William Bernhardt - Primary Justice

Ben scanned the billing sheets. “Thanks,” he said. “I was wondering about the mechanics.”

Christina brushed her hair away from her face. “Ben, do you mind if I give you some advice?”

“Thanks, I’ve already had plenty from Derek.”

“Yeah, but this advice will do you some good. I don’t want to be presumptuous, but you seem like a nice guy, not like the usual young lawyer zombies we get around here. You’ve got a certain je ne sais quoi .”

“More French,” he noted.

“Yeah.” Her broad smile flashed again. “Didn’t you formerly work for a legal aid society or something?”

“The D.A.’s office.”

“Well, you’re at a private law firm now, a big one, and the rules of the game are entirely different. Let me tell you what I, based on my five years at Raven, Tucker & Tubb, perceive to be the three principal guidelines for new associates. If you don’t mind.”

Ben shook his head. “Please. I need all the help I can get.”

“First, fill out your time sheets every day. Don’t put it off till the end of the week or when you think you’ll have more time. If you do, you’ll forget things you did, and you won’t understand your notes, and every minute lost is a minute Raven doesn’t get paid for. The shareholders may tell you they’re concerned with … oh, associate training or family or inner growth or whatever; but when they’re making the decisions about issues that really matter, like raises and bonuses and making partner, shareholders care about two things. Billing big hours and bringing in new clients. You’ve just moved to Tulsa, so barring a miracle, you ain’t gonna be bringing in any big new corporate clients. So fill out your time sheets. Generously. Every day.”

Ben pretended to be making notes. “Time sheets, every day. Got it. What’s rule number two?”

“Lunch at the Oil Capital Club every Thursday. That’s where the shareholders hold their weekly meetings. You can’t go to the meeting, of course, but they can see you on their way in or out. It seems ridiculous, and it costs bucks, but it makes a lasting impression. So remember, rule number two: future shareholders lunch at the Oil Capital Club.”

“I’m pretty fond of Carl’s Coney Island myself.”

“Future permanent associates lunch at Carl’s Coney Island. That’s rule number three.”

“I see.”

“So make a sacrifice for your career.”

“Is this Oil Capital Club a decent eatery?”

“Beats me. No women allowed.”

Ben’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding.”

“Scout’s honor.”

“How could female shareholders attend the meetings?”

Christina offered a thin smile. “Fortunately, that contingency hasn’t arisen yet.”

Ben rubbed his eyes. “Okay. Any other words of wisdom?”

Christina batted her lips with her index finger. “I’m going to offer you a specially tailored rule, because I think you’re subject to special circumstances. You’ve got Richard Derek for a supervising attorney.” She looked over her shoulder and verified that the door was shut. “Derek comes from an oil-rich Tulsa family; he’s the baby boy in a family of five; he’s Harvard-educated; he did a short stint with a Philadelphia law firm, then returned home to Tulsa. He’s well connected and knows a lot of important people. He’s incredibly intelligent and evidently is an effective, if undiplomatic, lawyer. He’s egotistical, imperious, thoughtless, and generally difficult to get along with. He’s made a career out of good looks and a fondness for bullying.” She caught Ben’s eye. “And you haven’t exactly gotten off to a great start.”

Ben groaned. “Don’t tell me you’ve heard.”

“About the toupee tragicomedy? Everyone has.” She grinned. “It’s made you very popular in certain circles. We always suspected the egomaniac wore a rug. Thanks for the confirmation.”

Christina laid her hand on the edge of Ben’s desk. “The fact is, Ben, you have to get along with him. Maybe later, a year or so down the road, you can ask for a transfer, or ask to work for a variety of masters. The shareholders will understand, believe me. But not yet.”

“First I’ve got to pay my dues, eh?”

“Something like that. You don’t want to develop a reputation for being a troublemaker. Nothing is more expendable to a big firm than a young, salaried troublemaker. So tread softly. Humor the jerk.”

Christina glanced at her wristwatch. “Good grief, I didn’t mean to prattle on.” She rose to her feet. “I must be moseying. I just wanted to introduce myself. Don’t hesitate to ask me for help. I’m working for four other attorneys in addition to you, but I can always do a little more.” She glanced at the files on Ben’s desk. “Looks as if you’re already behind.”

Ben followed her gaze. He’d forgotten all about the new files, and he was supposed to familiarize himself with both cases by tomorrow morning. Could she help? He realized he didn’t even know what legal assistants did.

“I can help with proofreading, cite checking, document control, cataloguing, deposition summaries. You name it—I can do it.”

And read minds, too, apparently. “Could you … summarize a case file?”

“No problem.” She reached toward the two files on the desk. “Which one?”

“Take your pick.”

She took the thicker of the two. “When do you need it?”

Ben averted his eyes. “Tomorrow morning.”

“Ahhh,” she said, “a Richard Derek test. He’ll want to know about the most obscure details imaginable, everything you’re tempted to skim over because it doesn’t seem important. I’ll come in early tomorrow, and we can discuss the file. Good thing you called me in. You’d never have made it alone.”

She made a clicking noise with her tongue and walked through the door. “Of course, after I do this favor for you, you’ll owe me. Kind of a quid pro quo .” She smiled. “Another French phrase. Classy, huh?”

Ben hesitated. “Actually,” he said slowly, “I think that’s Latin.”

Christina raised her chin defiantly. “Well, I still like it.” She grinned and left the office.

Ben leaned back in his chair. She was right about one thing. Life at the big law firm was not what he expected.

He opened the remaining file on his desk and began to read, but he couldn’t concentrate. He kept flashing back to his brief glimpse of Jonathan Adams’s bloodied remains—and of Bertha Adams riding to the scene of the crime to identify the body.

Whether Derek liked it or not, he had to do something.

But he couldn’t figure out what.

9

RAVEN, TUCKER & TUBB THREW only two formal bashes a year, the summer cotillion and the obligatory Christmas party, so when those occasions rolled around, Raven could afford to go all out. In fact, according to Ben’s sources, the parties could actually turn a profit, not merely by boosting the self-image of the shareholders, but also by reaping benefits from selected clients who enjoyed a night of high-class revelry. Raven’s bashes had become so elaborate and costly (and well covered in the newspapers), particularly for a big-small city such as Tulsa, that an invitation had become a prestige item. And the only way for a non-Raven attorney—who wasn’t married to or sleeping with a Raven attorney—to get an invitation was to be a client. It was a surprisingly effective incentive.

The ballroom at the Excelsior was enormous. Yet, by congregating all the dining tables in one quarter of the room and reserving a spacious area for dancing, the room was made to feel more festive and intimate. There were also separate smaller rooms adjacent to the ballroom containing pool tables, card tables, and similar amusements for small groups.