The Partner Track: A Novel (29 page)

Because the truth was, I was shocked. I could not have been more shocked if Marty Adler had opened his mouth and blown a big pink bubble, or stripped down to his boxers, black socks, and wingtips, climbed up onto his big antique desk, and danced the polka. Because
this
was unbelievable. This simply couldn’t be happening. I wanted to pinch myself awake.

“Marty, I—”

“Please understand. We do hope to consider your candidacy again next year.”

“But I—I’m sure I
don’t
understand. All along, for all these years, I’ve been told that I was firmly on the partner track. That I was certain to be voted in this year. That as long as I kept on doing all my work exactly the way I was doing it, it was
a sure thing.
”

Adler cleared his throat. “I understand your disappointment, Ingrid. Believe me, we did not come to this decision lightly. As I said, we will reconsider you for partnership next year. In fact, we strongly encourage you to continue your fine efforts, as we’re very hopeful that next year, we might have better news for you.”

I sat back in my chair, stunned. We regarded each other for several long moments.

Quietly I asked, “But what’s happened between my last performance review and now, Marty? What’s changed?”

Adler looked uncomfortable. “I don’t like having to say this, but primarily, I was concerned that the level of attention to detail in your work may not be of partnership caliber.”

I sucked in my breath, staring in disbelief at Marty Adler. I made no effort to hide my shock or anger. Adler glanced down at the floor. He looked somber, almost sad.

“Marty,” I said, struggling not to scream. “I would like to know
what,
exactly, you feel about my work is not—as you say—partnership caliber. Because, as you know, I have been told, consistently, over and over, by every partner I’ve ever worked with at this firm, at every single performance review I’ve been given for the last four years running, that I have been leading and executing all of my deals at
partnership caliber
.”

Adler nodded. “I understand how frustrating this must be for you.” He steepled his hands beneath his chin and sighed. “But, Ingrid, you must agree that the incident during our meeting with Ted Lassiter last week was quite embarrassing. That is not the kind of error we can simply overlook. As you know, Parsons Valentine and Hunt is one of the preeminent global law firms. Our M&A partners are highly sought after, and highly valued, and as a result we cannot afford to take any risks to our reputation.”

“As I told you, I’d double-checked and triple-checked those documents the night before the meeting, and those errors weren’t there when I last saved them. I can swear to that.”

“I’m sorry, Ingrid.”

“So that’s it?” I could hear my voice getting higher and higher and made an effort to keep it low. “Because of a single
word-processing
foul-up, I’m going to be deferred another year?”

“Well,” Adler said, and then he hesitated. And I could tell that that had not been the real reason, that there was something else.

“Well, what?”

He sighed again. “There was one other serious concern that was voiced by several of the other senior partners. Not by me, you understand, but several of the others.”

“Which was?”

He seemed to be struggling for the right words. Finally he said, “Well, Ingrid, they questioned your ability to dedicate yourself to your legal work, because it has lately appeared that you have been heavily involved with other …
extracurricular
objectives.”

My stomach twisted.
They knew!
About me and Murph! Of course they did. Oh, I was going to
kill
Murph. And that little brat Justin Keating. Absolutely kill them. Both of them.

I managed to say, “Just what
extracurricular objectives
are they referring to?”

Adler wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Your work on the Diversity Initiative.”

“My work on the
Diversity Initiative
?” I had never been punched out before, but I imagined that it felt much like this. The breath was quite literally knocked out of me.

Adler shifted in his chair, still looking anywhere but at me. “Yes.” He cleared his throat. “It was commented upon that you’ve been devoting quite a lot of time and energy to our diversity and inclusion efforts, and a few of the partners questioned whether you would consistently be able to put the
legal
work of the firm first, ahead of your other, nonbillable priorities.”

“But that wasn’t
my
priority, Marty, it was yours!
You
forced me to carry that flag!” I said in a headlong rush. “I wanted nothing to do with your Diversity Initiative, but you practically made it a condition of partnership for me, Marty. I hope you told them that!”

“Whoa, whoa.” Adler held up his palms, looking decidedly less apologetic now. “Careful. I think we should be extremely clear about what we’re saying to each other. I never placed any conditions upon your partnership, Ingrid. Not a single one. Whatever you did or did not do was totally up to you. Let’s be very clear.”

“Actually, Marty, you made it
crystal
clear exactly what your expectations were of me, what the rules were, and now I’m getting punished for playing by those rules. For doing exactly what you said!”

He shook his head. “Ingrid, I’m very sorry you feel that way, and I’m even sorrier if you misunderstood.”

We regarded each other. I cast about wildly to recall our exact conversation in the elevator bank—it seemed like so many years ago. What precisely had he said? Could Adler be right? Could I have completely misread what he was telling me to do? I replayed his words in my head.
I don’t have to tell you how much we value an associate’s nonlegal contributions to the firm when we’re making our partnership decisions.
No. There had been no misunderstanding. My only mistake had been to trust him.

“I know exactly how you must feel,” Adler said.

I looked at him, incredulous. “No. Please don’t say that. You really don’t.”

He nodded. “I do. And I’m so sorry if you misunderstood.”

That was it. What else could happen to me now?

“Go fuck yourself, Marty.”

“Excuse me?” He blinked.

I took a deep breath. “Fuck. You.”

“Ingrid, calm down.” Adler glanced discreetly at his phone.

“I’m perfectly calm.” I shook my head. “Eight years. Eight goddamn years. You say jump, I’d say, ‘How high?’ Take on SunCorp? Done. Close it in five weeks’ time? No problem. Be your little trained seal at the Diversity Dinner? Of course! ‘Take a bow, Ingrid. Ladies and gentlemen, for your entertainment, it’s the Little Minority Who Could!’”

“Ingrid, I’m very sorry. But this conversation is over. I had no idea that you would react in this way. I must say, it’s very unbecoming.”

He picked up the phone and, keeping his eyes trained on me, spoke to Security. “Yes, this is Marty Adler. I’m going to need some assistance here escorting a young woman out of the building. Yes, right now. Thank you.”

I was very surprised and a little bit pleased to see that I had finally managed to shock Marty Adler.

“Ingrid,” he said, “I think you and I both understand that this is completely unacceptable behavior.”

“Actually,” I said, “I’m just following the best advice you ever gave me.”

Adler lifted his eyebrows.

“You told me not to take it all so fucking seriously, remember?”

He hesitated for a moment, and I could tell he was actually trying to remember whether he had ever given me this piece of advice or not. But it didn’t really matter.

“Ingrid, you’re not giving me any choice. We’re done here. I’m letting you go.”

“Let me save you the trouble, Marty. I quit.”

We stared at each other across the expanse of his desk. Finally Adler shook his head and said sadly, “You have no idea how sorry I am that this is how you are ending your relationship with the firm.”

“And you have no idea how sorry I am that I wasted so much time.”

I stood up and walked out.

Sharon and three other secretaries scattered back to their desks.

They all looked on as a uniformed security guard—a hefty, bald man I’d never seen before, and thankfully not Ricardo or one of the other guys I was friends with—fell in step next to me, without a word, and grimly followed me down the internal staircase to my floor. I held my head up, stared straight ahead, and took some small comfort in the fact that since it was before ten, not everyone was in their offices yet to see me go by.

When we got to my office, Margo stood from her desk and looked from me to the security guard in open surprise. “Ingrid, what—”

“It’s okay, Margo,” I croaked out, and the security guard followed me into my office. He informed me, not unkindly, that I was permitted to pack a box of my personal effects, but I left almost everything—even my law school diploma on the wall. I just grabbed my briefcase and handbag and the two framed photographs that I kept on my bookcase—of me, Rachel, and my parents.
Sorry, everyone,
I thought.
Sorry, Mom and Dad. Sorry, Rach. Sorry, Professor Tanaka. I blew it. For me, for you, and for everyone who was supposed to come after.
I choked back a sob as I stuffed them into my briefcase.

I took one last look at the mess in my office and my view of Madison Avenue. Then, as the security officer looked on, I swept my arm recklessly across the top shelf of my bookcase, knocking eight years’ worth of deal toys and plaques and awards onto the floor with a satisfyingly loud crash. He made no move to stop me.

I walked out of my office with my head held high, the security officer following closely behind. He frog-marched me out to the elevator bank, where we ran into Cameron Alexander and her sidekick, that Steinberg kid from the outing, who both stared at me with open curiosity.

Down in the lobby, the security officer walked me out of the elevator, past the big granite receptionist desk emblazoned with
PARSONS VALENTINE & HUNT LLP
, past Ricardo, who was looking on openmouthed, and then out across the echoing marble floor to the revolving glass doors. Right before I exited Parsons Valentine & Hunt for the last time, the security officer held out his hand, into which I deposited my PV&H keycard, ID badge, and BlackBerry.

“Have a nice life, miss” was all he said.

EIGHTEEN

For three whole days I just stayed in bed.

I shut off my alarm when it started bleating at seven in the morning, crawled back under the covers, and slept like the dead til five in the afternoon. I got up only to stumble to the bathroom and get a glass of water. On my way back to bed, I glanced at my phone and saw four new messages from Rachel, three from Tyler, and two from Margo. And one blissfully ignorant one from my parents. I hadn’t told them yet. I couldn’t. This was going to kill them.

I shut off my phone, stuck it in a drawer, and went back to bed.

I fell into a feverish, anxious sleep, marked by so many vivid and unsettling nightmares—in one, I kept showing up late for a final exam being proctored by Marty Adler that everyone else had already finished the day before—that I only felt more exhausted and troubled upon waking.

When I couldn’t sleep, I just lay there for hours, staring at the ceiling, or curled into a ball, feeling sweaty and itchy and fretful in the jumbled twist of warm and sour-smelling sheets, racked with worry, guilt, and anger, unable to imagine how I was ever going to get out of this. How exactly I would start all over.

What bothered me most—the single worst thought that I kept turning over and over in my mind—was that I was the one who’d
let
this happen. I had no one to blame but myself. I had allowed myself to be duped.
Me,
Ingrid Sabrina Yung. Valedictorian. Most Likely to Succeed. Phi Beta Kappa.
Law Review.
Well, turns out I hadn’t been very smart after all. I had happily held out my hand and allowed myself to be led, like Hansel and Gretel, down the path, stupidly following the bread crumbs all these years, and now I had absolutely nothing to show for it.

I had completely bought into the myth of a meritocracy.

Somehow I’d actually been foolish enough to believe that if I simply kept my head down and worked hard, and did everything,
everything,
that was asked of me, I would be rewarded. What an idiot. Hadn’t Tyler tried to warn me? Hadn’t Rachel told me to watch my back? Hell, hadn’t even
Isabel
cautioned me to keep some things to myself? Hadn’t
everyone else
but me seen this coming?

I wondered what Mrs. Saltzstein, the high school guidance counselor, would say if she could see me now. Or my mother. Oh, God, my mother.

I was sure that I was already blackballed at all the other big firms in the city. I’d probably never work in this town again. Gossip of this kind spread fast, and I was certain I’d already been branded the Parsons Valentine Associate Who Had Made a Scene When She Didn’t Make Partner. I didn’t even need to flip open my laptop to know there was already some snarky, gossipy blog post about my firing up on Above the Law or Gawker, followed by a raft of gleeful comments, brimming with schadenfreude, shot through with vitriol, all written by a bunch of strangers who knew nothing about me or what had really gone down.

I knew that no one would question the integrity of Parsons Valentine’s decision; at least, not anyone who could do anything about it. Hiring partners up and down the eastern seaboard, and all the way across from Boston to San Francisco, would have no choice but to assume I hadn’t been able to hack it, that I simply Hadn’t Been Partnership Material.

Isn’t it a shame,
people would cluck and tsk to each other.
These firms invest so many resources. We give these people so many chances; she just couldn’t cut it.

*   *   *

I awoke to a persistent buzzing at my front door. Raising myself up onto an elbow, I looked at the clock. 6:07
P.M.
I didn’t know what day it was. I didn’t care.