Private Sector (3 page)

“I’m sure it’s in the phone book.”

“Fine,” she replied. “Ask for me when you arrive. The partners are here by 8:00 A.M. and it’s a good idea to arrive well ahead of them. There’s no time clocks . . . but it’s noticed. And I’m sure you want to make the right first impression.”

Now that she mentioned it, yes, I did. I hung up, rolled over, and closed my eyes.

At 8:30, I flipped on the TV, let Katie and the gang bombard me with bubbly glee, allowed Diane her equal shot in the ratings war, showered, shaved, and so forth.

Understand why I didn’t want to do this program. I love the Army. It’s the life for me. FTA, as the troops say, which, depending on your day, either means Fun, Travel, and Adventure or Fuck The Army. On particular days, it means both. So what else—interesting work, simplicity in your wardrobe, a well-ordered universe, and the sense of serving a higher calling. I’m too horny to be a priest, so there it is.

Also, there’s a wide chasm between the worlds of military and civilian law and, more particularly, the soft-heeled world of corporate law. We don’t play the billings game, or scramble, or plead, or compete for customers, and, less fortunately, there’s no fat bonus checks in our mailboxes at Christmas. Yet it has been my unfortunate experience that many big-firm lawyers look down their noses at us. They regard us as public dole idiots, soft, lazy, and lacking intellectual brawn. But I don’t feel slighted; after all, they’re all spoiled, arrogant, overpaid jerks.

Regarding Clapper’s assurances about Lisa Morrow and her experience at the firm, generals don’t lie, but truth can slip through their lips in fairly odd ways. I mean, do they say, “Three platoons that tried to take that hill just got the living shit kicked out of them and now, God bless you, boys, go on up there and take your ass kicking.” No; they say silly things like, “You are the finest soldiers on earth and I’ve therefore elected you for the very prestigious honor of taking that small, lightly defended hill.”

I’d be tucked in a corner office in the basement, where I’d spend my year counting how many paper clips it takes to run a law firm. I’d be handed a handsome plaque when the year ended, with my name misspelled, because, excluding the janitors, nobody in the friggin’ firm had the slightest idea who the hell I was.

Last, Clapper is not as smart as he thinks he is. Like most generals, he is adroit at holding his cards close to his vest and, like most lawyers, at cloaking the truth. I actually was a little hurt that he didn’t think I’d see through this. He obviously had a larger plan, and something told me it ended with Sean Drummond behind a desk in the Pentagon Contracts Office negotiating basing rights, weapons system agreements, and other things too appalling to mention.

Somebody has to do it, I guess. But, no sir, it wasn’t going to be me.

Anyway, the firm in question turned out to be located on Connecticut Avenue, six blocks from the White House, a neighborhood renowned for power restaurants, sluggish traffic, and astonishing rents. I found an underground garage, parked, and made my way to the nine-story building, where a wall directory by the elevator indicated the firm took up the top three floors. This answered the first question. It was a big firm. Also the unasked question—money mill.

The elevator opened on the eighth floor, and that last point was underscored in impressive fashion—burnished mahogany walls, dimly lit sconces, and “Culper, Hutch, and Westin” obnoxiously scribbled in gold letters on the wall. I stepped out of the elevator and vomited on the carpet. Just kidding.

Also sprinkled about were a few brass-studded leather couches, side tables and lamps, paintings of sailing ships, and an attractive middle-aged lady with her well-dressed ass parked behind a long wooden desk, who instantly inquired, “Might I help you?” in one of those clipped, upper-class English accents that fit nicely with the ambience.

I replied, “You may. Sally Westin.”

“Your name, sir?”

“Drummond.”

She had one of those telephone microphone thingees, she pushed a button, she whispered into the mouthpiece, and she then informed me, “Have a seat. Miss Westin will be out shortly to retrieve you.”

I smiled and asked her, “Hey, what’s the difference between a corporate lawyer and a liar?” When she failed to reply, I said, “Spelling.”

Appearing slightly annoyed, she informed me, “Really, I’m quite busy,” pointed at a chair, then pushed a button and pretended to be talking to somebody else.

I sat. Clearly, this place needed to loosen up. There was a bit of foot traffic, men mostly, looking smug and self-important with their two-thousand-dollar suits and Gucci briefcases. I scrunched up my face and looked self-important, too. I was making a real effort to fit in. I wondered if I should get a Gucci briefcase. Probably not.

A young lady finally approached and said to me, “I’m Miss Westin. I was, well . . . I was expecting you earlier. Much earlier, actually.”

So. Start with her physical appearance—thirtyish, wholesome, small but neat features, and I suppose pretty, yet groomed, wrapped, and coiffed in a manner that indicated some resentment about this. Brown hair wrapped in a tight bun, gold-rimmed glasses, no makeup; boobs, hips, and all the other female paraphernalia were present for duty, but tucked, shoved, and otherwise camouflaged to avoid prominence. The word “tightass” popped to mind, though perhaps I was being hasty.

Now her expression—puckered, reproachful, definitely guilt-inducing. So perhaps I wasn’t being hasty.

“Well, as you can see,” she said, after it was clear I wasn’t going to explain my tardiness, “we have a great facility here. Electronically, we’re the world’s most advanced firm, we have top-caliber paralegals and secretarial staff, and our library is kept completely up-to-date with all the latest rulings on anything dealing with corporate law.”

Without further ado she walked off, saying, “Let me show you the office allocated for your use. I’m sure you’ll find it satisfactory.”

So together she and I proceeded down a long hallway wallpapered in muted colors and carpeted with some kind of plush oriental runner. Very chez chic. She eventually hooked a left into a corner twenty-by-thirty-foot office with a few more sailing ships on the walls, a hand-carved wooden desk, and two leather sofas perched atop a gigantic oriental carpet. Two walls were windowed to offer a panoramic view of downtown.

My normal office, if you’re interested, is a windowless ten-by-twenty-foot cell with a dented metal desk and a gray metal wall safe, and the Army’s idea of artwork is reenlistment posters, which are an oxymoronic, even a moronic sight in a defense counsel’s office, if you ask me. Yet it occurred to me that I might remain at the firm long enough for some of my Army pals to, you know, come over and check out how the other half lives. Disgusting . . . really disgusting.

She waved an arm around. “It belonged to a sixth-year associate who nearly made partner. He was discharged last week. It’s yours until the next time our management committee meets.”

As I looked around, she added, “My office down the hall isn’t nearly this grand.” She then asked, I think petulantly, “Well? Can you work out of here?”

“Is there a coffee machine?”

She rolled her eyes. “Cappuccino and espresso machines also. If that doesn’t suit your tastes, one of our secretaries will be pleased to run out and get whatever you desire.”

Boy, was this the life or what? If I told Sergeant First Class Imelda Pepperfield, my legal assistant, to run out and pick me up a little cup of that café latte crap, they’d have to dislodge her foot from my ass. But the Army, being a public institution, accountable to the public and all that, frowns upon the menialization of its females. As I mentioned, there are considerable differences between the public and private sectors; I didn’t say they’re all actually bad.

I sat on a leather sofa and bounced up and down a few times— good springs, soft leather, strong, resilient frame—a man could take damn fine naps on this couch.

“And what did you say you do for the firm?” I asked Miss Westin.

“I’m a third-year associate. I’ve just been moved to our largest corporate client.” She asked me, “And what kind of law do you do in the Army?”

“Strictly criminal.”

“Oh. . . I see.” She shifted her weight from her left foot to her right. “Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place to learn corporate and contracts, Drummond. Culper, Hutch, and Westin has a top reputation in the field.”

Before I could reply to that, a sudden cough shifted my attention to a figure in the doorway—male, mid-to-late sixties, wearing one of those aforementioned two-thousand-dollar suits, thick, wavy white hair, trimmed black eyebrows, pinched lips, and a ruddy, outdoorsy face. Every molecule of his being, bearing, and demeanor screamed white-shoe asshole, which, if you don’t know, is how we refer to law firms that never enter the gutter of real law and therefore never get any shit on their shoes.

“I’m Harold Bronson, the managing partner,” he announced, nodding at me. “And I think you must be Drummond?”

“Yes, I think I must be.”

He did not offer his hand or in any other way offer the impression he was pleased with my presence. He said, “I dropped by to meet you. We’ve assigned Miss Westin here to work with you and guide you into our culture. She’s quite well-schooled on the caseload you’ll be working on.” He regarded me more closely and asked, “And you?”

“And me?”

He shifted his glasses lower on his nose. “Of course you, Drummond. What’s your experience in corporate law and litigation?”

“Oh. . . Well, I do strictly criminal stuff.”

“Criminal cases?”

“Right.”

Mr. Bronson sniffed the air once or twice, no doubt to detect whether I’d tracked any dog crap onto his expensive carpets. He informed me, “We don’t touch criminal law, Drummond. Neither we nor our clients want any association with that side of law.” He added, “And our work, as you’ll surely discover, is more. . . intellectually challenging.”

You see what I mean about these white-shoe guys? Get me out of here.

But Mr. White Shoes was on a roll, and he continued, “We handle litigation, corporate, M&A, contracts, SEC and FCC, libel, and, like any big capital firm, political lobbying on behalf of our clients. The past several years, given the deteriorating state of the economy, we’ve experienced a great expansion in our bankruptcy work. In fact, my background is in bankruptcy. It now represents over half our work.”

I stretched and yawned. I might have been more attentive, and even cordial, except Mr. Bronson had one of those pinched, disagreeable faces, and I had the impression it wasn’t just me, but his general outlook and overbearing arrogance. Also he had this clipped, condescending manner of speaking I was sure worked well with his clients, but it got on my nerves.

As if all that wasn’t enough, Miss Weston’s eyes were locked on his every move and gesture. I mean, you could smell her fear, apprehension, and discomfort.

Mr. Bronson shoved his glasses back up and added, “But how unfortunate it is for us that you lack any experience in our fields. You’re going to be involved in issues that are quite delicate and important to this firm, Drummond . . .” and blah, blah, blah. More about my obvious lack of qualifications. About my need to unlearn and overcome the sloppy habits of military law. About what a great honor it was for me to learn at the knees of the great masters of the legal arts, and so forth.

I sat through his long lecture nonchalantly, listened politely, and subordinated my nearly overwhelming instinct to tell him to go fuck himself. I really wished Clapper were around. He would be really proud of me. I wondered what the lovely Captain Morrow was doing at that moment—I needed to call her, I reminded myself . . . also, I had dry cleaning to pick up, an overdue book from the library, and . . .

“Drummond, are you
listening
to me?”

Oops.

Mr. Bronson said, “I’m very busy, young man. And if you’re too bored to listen . . . Did you hear a word I said?”

I felt really bad. It was time to look sheepish and assure him that his words were both instructive and inspirational.

“I’m sorry,” I said very sincerely. “I thought you were finished about ten sentences ago.”

He began twisting his necktie. But wouldn’t it stink if this guy got the stupid impression I was some junior associate he could bully around? No, it would be best for both he and me for him to swiftly conclude that there wasn’t enough room in this firm for the two of us and throw my ass out. I wasn’t expecting this to happen on the first meeting or anything. Still, one should always try.

But apparently he’d had enough of me. He nodded curtly at Miss Westin and abruptly departed.

A roomful of air poured from her lungs. She frowned at me and said, “That was really stupid.”

“Don’t worry about it. He’s just another lawyer.”

“He’s not
another
lawyer. He’s God in this firm, you idiot.”

“Can he stamp my parking pass?”

“What is your problem?” She crossed her arms, appeared supremely frustrated, and advised me, “When you meet the other partners, you’d better make a better impression. You rub off on me.”

“I. . .
what?
”

“Just what I said. I’m responsible for you during your time here.”

“Explain that, please.”

“The firm’s management committee recognizes there could be cultural and educational issues for an Army attorney in our ranks. It’s my role to smooth them out.”

“Meaning what, precisely?” Actually, I knew what it meant.

“Listen, Drummond—”

“My name’s Sean.”

“All right. Let me—”

“And I can call you Sally, right?”

“If that’s important to you. Look, Drummond, you’re obviously incompetent—”

“Please have a seat,” I interrupted. I pointed at the opposite couch. I smiled. “Let’s start over. I’m Sean and you’re Sally. You’re not my mentor or my baby-sitter—you’re my colleague. We should treat each other respectfully, like friends even, and—”

Another figure had appeared in the doorway, who said, “Good morning, Major.” He cracked a faint smile and added, “I’m Cy Berger . . . one of the senior partners around here.”