“What is it?” He’s making me even more paranoid than I am already.
“I’ve been hearing that you’re Berkowitz’s girl now and that you do your best work only for him.”
“But I—”
Jameson holds up a tiny paw, like a doggie pope. “At first, I thought it wasn’t true. It didn’t sound like the Mary DiNunzio I know. But I got the Noone brief yesterday and I was extremely disappointed in it.”
“I—”
The paw again. “I know you can do better, Mary, because you have in the past, and for me. But if you think you can make partner in this firm just by keeping Sam Berkowitz happy, you are in error. I should not have to remind you that you have an obligation that runs directly to the client in this matter. My client, Noone Pharmaceuticals. Noone is almost as big as SmithKline and growing by leaps and bounds. Noone is not a client I would like to lose. You understand that, don’t you?”
I nod, dry-mouthed.
“Good. I thought as much.” He plucks the brief from his desk and hands it to me. “Rework this according to my comments, which you’ll find in red. Spend time in the library. Get authority for your position. If you can’t find the cases, I want your assurance that they don’t exist.” He makes a note in his day journal to bill the two minutes it took to dress me down. “I need it by the end of the day.”
“I can’t, Timothy. I have—”
“You’d do it by the end of the day for Sam Berkowitz, so you’ll do it by the end of the day for Timothy Jameson. End of discussion.”
“Okay… I’ll postpone some things.”
“Fine.”
I leave his office, red-faced, with a rose garden abloom on my chest. As I hurry by Stella’s desk, she hands me a Styrofoam cup of coffee on a tray. “Don’t take it too hard, Mare,” she whispers. “He’s got no one else to piss on, you know what I mean?”
I escape to my office and collapse into my chair. I feel like crying, and not just because of the brief. My life is going haywire. The center isn’t holding. My work is going downhill; I’m forgetting depositions, offending clients. The partners are bad-mouthing me. Somebody’s harassing me, maybe even breaking into my apartment. What goes around comes around.
And it’s coming after you, says the voice.
“Mary, you in there?” says someone at the door.
Before I can answer, the door opens a crack and a white paper bag pops through the opening, followed by Ned’s handsome face. His expression darkens as he comes in, closing the door behind him. “Mary?”
It’s no use, I can’t hide it. I feel wretched. It has to show.
“What’s the matter?”
Ned looks so concerned and his voice sounds so caring that I lose it. I start to cry and find myself in his arms, which only makes me cry harder. I cry about Mike, who’s not coming back, and Jameson’s brief, which I can’t possibly rewrite in one day, and Angie, who would rather talk to God all day than to her twin. I cry about my apartment, my home, which I’ll never feel safe in again. I cry like a baby, freely and shamelessly, while Ned holds me close.
In the next moment he’s kissing me on my forehead and on my cheeks. It feels so comforting. I hug him back, and he lifts me onto my desk and burrows into my neck. I smell the fresh scent of his aftershave and can’t even begin to think about what’s happening between us, as I hear my Rolodex tumble off the desk, followed by the splash of a cup of coffee and the creak of my office door.
“Mary! The carpet!” shouts Brent, who looks in, astounded, and slams the door shut with a bang.
It breaks the spell. I push Ned away and wipe the wetness from my eyes. “Jesus. Jesus Christ, Ned. I must be out of my mind.”
“Mary, there’s nothing wrong with—”
“Yes, there is. I shouldn’t be. I can’t.”
“I want to be close to you, Mary. You need that, I can see it. I used to be just like you, keeping everything in—”
“Please, Ned.”
“Tell me what’s happening. I can help.”
“You want to help? Then stop sending me notes. And stop following me.” It’s a test. I watch his face for a reaction.
“What are you talking about?”
“Did you break into my apartment?”
“What?” He looks shocked.
“Did you write the note?”
“What note?”
“The note. ‘Congratulations on your partnership.’ It has to be you. Nobody else makes sense.”
He puts up his hands. His mouth goes dry, I can see it. “Wait a minute. Wait a minute. What are you saying? Why would I do something like that to you?”
“Tell the truth, Ned. Have you written me a note or followed me in a car? Like to my parents’ house?”
He touches my shoulder. “Why would I do that, Mary?”
“Answer the question.”
“No. No, of course not.”
I look directly into his green eyes to see whether he’s lying, but I’m thrown off by the honest feeling that I find there. The door opens narrowly and Brent slips in. He carries a stack of paper towels and a plastic jug of Palmolive dishwashing liquid. He doesn’t look at me or Ned but immediately sets to work sopping up the coffee spill.
“Maybe I’d better go, Mary,” Ned says.
“Maybe you’d better!” snaps Brent.
Ned’s barely out the door when Brent hits the ceiling. “Mary, are you out of your mind? Have you lost it completely? Have you gone totally fucking loco?” He scrubs the rug so vigorously the detergent lathers up like shaving cream.
“Brent—”
“Fucking on the desk!” He glares up at me, the veins on his slim neck bulging.
“Brent, slow up! We weren’t—”
“Do you know what they would do if they caught you? If you sneeze without a hankie, they cut off your balls with a cuticle scissors! What do you think they’d do if they caught you fucking on the desk? Huh?”
“I would never—”
“I’m sure you’re not practicing safe sex!”
“Brent, we didn’t—”
“Suicide! Mary, it’s suicide! I go to a funeral every weekend! Everyone I know is sick, except for me. And now Jack.” He throws down the paper towel.
I feel a chill. “Jack?”
He looks up at me, his eyes full of tears.
My God. Brent is going to lose Jack. My own eyes sting. “Jesus, I’m so sorry.” I kneel down and rub his back through his thin black sweater. He returns to cleaning the stain, mechanically.
“I’ve known for a while, Mary, so it’s not sudden, like it was with you and Mike. And you don’t have to worry about me. I’m HIV negative. We always practiced safe sex, even from the beginning.”
“My God.” I hadn’t even considered losing Brent. I couldn’t lose him too. We’ve been together for eight years. I don’t know what would happen to me.
“It’s no joke, Mary. It’s real. Anyone can get it, even Magic Johnson, even you. You’re playing with fire.”
“We didn’t do it, Brent.”
“You were going to.”
“No, I wasn’t.” I wasn’t going that far, but I did feel something for Ned when he kissed me. And I felt something else, a flicker of physical need that I thought had been buried with Mike. It thrilled me; it frightened me. I look down at the stained carpet and Brent does too.
“All that work,” he says, “and it’s only gone from coffee brown to Palmolive green.” He offers me a paper towel and takes one for himself.
I blow my nose. “It looks like Hawaii.”
“No. It looks like Placido Domingo.” He wipes his eyes and throws an arm around my shoulder. “So tell me, Mare. Why is it always the Catholic girls who are doin’ it on the desks?”
“Brent!” I shove him.
“With Waters yet, who writes you poison pen letters. Who follows you around!”
“It’s not him.”
“He’s mind-fucking you, girlfriend. That man is a mind fuck.” He gets up and pul
ls me to my feet.
“I know what I’m doing, Brent.”
“Say what?” He bursts into laughter.
I laugh with him, in spite of myself. “All right, maybe I don’t. But I don’t think Ned’s the one. I just don’t.”
“Oh, really? Well, you’d better be sure about that, because you got another note in this morning’s mail.”
“No, really?”
“That’s what I was coming in to tell you.”
From his back pocket, he hands me a piece of white paper. The message is laser-printed in capital letters and reads:
WATCH YOUR STEP, MARY
The envelope, the stamp, everything is the same as last time.
My heart sinks. “Who’s doing this, Brent? This is so awful.”
“You have to call the cops, Mare.”
“I talked to them last night.”
“Hallelujah! You called them?”
“After someone broke into my apartment. Which they didn’t. I hope.”
Brent looks crazed. “Mary, what the fuck is going on?”
“I don’t know. All I know is that when I got home, the door was open. Nothing was taken. The apartment was untouched. Except for Mike’s picture, which either fell off the shelf—”
“I can’t believe this. This is insane! What did the cops say?”
“They think I left the door unlocked. There was no sign of a break-in.”
“What do you think?”
“Last night after I saw the picture, I was sure someone was there. Today I’m not so sure.”
“You didn’t report it?”
“Brent, if I file a report, they’ll investigate. The cop told me. They’ll interview people at the firm, people I suspect. Which at this point is everyone but you and Judy. Can you imagine that? Even if they interview a handful of people, you don’t think that’s going to be the kiss of death?”
“They could keep it confidential.”
“Sure, like they keep the number of partners confidential. Like they keep the associate reviews confidential. You know better than that — people stand in line to give you the dirt. And as soon as the gossip mill starts up, I look like shit. Either I’m accusing them of something criminal or I’m a hysterical female.”
Suddenly, the phone rings. Brent answers it and then hands it to me, mouthing “Martin.”
“Hi, Martin.” I stare at the note in my hand.
“You’re too busy to return my calls?”
“I’m sorry, Martin. I was in a dep until late at Masterson.” I read the note again. WATCH YOUR STEP, MARY.
“Bernie Starankovic called. Think you can find the time to call him back?”
“Sure, Martin.”
“Capital. Do so.”
I hang up slowly and hand the note back to Brent. “Will you keep this somewhere safe, with the other one?”
“Now I’m storing evidence. The cops should have this, not me.”
But I’m lost in thought. “You know, what about Martin? He just sounded pissed as hell, and I can see him writing notes like this. He’s got a motive, because I’m taking his place on Hart. If Berkowitz is grooming me to start doing his work…”
“You’re just guessing, Mary. Only detectives can do detective work. Let them help you, goddamn it! If you don’t call them, I will.” Brent reaches for the telephone, but I press his hand down onto the receiver. Our hands pile on top of one another, like a dead-serious game of one potato, two potato.
“No, Brent. Wait. It’s my career you’re playing with. If they investigate, I’m gonna lose my job. I can tell you that right now. As sure as you and I are standing here.”
Our eyes meet over the phone. He looks surprised at my urgency. So am I.
“I need this job, Brent. It’s what I have now. I started eight years ago, and I want to see it through. It’s been a constant. For all the faults in this firm, I know when I come in on Monday morning I’ll see you and Judy and The Amazing Stella, and I know where the water cooler is.”
“I know that, Mare, we’ve been together since day one. I love you. You’re my friend.”
“Then listen to me. I’ll make you a deal. After the election, if it’s still going on, I’ll report it. I’ll raise holy hell, I mean it. But not until after the election.”
“You don’t gamble with stuff like this, Mare.”
“My job?”
“Your life.”
I give his fist a quick squeeze. “Don’t be so dramatic, Brent. This is not Camille, Act Three. Nobody’s dead.”
“Not yet,” he says, and his glistening eyes bore into mine. “Not yet.”
15
Because of my discussion with Brent, which we resolve by agreeing to disagree, I’m ten minutes late to the Friday morning litigation meeting. Nobody seems to notice except Judy, who looks at me curiously as I take a seat along the wall and put the marked-up Noone brief face down in my lap. The meetings are held in Conference Room A, the only conference room large enough to accommodate the whole department. Conference Room A is on the sixth floor, Avarice, but the A doesn’t stand for Avarice. At least not officially.
I used to love these meetings, full of war stories about Actual Trials and Real Juries. I loved them even after I realized that their purpose was self-promotion, not self-education. I loved the meetings because this group of litigators — or alligators, as Judy calls us — was my own. I felt I belonged in their swamp. I believed, on faith, that they wouldn’t eat me; I was one of their young. But I believe this no longer. I’ve lost my religion.
I watch the alligators feed voraciously on delicatessen fish, Danish, and bagels. You’d think they haven’t eaten in years. I look around the room, seeing them as if for the first time. I scrutinize each freshly shaved or made-up face. Which alligator is sending me these terrible notes? Which one broke into my apartment — or maybe hired someone to do it?
Is it Berkowitz? He starts off the meeting, smoking profusely, telling everyone about the victory before Bitterman, which seems as if it happened a decade ago. He mentions my name in a familiar way and comes dangerously close to giving me some credit. Every head turns in my direction. I hear an undercurrent of snapping jaws.
Is it Jameson? Is his one of the jaws I heard?
Is it Martin? Is he the Guy Who Likes Owls But Hates Me?
Is it Lovell, a semiretired partner who still says Eye-talian?
Is it Ackerman, a supercharged woman partner who hates other women, a bizarre new hybrid in a permanent Man Suit?
There’s Ned, looking at me thoughtfully. Not him, I think.
And Judy, whose bright eyes are clear of makeup. Of course not Judy.
Then who? I look at each partner, all thirty of them in the department, racking my brain to see if any one has reason to dislike me. I look at each young associate, a nestful of hatchlings, sixty-two in all. They’re free of original sin. At least they look that way.
When the meeting’s over, I head straight for the library and grab one of its private study rooms. Each room is soundproof and contains only a desk and a computer. And the doors lock, a feature I hadn’t taken advantage of until now. I lock the door and skim the brief for Jameson’s bold-red comments.
He finds my sentences TERRIBLE and the central argument INCONSISTENT. Everywhere else he has scribbled CASE CITATION! At the risk of sounding arrogant, I’ll tell you there’s nothing wrong with this brief. Jameson’s going to make me rewrite it just because he can, even though it’ll cost Noone as much as a compact car. And I’ll do it because I need Jameson’s vote.
I flick on the computer and it buzzes to life. I log on to Lexis, a legal research program, and type in a search request for the cases I need. It finds no cases. I reformulate the search request, but still no cases. I change it again and again and finally start to pick up cases from a district court in Arizona. That’s what legal research is like — you dig and dig until you strike a line of cases, like a wiggly vein of precious minerals. Then you strip-mine as if it were the mother
lode. I’m cheered by my unaccustomed good fortune when someone knocks on the glass window of the door.
It’s Brent, carrying a covered salad and a diet Coke. I unlock the door to let him in.
“You vacuum-sealed, Mare?” He sets down my lunch.
“Can you blame me?”
“No, I’m glad of it. Listen, I got them to change your extension. I told them we kept getting calls for Jacoby and Meyers — it was all they had to hear. You’ll have a new number by this afternoon. I already sent a letter to the clients.”
“Way to go. What about my home number? I’m still getting calls.”
“Shit. They wanted your authorization to unlist it, so I wrote a letter from you and faxed it over, okay?”
“Great.”
“The only problem is it will take three days to make the change, and weekends don’t count. It won’t be changed until Wednesday of next week.”
“That’s not good.”
“Did I say I told you so? I must have. I’m just that kind of guy.”
“All right, I hear you.”
“It’s not your fault, it’s theirs. The phone company is so much more efficient since they broke it up.” Brent rolls his eyes. “What a shame. They used to be my favorite monopoly, after Baltic and Mediterranean.”
“You can’t make any money on Baltic and Mediterranean.”
“I know, but I like the color. Eggplant,” he says, in a fake-gay voice. Brent does that sometimes to make the partners laugh. He says, The joke’s on them, I am what a gay man sounds like. “The good news is, I got you a preferred phone number.”
“What’s that?”
“You know, where you pick your own four-letter word for the number,” he says, with a grin.
“Brent, you didn’t.”
“Not that, dear. Give me some credit.” He pulls a yellow message slip out of his pocket and hands it to me.
I laugh. “546-ARIA?”
“You like?”
“It’s cute.”
“This way, people will think you got culture.”
“Right.” I hand him back the slip. “Thanks. For lunch, too. I owe you.”