, mostly.”

“Anything else?”

“I watched the attorneys do closings. I’m pretty sure I could handle doing one solo, but of course your commercial transactions will be much more complex.”

“Obviously. I’ve never heard of your current firm, Stone & Sommers. What do you do there?”

“Past firm, actually. I left shortly after I sent you my resume.”

“Oh.” He frowns. “Why did you leave?”

“I want to go back to property law. My old firm focused on criminal law, plus did a fair amount of divorce work. Some personal injury.”

“Why didn’t you apply where you interned?”

“I did, but you called first. And this would be a wonderful place to work.”

“How much do you know about Grovas & Cleval?”

“A test, huh?” I say as confidently as any unemployed person could. “I know a few things. Around since the Civil War, the firm serves very solvent clients. Both corporate and individual.”

He laughs. “You’re right on all counts.”

“I can recite every division in Grovas, if you’d like.”

“No.” He smiles. “That won’t be necessary. Anything else you can tell me about your property law experience?”

“I took a property class in law school.”

“How’d you do?”

“Er, good. I was one of the best.” Not including those students who got “A’s.”

His phone rings. “Excuse me a moment,” he says, taking the call.

I settle in the chair and gaze out the wall-to-ceiling sized windows. Wow. I can see all the way to the Connecticut River. I look down at the sailing boats, and then survey his office. More art prints, also with artists’ signatures. Several Ivy League diplomas. The only personal items on his immaculate desk are two pictures, one of him shaking hands with the state’s Attorney General and one of him snuggling his daughter. No mom in the picture. This guy is definitely divorced. She probably couldn’t take the sarcasm.

Gold and cream striped fabric is on his guest chairs, a more toned-down yellow on the couch. There are two plants, an orchid, and one I can’t identify. Will it be okay if I touch them, to see if this firm is so upscale it actually decorates the offices with real flowers?

I turn my gaze back to him. I’d almost forgotten how handsome he is. Appealing blue eyes, bright like a pool in the sun, make my mouth water. But I won’t be kissing his mouth—his ass is my intended target.

He is still talking intensely with whoever is on the phone. This is nerve-wracking enough for me without it being prolonged. My gaze continues to wander until his suit catches my attention. A distinctive Italian cut, two button, single-breasted beauty. Beyond Brooks Brothers. This suit is subtly but clearly speaking to me. It’s saying Mitchell’s of Westport. Taking off my neckerchief was fortunate—it would have screamed country-western so loud all but the deaf would have heard its clamorous twanging. I start to sigh but catch myself. I cough to cover the sound. He looks up at me for a moment, creasing his brows.

“Okay,” he says into the phone, intently. “Stop worrying, that’s easy enough for me to handle.” Pause. “Yes, of course I’ll get started on this immediately. Out of curiosity, how much time are you giving me?” Pause. “Are you serious?” he sputters. When he speaks again, his voice is steelier, straining politeness. “Always glad to have your business, Gerard.”

He hangs up and turns to me. “Sue, you just lucked out. Since I need an associate immediately, you can start tomorrow. Be in by 8:00 a.m. On your way out, tell the receptionist you’re working for me.”

I make a Marty expression—open eyes and mouth.

Upon seeing my reaction, he says, “I’ll be frank, I’m in a pinch. My associate quit Friday. I had a feeling she was going to bail, so I already had the position advertised. I was hoping she’d at least stay until I found her replacement. And now I have this major project that needed to be done yesterday. By luck of the draw, you’re my first scheduled interview. You seem to hold your ground well, and that’s what negotiation is all about. So do you want the job? You’d need to start tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow will be fine,” I say slowly. “And I’m very excited for the offer. But don’t we need to talk about—”

“You’ll get paid our starting salary. Human Resources recently changed the guidelines so I’m afraid I don’t know precisely what they are—I didn’t think I’d be making an offer today. But I’ll bet it’s more than what you were making.”

I’m sure it is. It’d have to be.

He sighs. When he speaks, his words come out agitated. “That’s the deal. Do you accept?”

My heart pounds heavily in my chest. Am I excited to have this professional lifeline thrown to me or terrified by the guy throwing the line?

“Look,” he says in a tone showing annoyance by my delay. “I’m desperate for help, and I presume having you will be better than having nobody. If I’m wrong, no problem—I’ll fire you. You can always quit, too. Hell, my last one did. So we have nothing to lose.” He now sounds quite calm, which is the opposite of how I’m feeling.

“Yes, yes. Yes. I accept the offer. Thank you for this opportunity.”

“Okay then. Good to hear. See you tomorrow.” He stands to shake my hand, and this time I shake it back without knocking anything over. “Congratulations,” he says with a tight smile.

“Thanks,” I say, dazed.

“Be in by no later than 8:00 a.m. But don’t come any earlier, either. You don’t have a pass code yet and you can’t enter early without one.”

“I’m to be exactly on time. Got it.”

“Do what I ask and you’ll work out fine.”

He sits back down and turns to his computer. So absorbed in his work, I wonder if he’ll remember in the morning the interview even happened. I could surprise him by showing up unexpectedly a second time.

Gaining control over my wayward nerves doesn’t happen until I step outside the building. I wish I’d worn a hat—I’d throw it into the air Mary Tyler Moore style. I’ll have to settle for a celebratory latte. I skip all the way to the nearest Starbucks to claim my reward, cost be damned.

Night comes, and my celebratory mood shifts back to panic. Pushing nervousness aside, I make a Ben Franklin list to calmly contemplate my fate. Positive: I’ll be able to list a top firm on my resume, and it sounds like I’ll be making good money. Negative: if I get fired by day’s end, the money and resume listing won’t amount to much. Positive: maybe this guy will be better than the harpies. Negative: this guy’s “better succeed fast, or be fired,” attitude isn’t making that prospect very likely.

Since I’m already starting to feel sick from stress, I decide to open some bills. Reaching for the mail pile, I notice a letter from my old firm. It says:

Dear Susan,

Please return Helen’s book
Winning Family Law Cases in Connecticut
to the office. Immediately.

Thanks,

The Office Staff of

Stone & Sommers, LLC

I look at the letter in disbelief. They must think little of me to believe I would steal a book. I’m insulted and hurt. Why would I even want their book? I hate family law. I crumple up the letter. Then I smooth it out to re-read. Nope. Words didn’t change. Still as bad as before. I tear the letter into strips, wad them up, attempt a two-point toss into the garbage, and then start typing a letter back to the old office on my banged-up laptop.

I haven’t stood up for myself before. Well, not until I quit, anyway. Hands trembling, I type:

Dear Helen,

Congratulations on the new coffee product named after your firm: “Chock Full O’ Callous.”

Regards,

Susan

Passive aggressive is the way to go—I hit “delete” because I’m not sending a response. Tomorrow will be my first day on the new job. Doing work that has to be done yesterday.