Antoinette Heugten - Saving Max

“Don’t you worry none, sugar,” says Pearl. “Everybody thinks they’re a little different-lookin’ after a perm.” She pulls an odd tool from her cart. It is some type of flat, metal comb with long spikes. She stabs and picks at the tight curls, her gum snapping nonstop until she reaches the desired effect. She hands the comb to Danielle. “A girl’s best friend! Almost—if you know what I mean, honey!”

Danielle takes a deep breath. She barely caught the early flight out of Des Moines. E. Bartlett’s secretary called her yesterday afternoon to inform her that the partners’ meeting had been moved up a day. She saw Max before she left. He seemed a bit odd and flat, but stable. She also cancelled dinner with Tony by leaving a message at the front desk. She has to focus completely on her real life and, unfortunately, he doesn’t fit into that category—yet.

Danielle hears the ping of her heels as they march across the marble floor. Her firm is in one of the oldest buildings on Wall Street, and its cool silence calms her. She takes the elevator upstairs. The receptionist smiles in greeting, her eyebrows rising suddenly as she stares at Danielle’s hair. Nodding curtly, Danielle walks down the hallway and stops to collect herself. She takes a deep breath and opens the door. She takes in the large room on the forty-second floor and the thirty male partners of Blackwood & Price, an old-line bastion of the post–Second World War law firms. She studies the high gloss of the conference table, made of burled wood harvested from a special grove in South America. On top of the table is an impressive floral arrangement, an antique china and silver service for fifty, and a gourmet lunch catered by one of Manhattan’s trendiest restaurants. At this point in the deliberations, stout coffee is being poured—a prerequisite for clear thinking after the wine that was served with the meal. There is a shuffling of papers and a few blurred coughs, the inevitable flotsam of decision making.

The partners around the table are not so different from those of any major law firm. There are the rainmakers, who expect routine ass-kissing and stupefying bonuses; the worker drones, who grind out hours on cases they are given; the young partners, who do the real work the senior partner has promised the client would be done only by him; the branch-office partners, bastard stepchildren; and the lazy remainder, a minority contingent with no major clients of their own who play resident sycophant to the powerful and, of course, who prostitute their votes on close decisions—like partnership.

A voice rumbles across the room. “Good afternoon, Danielle.”

Danielle looks up and smiles despite her nervousness. It is Lowell Stratton Price III, the head of the executive committee. It is he who was mentored by the great admiralty and international lawyers—the ones who marched off to Europe and Scandinavia after the Second World War and cornered the shipping business. With silver hair and intelligent eyes, he commandeers the firm by virtue of the respect all accord him. Lowell Price will be fair.

“Hello, Mr. Price.”

“Lowell, please.” He gestures to the hot seat at the end of the massive table.

“Thank you, Lowell.” In old-line New York firms, it is an unspoken rule that an associate may refer to a partner by his first name only when he or she has become a partner among the anointed. Maybe it’s a good sign, she thinks. She crosses the room and sits, hands folded, as if she were in court, ready to jump and object. She glances at the partners around the room. They look neither pleased nor displeased. No one notices her strange hair. They’re far too self-absorbed.

“Danielle, we have spent the morning discussing the fine associates who are up for partner this year,” he says. “We have interviewed the other candidates and are now opening the floor to partners who have questions they would like to pose to you. I understand you’ve been somewhere in … Idaho, is it? On personal business?”

Danielle stifles a groan. “Iowa. And yes, I have taken a few weeks off to attend to a personal matter, but I plan to be back in the office shortly.”

“Of course, of course,” says Price. She knows he is trying to cushion the glare of white paper—the blank time entries of the past few weeks. She’s had all she can handle just putting out fires on her cases. Even though she has worked as hard as she can, she knows that her concerns about Max have impacted her focus. Because of this, she did not feel justified in charging her clients for much of her time. She can almost read the other partners’ minds. No time, no money. No money, no partnership. This is where E. Bartlett, if he had a shred of honesty secreted away in that monumental ego of his, should step in and sing her praises. She looks at him, but he doesn’t meet her eye. In fact, he is flipping through a magazine. The message is clear: she’s on her own. “I don’t have your numbers in front of me, Danielle, but perhaps you could tell us what they are and some particulars about your practice.”

God bless him, thinks Danielle. He’s giving her an open door to toot her own horn. She sits up straight and puts on her game face. “Thank you, Lowell. I have billed thirty-two-hundred hours this year and believe I have shown sufficient drive and commitment to become a partner in this firm. In addition to my billable hours, my success in the Baines case resulted in a multimillion-dollar windfall to the firm. I have also generated new, significant clients whose collective billings represent an additional million dollars of the firm’s gross revenue.”

There is a rustling of paper. Danielle knows the partners are checking her figures.

“You are a very bright, young attorney, and your work ethic is extremely impressive,” says Lowell. A murmur of what Danielle hopes is assent drones around the table. “Well, I am getting impatient looks from some of the other partners, so I’ll let Ted Knox have the floor.”

Danielle stiffens. Knox is a short man—with all of the attendant complexes—and a Lyman toady. Knox relies on Lyman to throw him the bulk of his cases. Without him, Knox couldn’t get a job as a paralegal. What really worries her is that he’s also a drinking buddy of E. Bartlett’s. If Lyman and E. Bartlett are truly in cahoots, Knox is the perfect pit bull. E. Bartlett flips to another page in his magazine. Danielle feels a sharp pressure behind her eyes.

Knox clears his throat and squints at her with his pale, gray eyes. “Thank you for taking time to talk to us, Danielle. We regret that your personal problems—whatever they are—have kept you from the office for so long. Actually, some of us, many in fact, have reservations about your bid for partnership.” He gives Lyman a sly grin. “Now, as Lowell mentioned, no one is knocking your hours. You’re a good producer—a good associate. But I’m sure you agree that it takes more than long hours to be a partner at Blackwood & Price.”

Danielle wants to ask him if the primary criteria include the presence of a penis. She holds her tongue.

“I’ll just lay it out on the table.” His voice is pedantic. “First, we don’t typically consider associates who have been with us less than ten years. You’re only in your sixth year. Second, most of us are not familiar with your work, a problem not of your own making, of course, but a problem nevertheless. Third, although you have demonstrated some marketing ability, the marketing in this firm is done by partners, and partners alone.”

Danielle grips the side of her chair until her knuckles are white. She wants badly to respond, but has to make sure the little weasel is finished first.

Knox’s voice is now syrup, as sticky as the outdated pomade he smears onto the three remaining hairs on his pate. “Let me move on to one of the most troubling aspects of your proposed partnership.”