Brian Haig - PrivateSector

“I’ll try to be responsible for my own screwups.”

“Always a commendable attitude.” He shoved off from the door, flashed a smile, and placed a chummy hand on my shoulder.

He suggested, “And I’ll bet you’re wondering why the Army agreed to use this firm.”

“Actually, I’m not.”

“Sure you are.” He gave me a knowing look and added, “I went to law school as a route into politics… Catholic University Law, in fact. A young Army officer named Tommy Clapper was in my studygroup. We got to be pretty good friends.”

“Is that right?”

As he walked out, he remarked, “We talk all the time.”

That aside, I found myself liking Cy, and I think he sort of liked me. I don’t mean we were butter and toast, but I was marooned here because I pissed off my boss, and he was stranded here because he pissed off the American people. Set aside that order of magnitude and it did strike me that we had a bond of fellowship. Also, there was something of the charming rogue in him. I like a man with a few serious flaws. I can relate.

Further, it’s an admirable skill to deliver a threat with panache, velvet gloves, and all that. Any idiot can say, “Cross me, mother-fucker, and I’ll lump you up good.” A diplomat smiles and says, “Here, doggie, doggie,” with a big rock held behind his back.

The more impressive feat was that Sally Westin story. Talk about motivational force-how do you ignore that? The poor girl had all those awful demons in her head, and now it was up to little ol’me to see her that ass didn’t end up on the street.

Sally returned to the office mere seconds after Cy departed. next came a tour of the facilities, starting with the library, which occupied a quarter of the seventh floor. This entailed miles of expensive carpet, wood tables, leather lounge chairs, and sturdy shelves filled with thick books. Some thoughtful soul had arranged the interior decor to remind one of an English gentlemen’s club. The smell reminded me of a men’s locker room. I was getting nauseous.

“Most firms,” Sally was saying, “use electronic services or books on CDs. It saves space and money. We took a vote and decided to retain a real library.”

“Why?”

“Time. The electronic services are extensive and up-to-date, but you lose so much time logging on and waiting for your searches to find a match. The partners don’t care, of course. But we associates care a great deal.”

Actually, I didn’t care either. “Next, please.”

Next turned out to be an elevator ride to the ninth floor, where the partners were housed. It turned out that a key controlled by the English lady behind the front desk was required to coax the elevator to take us to that floor. Do I need this bullshit? Anyway, I smiled and winked when we drew near, but she was too well-bred to acknowledge that. The brass embossed nameplate beside her right elbow indicated she was named Elizabeth. Best I can tell, nearly three-quarters of all English ladies are named Elizabeth, which I guess is really convenient for English gents because when they awake in the morning beside an unfamiliar face, they say, “Morning, Lizzie,” and something like six out of ten times the rest of the morning works out okay.

“Seven senior partners and eighteen junior partners are here in the D. C. office,” Sally explained to me in the elevator. “New York, Philadelphia, and Houston have twice that many. And L. A., which specializes in entertainment and sports, has three times as many. Boston is our real backwater, but we’re considered the poor stepchild and are working hard to rectify that.” Translation: The Washington associates wanted more partnerships and fatter pay-checks.

The elevator door opened-no receptionist, more burnished wooden walls, sconces, and rich carpet. This was getting tedious, an upscale version of monochromatic. The hallway formed a long rectangle. Doors were on the outer walls, none on the inner walls. The partners’names were inscribed in stylized gold letters on their doors. There’s something very cool about having your name embossed on the door, an indication of stature, permanence, and job security. Also, nobody mistakes your office for the men’s room and pees on your wall.

“The offices face outward,” Sally explained. “Senior partners are on the east, newer partners on the west. The middle section contains a conference room and dining room. Only partners and clients are allowed to use the dining room.”

We continued walking down the senior partners’ hallway, and she pointed at more doorways. “That’s Cy’s. Next door is Harold Bronson’s.” After a bit more walking, with Sally pointing at more doors and repeating more names I made a point to immediately forget, we ended up back where we started, at the elevator.

I asked, “What’s this case we’ll be working on?”

“You’ll find out in a moment. Senior associates are largely in charge of the cases and report directly to the partners.” She looked at me and added, “You and I will report to Barry Bosworth. He reports to Cy. Like the military, isn’t it?”

I nodded. But in fact, that’s the way civilians think the military works, the way Hollywood portrays that it works, and not at all how it really works. Nobody butts into my business, as long as I don’t give them cause. In fact, I was weeping with nostalgia.

We passed by Elizabeth again, and I got another flinty look. Probably she wanted to ball my lights out and was too reticent to admit it. The English are known for their reserve about these things.

But evidenced by the three steaming cups of java already positioned on his coffee table, Barry Bosworth appeared to be expecting us. He was straining to make a hospitable impression and, in fact, was coming around his desk, beaming idiotically and saying, “Welcome, welcome, Sean. Hey, I can call you Sean, can’t I?”

“You already did,” I noted.

He chuckled. It wasn’t the least bit funny, but he chuckled. Word spreads fast when you’re a pain in the ass.

Incidentally, I hate it when people get all obsequiously friendly at opening meetings. From my experience, they’re usually the first ones to slide you the greased weenie when the chips are down.

Anyway, he was moving toward the couches, asking, “Well, why don’t we sit down and get acquainted?”

A few observations about my new supervisor, Barry Bosworth: early-thirtyish, lean, handsome, dark-haired, with one of those silly three-day-growth beards. His most notable feature was a pair of dark eyes that squinted with cold intelligence and colder ambition. He wore a shiny, expensive suit and, I guessed, had a BMW 760 parked in the garage, a wife and 1.3 kids in the shiniest suburb, and a car payment and mortgage that screamed he make partner or pack up the family and find a lousier neighborhood. But that’s a lot to surmise about someone you’ve only just met. Probably I missed a detail or two; like the mistress in the high-rise, and the BMW in the garage might be a 5 series wishing it were a 7 series.

Anyway, he leaned toward me and said, “I hope Sally has shown you around?”

“She did.” I asked, “So what’s this case I’m supposed to work on?”

He smiled and asked, “Right down to business, eh? Time is money, right?”

“Your time is money, Barry. At this moment, mine’s a waste of taxpayers’money.”

He giggled, like I was making a big joke. I wasn’t. He picked up his coffee cup, took a few measured sips, studied me, and said, “Have you ever heard of Morris Networks?”

It can sometimes be a good idea to confirm misimpressions, but in the event he hadn’t already concluded I was every bit the asshole he’d been led to expect, I shook my head. He, in turn, responded with a polite nod, as if it were perfectly natural for any grown-up with a television and access to newspapers not to have heard of Morris Networks. As I said, big-firm lawyers think we, their military brethren, are idiots.