Brian Haig - PrivateSector

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 cafe 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 amp;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?”