Love and Miss Communication (6 page)

“Evie,” Patricia Douglas, the freshest member of the partnership committee and a highly regarded litigator, said. “You know how outstanding we think your work has been since you’ve joined the firm. Your reviews have been consistently glowing.”

“Thank you. I really try my best.” When nobody cracked a smile, Evie wondered if maybe she shouldn’t have responded.

“As you know, the choice of who makes partner at Baker Smith is not one that we take lightly.”

No shit
. Out of her entering associate class of 120, only 5 or 6 had a shot at partnership. Evie barely knew her competition. The other associates whose names were being whispered in the hallways worked in different departments and rarely, if ever, surfaced at firm social events. The rest of the associates from her entering class had been gradually weeded out over an eight-year period. Blood, sweat, and tears were expected by-products of the journey. And still there were no guarantees for those still standing. It could be one careless error in a closing document. Or a faux pas at a client meeting. She was immensely proud of herself for not having made any missteps, at least none big enough to come to the attention of upper management.

“However,” Patricia continued, “there is something concerning that has recently come to our attention. About your performance.”

Suddenly, the temperature climbed to Bikram Yoga proportions. What could this be about? She couldn’t remember ever feeling so clueless and so unsure of what was coming next.

A million thoughts raced through her mind at once, but none of them made much sense. She’d once feigned a terrible cold to
get out of a mentoring program so she could attend a special event at Jack’s restaurant. Who could have known she was lying? She’d purposely ducked out of pictures that were Instagram-bound. More recently, she had forgotten to mute her phone while on a call with the Calico accountants and had made an appointment for a haircut on her cell phone simultaneously. But those were hardly capital offenses.

“Evie, do you see all these papers on the table?”

Of course she did. She nodded yes.

“Do you have any idea how many papers are here?”

Evie shook her head no. What was this? A guess-how-many-jelly-beans-are-in-the-jar contest?

“Ten thousand,” Patricia said. “Actually, more than that. And do you know what’s in those papers?”

Evie looked down at the floor, unable to blink, and watched as the checked pattern of the carpet took on a distorted and frightening pattern.

“Doc review?” Evie whispered. “For my next project. The tech merger.” Her voice lilted upward, like a little girl’s.

“No, they are not, Evie.” Mitchell Rhodes spoke for the first time in the meeting. All of the other partners present had remained silent, most of them expressionless. One of them—whose name Evie couldn’t recall—seemed to be stifling a smile. “Evie, these papers are the more than one hundred and fifty thousand personal e-mails you have sent while at work over the last eight years. As you no doubt recall, we were having server issues recently. Many associates complained about the Internet speed and said LexisNexis was almost unusable. So we hired a consulting firm to look into the matter. It turns out a number of our associates have been abusing their time at work by sending extensive personal e-mails.
But you, Evie, were by far the worst offender. We calculated you sent, on average, seventy-five personal e-mails every day. At first we assumed you were running a private business from the office, which is strictly prohibited, but from a review of the data that appears not to be the case.”

Evie felt her rib cage collapse like an accordion. She worried her skeleton wouldn’t be strong enough to lift her from her chair to get to the bathroom, where she desperately wanted to throw up. Could it really be possible she was the worst offender at the firm? Wasn’t everyone addicted to e-mail? All the younger associates were probably just texting instead. But could she prove that?

“Evie,” Mitchell continued, “we’re very disappointed. Frankly, you were almost a shoo-in for a partnership. But we can’t in good faith promote somebody who in one day sent over ninety e-mails back and forth to someone named Caroline Michaels with the subject line ‘Is Jack getting sick of me?’”

Evie remembered that day. She couldn’t focus at work because Jack had declined her offer to accompany him to the Aspen Food & Wine Festival for no discernible reason. All he’d said was “I’m fine to go alone.” Evie felt like she was nagging him every time she offered to come along. She tasted a salty drop on her lip at the memory, which released a full batch of fresh tears at the thought of what was happening to her now. She was losing her job. The most stable thing in her life. Her livelihood. A good part of her existence. And she was crying at work. Something she had vowed never to do.

Patricia spoke up again, undeterred by Evie’s tears. “In case you are wondering, our review of your e-mails is perfectly legal. When you signed your employment contract, you gave us express consent to review anything on our servers.” Jesus, it was like she was reading from a script in a wrongful termination defense manual. “Evie, I’m sorry about how this turned out. But we can’t imagine you have been devoting your full energies to work when you are spending so much time on personal matters at the office.
We wish you luck, but your employment at Baker Smith is now officially terminated.”

Without a word, Evie stood up from the conference table and headed to the door. Summoning all the strength left in her body, she whispered, “Then I guess this is good-bye.”

“Evie—wait,” Patricia said. Evie turned back with her hand still on the doorknob. She thought for a brief moment that maybe they had changed their minds, reaching a silent decision after seeing her anguished face that, yes, they could overlook her e-mail infractions and give her another chance.

“Yes?” Evie said, a hopeful note in her voice painfully obvious even to her.

“We’re going to need your BlackBerry back.”

All she could think about as she palmed the featherweight piece of black plastic that had been her lifeline to the outside world for the last eight years was—if she wasn’t [email protected] who was she?

Naturally Marianne was at her station for the first time in recent history when Evie got back to her desk. She hung up the phone and appeared at Evie’s side in an instant, fake-comforting her. Marianne and Evie never liked each other. Marianne resented working for a girl half her age, and clearly thought Evie was an idiot every time she asked for help with the copy machine. Evie was confident being a good lawyer didn’t require a Ph.D. in toner replacement. She also wanted to tell Marianne to stop talking to her neighbors on Staten Island for three hours a day about whether her husband, Mickey Jr., was
cheating on her and prepare Evie’s expense reports instead. It was a strained relationship, to say the least. Which made Marianne’s faux concern that much worse.

“Poor thing. Did they fire you? I heard about that from Jamila in payroll. Let me get you a tissue to wipe your eye makeup. No sense in you leaving here with everyone remembering you looking like hell.”

That was the act of kindness that Marianne had decided to leave as Evie’s lasting impression of her. At least Evie wouldn’t have to see her anymore. It was a paper-thin silver lining.

Marianne was right to bring the tissues quickly, though. Baker Smith gave Evie four hours to vacate the building and turn in her ID pass. An e-mail waited for her with “departure instructions.” Those motherfuckers in HR had simply been waiting to hit Send. Ten minutes later a burly man with
MOM
tattooed on his bicep dropped off twenty cardboard boxes. He was followed by a crusty woman from the Records Center who looked dangerously deficient in Vitamin D, thanks to her omnipresence in Baker Smith’s basement. She explained the methodical way that Evie was expected to label and package her old files. It was so typical of this place that she was expected to work until her last minute in the building. She was tempted to submit a recording of her remaining hours in the standard six-minute increments used for billing purposes: 2:02–2:08—cried while reading departure instructions; 2:08–2:14—glared at Marianne while she gossiped with the other secretaries about her boss getting canned; 2:14–2:20—cradled BlackBerry in her palm wondering how it was possible she had sent that many e-mails over the last eight years; 2:20–2:26—extended trip to bathroom to compose herself and plot impractical revenge on Baker Smith.

Evie’s cabinets were overflowing with nearly a decade’s worth of mergers, spin-offs, stock purchases, and leveraged buyouts.
She briefly debated intentionally mixing up all of her papers and mislabeling the boxes but realized it would just create more work for her and nobody would even notice. When she was done, she made her way over to say good-bye to the few good friends she’d made over her tenure. She hugged Annie in front of the frozen yogurt machine in the cafeteria, their favorite spot to meet up during the workday. Annie made Evie swear to call her after the blind date with Mike Jones that she had orchestrated a while back. Since Evie had basically written off Luke Glasscock, she knew she had no legitimate reason to put off meeting Mike. She was glad that Annie didn’t probe her on the firing. Evie hoped the story would never come out—the partnership committee wouldn’t want the whole episode to be public because it would look bad to clients, and she certainly didn’t plan to divulge it when she’d soon be pounding the pavement looking for a job.

After finishing her last vanilla-chocolate swirl compliments of Baker Smith, Evie visited Julia, her workplace next-door neighbor for the past two years, a friendly associate in the white-collar crime division who was fond of bringing in homemade cookies. She couldn’t help notice that Hotmail was open on her friend’s screen. Why was she not getting axed too?

Last she found Pierce, a sassy administrative assistant with whom Evie had built up a lively rapport based on making snide comments about other lawyers. They dished one last time about Harry, the grabby tax associate with the lazy eye, and promised to stay in touch. There were others. Lawyers who’d listen to her grumble about her breakup with Jack at “Fat Al’s,” the dive bar across the street that regularly played host to Midtown’s overworked and horny professionals. Ladies in the printing room who listened to her complain while they expertly formatted her documents. The dorky crew in IT who had saved her butt countless times. She had genuine fondness for these people but was realistic about
keeping in touch with them. She’d been on the other side for too long—taking down people’s personal e-mails before they left the firm with empty promises to meet for coffee. Only Annie would be different. They were friends since the summer internship program at Baker Smith, had the same know-it-all partners belittle them, ate lunch together at least once a week, even shared Marianne as an assistant for a while.

Evie’s last stop on her departure journey was Mitchell Rhodes’s office. She knew of all the partners he would be the most sympathetic, and the most likely to offer her a letter of recommendation. His door was slightly ajar when Evie approached and she could see through the crack that he was on the phone.

“Stop yelling at me. I’m at work. Stop yelling. I said stop yelling.” She could hear Mitchell barking quietly like a muzzled dog. “Loreen—I work sixteen hours a day. How the hell was I supposed to notice she developed a drug problem? You’re the one who’s home all day doing God knows what. How about knocking on her door once in a while instead of another trip to Bloomingdale’s?”

Mitchell’s tone was frosty. He was the kindest partner she knew at the firm, but now she was scared to even knock. He went on, enraged.

“No, I don’t know what Twitter is. She tweeted that she was high? Loreen, you’re not speaking English.” He broke off momentarily. “No, I can’t come home to talk to her. I have a client conference call in an hour, then a closing dinner, and then I have to come back to the office to speak to some partners in the Tokyo office. Someone has to pay for all of her drugs, right?”

Evie, still in turmoil, couldn’t control the laugh that escaped her. She didn’t know the always genteel Mitchell Rhodes, king of the corner office and rainmaker extraordinaire, had it in him.

“Sorry, no, that wasn’t meant to be a joke,” Mitchell pleaded.
“I’ll try my best to get home before eleven. And I promise we’ll deal with this in the morning.”

He hung up the phone. No love you, no miss you. Just a promise to deal with family drama, and then a click. No wonder Mitchell had been so pleased to receive her
x
’s and
o
’s e-mail. From the sounds of his phone conversation, he wasn’t getting too many hugs and kisses at home.

“Evie, you all right?” Mitchell asked, after spotting her lurking in his doorway. “Why don’t you come in?”

She sank into the same armchair she sat in just last week, taking orders from Mitchell on how to revise an offering memorandum. Only this time she was slumped over instead of upright and perky with pen and paper in hand. She looked around for family photos, hoping for a glimpse of his wayward daughter. None could be found.

“Evie, I know you were surprised by how things went at the meeting. We all feel terrible. You are an excellent associate. Frankly, we’re all surprised how you managed to perform at all given how much time you spent on personal matters. It’s actually rather impressive.”

“So give me another chance. At my last review, I was led to believe I was on partnership track. My clients are going to be upset that I’m gone. Can’t I just have a warning? I assure you I will not make the same mistake again.”

Even as she said it, she wondered if it was true that she could control her urges for distraction during the day.

“Besides, I remember when the server was slow. That was at least six months ago. How long have you known about this? Why wait to get rid of me?” Evie remembered precisely when the Internet was moving at a glacial pace. It was just at the time of her breakup with Jack, and they were exchanging those last awkward e-mails—coordinating picking things up from each other’s apartments
and debating whether it was practical to remain friends (it wasn’t).

“Well, Evie, it took some time for us to investigate the server problems, and then you got so entrenched running the Calico-Anson merger. It wasn’t the right time. You’re such a good associate—we just didn’t want to part with you any earlier than necessary.”

This was like Tracy telling her that she was too good for Luke. If everyone loved her so damn much, why the hell were they putting her out to pasture?

“I do have some good news for you though. The compensation committee has agreed to a six-month severance package for you. Three months is standard but we are extending it in light of your service to the firm.”

That
was
a relief. In her state of shock, she hadn’t yet given thought to how she’d manage without her monthly paycheck.

“Thank you,” Evie responded awkwardly.

“The truth is, I was holding out hope you would announce you were leaving and this wouldn’t have had to happen.” He paused and looked at her squarely. “A lot of female associates around your age tend to leave at this point. Even younger.”

So you were counting on losing me to attrition by marriage and kids, Evie thought bitterly. Sorry to disappoint.

“Obviously, that didn’t happen,” Mitchell went on. “And in this case, well we don’t really have a choice about giving you a second chance. You know, with the website.” His voice trailed off.

“In this case what? What happened?”

Mitchell rotated his computer screen toward Evie. “Oh—I guess you haven’t seen this yet. They posted the article a few minutes before we met with you.”

Evie rose from her seat and looked at the familiar homepage of
BigLawSux,
the wildly popular legal blog where disgruntled attorneys
came to gripe and gossip about their jobs. It was started by two former attorneys and had a massive following. The headline read:
BAKER SMITH DUMPS E-MAIL–ADDICTED ASSOCIATE—EIGHTH-YEAR EVIE ROSEN SAID TO HAVE CAUSED SERVER BREAKDOWN
. To the right of the text was the picture of her from the firm’s directory—that damn photo she couldn’t escape, with the greasy hair and the day-old makeup.

Evie knew then, for certain, what it would feel like to have a boxer land an uppercut to her cheek. She struggled to keep her knees from buckling.

“Evie,” Mitchell said, biting his lower lip and looking toward the corner of the room before refocusing his gaze on her. “I’m afraid with this kind of publicity there’s nothing we can do. I know it all seems rather Draconian, and for that I’m sorry. I just wish for your sake the comments hadn’t gotten so nasty.”

Evie leaned in closer to see the smaller font beneath the headline, which was only one paragraph long. The article stated pretty much what she’d been told at the partners meeting and cited the source as an unnamed associate “close” to someone on the management committee. What the hell did “close” mean? Sleeping together? That associate should get fired, not her! The comments below, three times as long as the article, sent her gasping for air.

The first comment, the one that set off the maelstrom, read: “I’m not surprised Evie Rosen didn’t make partner. Every time I walked into her office she was playing online Scrabble or shopping on OneKingsLane. I heard she padded her billable hours too.” It was signed by the rather unheroic “Anonymous.”

“That’s not true,” Evie exclaimed, searching Mitchell’s face for signs that he believed her.

“Evie, maybe you’ve read enough,” he said and gently patted her arm, almost like he was guiding her away from the screen.

“No, I need to see this.”

Next came: “Evie Rosen thought she was better than everyone. She pawned off the tough work on the junior associates but took all the credit.” That vitriol came from a girl who identified herself as Legal Biznatch.

At least several associates came to her defense. LoonyLawyer wrote, “Evie was always nice to me. She was a pleasure to work with and I’m sad to see her go.” Other commentators added that she was smart and capable and that Baker Smith dumping eighth-year associates was total BS. Then the conversation rerouted, thanks to Legal Eagle NYC’s remark: “Whatever, at least she was a nice piece of ass at the office. Now all we’re left with are the dogs.”

Then came the clincher. The one that hit her like a sucker punch.

“Evie Rosen’s not even that hot. Polly Yang in Bankruptcy is way hotter.” Signed, Juris Dokta.

She was incensed. The Scrabble comment had to come from that third-year associate who was always making disgusting smacking noises with his yogurt. She never should have asked him not to eat in her office. And who the hell was Polly Yang?

Evie cringed thinking about Jack seeing this. It wasn’t that he frequented legal blogs—she knew that—but if he ever looked her up from time to time (and she liked to think he did) this might be the first thing to come up. Negative press always had a way of floating to the top, like oil in a dressing.

She sank back into the chair across from Mitchell’s desk, speechless. He looked at her with what appeared to be genuine empathy before speaking.

“I’m sorry, Evie. We really just had no choice. Our clients actually read these blogs. Our services are expensive, and they want to make sure they are getting their money’s worth. Now more than ever we have to be careful about our image. I’m not even sure
how this blog got ahold of our internal partnership memos. Evie—you are a wonderful lawyer. I don’t know if this is really your passion, but you are damn good at it. If the economy wasn’t in the gutter, maybe we could have overcome this little setback,” he said, gesturing once again at the screen. “But with the market conditions as they are, we’re basically looking for any reason to keep new partners to a minimum. I’m not sure if that helps you feel better, but in some ways this decision had more to do with us than you.”

Evie actually laughed. Baker Smith was breaking up with her and giving her the oldest line in the book—it’s not you, it’s me. Pathetic.

“Thank you, Mitchell. For the record, I have never once padded my hours. That was actually me, working all the time, for this place.” She stood up abruptly, offered her hand to him, and turned to leave before he could reply. Her watch read 4:11. Less than an hour until she’d be booted out of the building. In a daze, she made her way back down to her office. Seated in the chair whose vinyl seat had taken the permanent imprint of her butt, she instinctively tried to log into her computer but was denied access. The words
INVALID USER
burned holes in her retinas. She swiveled around to take one last look at the view from the thirty-ninth floor—the one that used to make her feel triumphant, but now was making her queasy. It was a long way down from here.