John Grisham - The Associate

“What?”

“There’s this door that leads to another conference room and it won’t stay shut, sort of swings back and forth, and so Harvey Wayne, fat ass, tells me to stack the binders on the floor and use them as a doorstop. I do what he tells me, and as I’m leaving the room, I hear him say something like ‘Those Harvard boys make the best paralegals’.”

“How much coffee have you had?”

“Second cup.”

“I’m on my first, and I really need to crank out this memo.”

“Sorry. Look, have you seen Dale?”

“No. I left Tuesday afternoon for the funeral yesterday. Something the matter?”

“She got nailed with some heinous project Tuesday night, and I don’t think she’s slept at all. Let’s keep an eye on her.”

“Will do.”

At 8:30, Kyle left the office with Doug Peckham and a senior associate named Noel Bard. They walked hurriedly to a parking garage a few blocks away, and when the attendant pulled up in Bard’s late-model Jaguar, Peckham said, “Kyle, you drive. We’re going to Foley Square.”

Kyle wanted to protest but said nothing. Bard and Peckham climbed into the rear seat, leaving Kyle, the chauffeur, alone in the front.

“I’m not sure of the best route,” Kyle admitted, with a flash of fear at what would happen if he got lost and the two big shots in the back were late for court.

“Stay on Broad until it becomes Nassau. Take it all the way to Foley Square,” Bard said, as if he made the drive every day. “And be careful. This little baby is brand-new and cost me a hundred grand. It’s my wife’s.”

Kyle could not remember being so nervous behind the wheel. He finally found the mirror-adjustment scheme and eased into traffic, cutting his eyes in all directions. To make matters worse, Peckham wanted to talk. “Kyle, a couple of names, all first-years. Darren Bartkowski?”

Without glancing at Peckham in the rearview mirror, Kyle waited and finally said, “So?”

“You know him?”

“Sure. I know all of the first-year litigation associates.”

“What about him? Have you worked with him? Good, bad, talk to me, Kyle. How would you evaluate him?”

“Uh, well, nice guy, I knew him at Yale.”

“His work, Kyle, his work?”

“I haven’t worked with him yet.”

“The word is he’s a slacker. Ducks the partners, late with projects, lazy with the billing.”

I wonder if he estimates his hours, Kyle thought but kept his concentration on the yellow cabs passing, darting, turning abruptly, violating every known rule of the road.

“Have you heard he’s a slacker, Kyle?”

“Yes,” Kyle said reluctantly. It was the truth.

Bard decided to help thrash poor Bartkowski. “He’s billed the fewest hours so far of anyone in your class.”

Talking about colleagues was a contact sport at the firm, and the partners were as bad as the associates. An associate who cut corners or ducked projects was labeled a slacker, and the tag was permanent. Most slackers didn’t mind. They worked less, got the same salary, and ran almost no risk of being fired unless they stole money from a client or got caught in a sex scandal. Their bonuses were small, but who needs a bonus when you have a fat paycheck? Career slackers could slide for six or seven years at a firm before being informed they would not make partner and shown the door.

“What about Jeff Tabor?” Doug asked.

“I know him well. Definitely not a slacker.”

“He has the reputation of being a gunner,” Doug said.

“Yes, and that’s accurate. He’s competitive, but he’s not a cutthroat.”

“You like him, Kyle?”

“Yes. Tabor’s a good guy. Smart as hell.”

“Evidently not smart enough,” Bard said. “That bar exam problem.”

Kyle had no comment, and no comment was necessary because a yellow cab swerved in front of them, cutting off the Jaguar and forcing Kyle to slam on the brakes and hit the horn at the same time. A fist shot out from the driver’s window, then an angry middle finger, and Kyle received his first bird. Be cool, he said to himself.

“You gotta watch these idiots,” Doug said.

The sound of important papers being extracted crackled from the backseat, and Kyle knew something was being reviewed. “Will we get Judge Hennessy or his magistrate?” Doug asked Bard. Kyle was shut out of the conversation, which was fine with him. He preferred to concentrate on the street in front of him, and he had no interest in assessing the performance of his colleagues.

After ten minutes of downtown traffic, Kyle was wet under the collar and breathing heavy. “There’s a lot at the corner of Nassau and Chambers, two blocks from the courthouse,” Bard announced. Kyle nodded nervously. He found the lot but it was full, and this caused all manner of cursing in the rear seat.

Peckham took charge. “Look, Kyle, we’re in a hurry. Just drop us off in front of the courthouse at Foley Square, then circle the block until you find a spot on the street.”

“A spot on which street?”

Doug was stuffing papers back into his briefcase. Bard suddenly had business on the phone. “I don’t care. Any street, and if you can’t find a spot, then just keep making the block. Let us out here.”

Kyle cut to the curb, and a horn erupted somewhere behind them. Both lawyers scrambled out of the rear seat. Peckham’s final words were “Just keep moving, okay. You’ll find something.”

Bard managed to tear himself away from his phone conversation long enough to say, “And be careful. It’s my wife’s.”

Alone, Kyle eased away and tried to relax. He headed north on Centre Street, drove four blocks, then turned left on Leonard and headed west. Every inch of available space was packed with vehicles and motorbikes. An amazing abundance of signs warned against parking anywhere near a potential space. Kyle had never noticed so many threatening signs. He passed no parking garages, but he did pass several traffic cops working the streets, slapping tickets on windshields. After a long, slow block, he turned left on Broadway, and the traffic was even heavier. He inched along for six blocks, then turned left onto Chambers. Two blocks later he was back at the courthouse in which he was supposed to be making his debut as a litigator, if only as a reserve.

Left on Centre, left on Leonard, left on Broadway, left on Chambers, back at the courthouse. Ever concerned about billing, he noted the time. The second loop ate seventeen minutes of the clock, and along the way Kyle again saw nowhere to park. He saw the same signs, same traffic cops, same street bums, same drug dealer sitting on a bench working his cell phone.

Nine o’clock came and went without a call from Peckham, not even a quick “Where the hell are you?” The hearing was under way, but without Kyle the litigator. Kyle the chauffeur, though, was hard at work. After three loops, he was bored with the route and added extra blocks to the north and west. He thought about stopping for a coffee to go, but decided against it out of fear of spilling something onto the fine beige leather of Bard’s wife’s new Jaguar. He had settled into the leather and was comfortable behind the wheel. It was a very nice car. A hundred thousand dollars and no doubt worth every penny. The gas tank was half-full, and this was worrying him. The stop-and-go driving was a strain on such a large engine. The hearing that he was missing was an important one, no doubt requiring the presence of many high-powered lawyers, all anxious to plead their positions, and things might drag on for a long time. It was obvious that every legal parking spot in lower Manhattan was taken, and with clear instructions to “just keep moving,” Kyle accepted the fact that he had no choice but to burn fuel. He began to look for a gas station. He’d fill the tank, bill the client, and score a few points with Bard.