Phillip Margolin: The Associate

Kaidanov returned to the front of the building. His office was twelve by fifteen and stuffed with lab equipment. A small desk on casters stood just inside the door. It was covered by a phone book, articles from research journals, and printouts of contractions that the monkeys experienced during pregnancy. Behind the table was a cheap office chair. Along the walls were metal filing cabinets, a sink, and a paper towel dispenser. Kaidanov walked around the desk. The coffeepot was sitting on a table alongside a centrifuge, scales, a rack of test tubes, and a Pokemon mug filled with Magic Markers, pens, and pencils.

Above the table was a television screen attached to a security camera that showed the front of the building. The pot of coffee was almost brewed when Kaidanov heard a car pull up and a door slam. On the television a figure in a hooded windbreaker ran toward the lab.

Kaidanov left his office and opened the front door. The scientist peered at the hooded face and saw two cold eyes staring at him through the slits in a ski mask. Before he could speak, a gun butt struck his forehead, blinding him with pain. Kaidanov collapsed to the floor. The muzzle of a gun ground into his neck. “Move,” a muffled voice commanded. He scrambled to his knees and a booted foot shoved him forward. The pain in his face brought tears to his eyes as he crawled the short distance to his office. “The keys to the monkey rooms.”

Kaidanov pointed toward a hook on the wall. Seconds later a blow to the back of his head knocked him unconscious.

Kaidanov had no idea how long he had been out. The first thing he heard when he came to were the hysterical shrieks of terrified monkeys and the sound of cages crashing together. The scientist felt like a nail had been driven into his skull, but he managed to struggle into a sitting position. Around him filing cabinets had been opened and overturned. The floor was littered with gasoline-drenched paper, but that was not the only object doused in gasoline-his clothing, face, and hands reeked of it. Then the acrid smell of smoke assailed his nostrils and his stomach turned when he saw the shadow of flames dancing on the wall outside his office. Fear dragged Kaidanov to his knees just as his assailant reentered the office holding the gun and a five-gallon can of gas. Kaidanov scurried back against the wall, much the way the more docile monkeys skittered to the back of their cages whenever he entered the monkey room. The gas can hit the desk with a metallic thud and Kaidanov’s assailant pulled out a lighter. Kaidanov tried to speak, but terror made him mute. Just as the lid of the lighter flipped open, an insane shriek issued from the doorway. An apparition, engulfed in flame, eyes wide with panic and pain, filled the entrance to the office. The dominant monkey, Kaidanov thought. It had been able to force open its cage door because Kaidanov had forgotten to secure the padlock. The term “monkey etiquette” flashed through Kaidanov’s mind. He ducked his head and assumed a submissive position then watched out of the corner of his eye as his assailant turned and stared. The human and the primate locked eyes seconds before forty pounds of adrenaline-fueled, flame-tortured muscle launched itself through the air with a terrifying scream. Kaidanov saw the rhesus land on its prey and sink its fangs into his attacker’s shoulder. As the pair toppled to the floor, Kaidanov staggered out the door and ran toward the woods. Moments later two shots rang out.

“Ready to rock-and-roll?” Joe Molinari asked as he ambled into Daniel Ames’s tiny office. “Not today,” Daniel answered regretfully, pointing at the papers on his desk. “Briggs just laid this on me.”

“We’re talking happy hour, compadre,” Molinari said as he slid his angular body onto one of Daniel’s two client chairs. The litigation associates at Reed, Briggs, Stephens, Stottlemeyer and Compton met for happy hour once a week at a popular steak house to bitch and moan about how hard they worked and how unappreciated they were-and to make fun of other lawyers who were not among those chosen to work at Portland, Oregon’s largest and most prestigious law firm. Daniel enjoyed the camaraderie, but he knew that it would be impossible to drag himself back to the office after sharing a pitcher of margaritas with the gang. “Briggs needs my memo tomorrow morning.” Molinari shook his head ruefully. “When are you going to learn to say no, Ames? I’ve got a picture of strikers outside an auto plant. I put it on my door when I’m full up. I can make you a copy.” Daniel smiled. “Thanks, Joe.

I may take you up on that, but I’ve got to get this done.” “Hey, man, you’ve got to stand up for yourself. Lincoln freed the slaves.” “The Thirteenth Amendment doesn’t apply to associates at Reed, Briggs.”

“You’re hopeless”-Molinari laughed as he levered himself out of the chair-“but you know where we are if you come to your senses.” Molinari disappeared down the corridor and Daniel sighed. He envied his friend.

If the situation had been reversed Joe wouldn’t have hesitated to go for a drink. He could afford to give the finger to people like Arthur Briggs and he would never understand that someone in Daniel’s position could not. Molinari’s father was a high muck-a-muck in a Los Angeles ad agency. Joe had gone to an elite prep school, an Ivy League college, and had beenLaw Review at Georgetown. With his connections, he could have gotten a job anywhere, but he liked white-water rafting and mountain climbing, so he had condescended to offer his services to Reed, Briggs. Daniel, on the other hand, thanked God every day for his job. On one wall of Daniel’s narrow office were his diplomas and his certificate of membership in the Oregon State Bar. Joe and some of the other associates took their education and profession for granted, but Daniel had made it through Portland State and the U. of O. law school the hard way, earning every cent of his tuition and knowing that there was no safety net to catch him if he failed. He took pride in earning a spot in Oregon’s best law firm without Ivy League credentials or family connections, but he could not shake the feeling that his hold on success was tenuous. Daniel’s office wasn’t much, but no one in his family had ever even worked in an office. His mother waitressed when she was sober and serviced long-haul drivers when she was too drunk to hold a job. He phoned her on her birthday and Christmas when he knew where she was living. He’d had six “fathers” to the best of his recollection. The nice ones had ignored him, the bad ones had left him with night sweats and scars. Uncle Jack, father number four, had been the best of the lot because he owned a house with a yard. It was the first time Daniel had lived in a house. Most of the time he and his mother stayed in trailers or dark, evil-smelling rooms in transient hotels. Daniel had been eight when they moved in with Uncle Jack. He’d had his own room and thought this was what heaven was like. Four months later he was standing half-asleep on the sidewalk at four in the morning listening to his mother’s drunken screams as she pounded her hands bloody on Uncle Jack’s bolted front door. Daniel had run away from home several times, but he’d left for good at seventeen, living on the streets until he could not stand it, then joining the army. The army had saved Daniel’s life. It was the first stable environment in which he had ever lived and it was the first time his intelligence had been recognized. Daniel’s dark jacket was hanging from a hook behind his door, his paycheck sticking out of the inside pocket. Ninety thousand dollars! The size of his salary still amazed him and he felt incredibly lucky to have been chosen by the powers at Reed, Briggs. Every day he half expected to be told that his hiring had been a cruel practical joke. Daniel had talked with the recruiting partner who visited the law school only to practice his interviewing technique. His invitation to a second interview at the firm had come as a shock, as had the offer of employment. Reed, Briggs’s hires were graduates of Andover and Exeter; they attended Yale and Berkeley as undergraduates and went to Harvard and NYU for law school. Daniel was no dummy-his undergraduate degree in biology was with honors and he had made theLaw Review -but there were still times when he felt out of his league. Daniel swiveled his chair toward the window and watched the darkness gather over the Willamette River. When was the last time he had left these offices when it was still light out? Molinari was right. He did have to learn to say no, to relax a little, but he worried that he would earn a reputation as a slacker if he turned down work. Just last night he had awakened, drenched in sweat, from a dream in which he cringed in the dark at the bottom of an elevator shaft as a car descended slowly, but inexorably, toward him. You didn’t have to be Sigmund Freud to dope out the meaning of that one.