Chapter 7 David
The email came Monday morning.
Margaret Chen. One of the named partners. The one who'd brought me onto the Henderson case in the first place, who'd told me last year that I was "on track" for partnership, that the case would "seal the deal."
I stared at the email on my phone screen. The hotel room was too quiet. Too bright. The Sunday paper I'd bought to look normal sat unread on the desk next to the empty whiskey bottle from Saturday night.
It was fine. This was fine. They probably just wanted an update on the case transition. Elliot Webb's firm was taking over—I'd seen the LinkedIn post—and they'd need me to brief them on where everything stood.
This was routine. Nothing to worry about.
I told myself that all the way downtown. Through the shower, the shave, the careful selection of my best suit. The one I'd worn to my partnership interview last year. Navy, perfectly tailored, the one that made me look competent and trustworthy.
I told myself that on the elevator ride up to the twelfth floor.
I was still telling myself that when I walked into the conference room and saw three partners sitting at the table.
Margaret Chen. Richard Lowe. And James Olson himself.
Margaret sat in the center, spine straight, her reading glasses perched on her nose.
She was in her late forties, sharply dressed as always, with the kind of controlled expression that made junior associates nervous.
She'd mentored me when I first joined the firm, had been the one to recommend me for the Henderson case.
Richard Lowe was to her right. mid-sixties, steel-gray hair, expensive suit that probably cost more than my monthly hotel bill.
He handled the firm's biggest clients, the ones whose names you saw in the Wall Street Journal.
I'd worked with him exactly once, on a contract review that had taken three months, and the man was everything I’d ever wanted to be: deadly competent, someone whose name was more than enough to make things happen.
And then… James Olson. The founding partner.
The man whose name was literally on the door, first among the three.
Late seventies, semi-retired, only came into the office for major decisions and client emergencies.
I'd met him exactly twice in my five years at the firm: once at my hiring reception, once at the holiday party two years ago.
The fact that he was here, in this room, looking at me with an expression I couldn't read… Well, that told me everything I needed to know.
My stomach dropped.
"David." Margaret's voice was cool. Professional. "Please, sit down."
I sat. My hands were sweating. I wiped them on my pants under the table where they couldn't see.
"Thank you for coming in," Margaret continued. She had a closed folder in front of her. "I'm sure you're aware that Oakley & Barnes withdrew from the Henderson case last week."
"Yes." My voice came out steady. Good. "I saw the announcement. I've been working on prep, getting ready to coordinate with Elliot Webb's firm to ensure a smooth transition of—"
"Why did they withdraw, David?" Richard Lowe leaned forward. His eyes looked like they could see straight through bullshit.
"They cited a conflict of interest," I said carefully. "I assume something came up on their end that made continued partnership untenable. These things happen in—"
"Don't." Olson spoke for the first time. His voice was quiet. Deadly. "Don't insult our intelligence by pretending you don't know exactly why they withdrew."
The room was silent except for the hum of the air conditioning.
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Every lawyer instinct I had was screaming at me to say nothing, to ask for time to consult with... with who? I didn't have a lawyer. I was a lawyer. And I was completely fucked.
"There were rumors," I said finally. "About me and Sarah Oakley. But they were just—"
"Rumors." Richard picked up the word like it was something distasteful.
"Your wife filed for divorce ten days ago, David.
Public record. Citing irreconcilable differences after eight years of marriage.
" He opened a folder in front of him. "Someone at Oakley & Barnes saw you and Ms. Oakley in a compromising position at the Fairmont Hotel three weeks ago.
That person reported it to Richard Oakley, the managing partner.
Who is also, as you well know, Sarah Oakley's father. "
My face was burning. I couldn't look at any of them.
"Oakley called me personally last Thursday," Richard continued.
"To inform me that his firm would be withdrawing from the Henderson case due to an 'inappropriate relationship' between co-counsel.
He was professional about it. Courteous, even.
But he made it very clear that his firm's reputation could not be associated with this kind of conduct. "
"I—" I started to say.
"The Henderson case," Margaret cut me off, her voice sharp now, "represented approximately forty million dollars in potential billings over the next three years.
It was the largest case this firm has handled in over a decade.
We brought in Oakley & Barnes specifically because of their expertise and reputation. And now they're gone. Because of you."
Forty million dollars. The number hung in the air like a guillotine blade.
"We've had to scramble to find replacement co-counsel," she continued. "Elliot Webb's firm has agreed to step in, but they're demanding a larger percentage of the fees to compensate for the short timeline. We're losing money on this case now. Money we'd already budgeted for, already counted on."
"I'm sorry," I said. My voice sounded small. "I never meant for—"
"What did you mean for, David?" Olson leaned back in his chair.
"When you started an affair with co-counsel on the firm's most important case, what exactly did you think would happen?
That no one would find out? That it wouldn't matter?
That your marriage and your career and this firm's reputation were all worth risking for a couple of months in hotel rooms? "
Five months. It had been five months. But I didn't correct him.
I had no defense. Nothing I could say that would make this better. So I said nothing.
"Your partnership review was scheduled for October," Margaret said. She said it past tense. "Obviously, that's no longer happening."
The words hit me like a physical blow. I'd known it was coming—of course I'd known—but hearing it said out loud made it real.
"We've discussed your options," Richard said. "And frankly, you're lucky to have any. If this were solely up to me, you'd be terminated immediately. The liability you've created for this firm, the reputational damage alone—"
"However," Margaret interrupted, and I looked up at her, desperate for whatever lifeline she might throw. "James has convinced us to offer you an alternative."
James Olson folded his hands on the table.
"You'll be removed from partnership track effective immediately.
Your title will revert to junior associate.
Your billable rate will be adjusted accordingly, as will your compensation.
You'll be assigned to document review and contract work for the foreseeable future.
No client-facing work. No depositions. No court appearances. "
Junior associate. The title I'd had five years ago, fresh out of law school. Before I'd worked my way up, before the late nights and the victories and the promises of partnership.
"For how long?" I asked.
"Indefinitely." Margaret's voice was flat. "We'll reassess in a year. Maybe two. If you manage to rebuild trust, demonstrate better judgment, prove that this was an aberration and not a pattern… Then we'll discuss your future here."
A year. Two years. Starting over from the bottom while everyone in the firm knew exactly why I'd fallen.
"The alternative," Richard said, "is resignation. Effective immediately. We'll provide a neutral reference: nothing positive, nothing negative. Simply confirm your dates of employment. You'll be free to find work elsewhere, assuming anyone will hire you after this."
I looked between the three of them. Margaret, who'd mentored me. Richard, whose respect I'd worked years to earn. James Olson, who I'd wanted to impress, to be worthy of having my name on the letterhead someday.
They were giving me a choice. Stay and be humiliated, stripped of everything I'd built. Or leave and start over somewhere else, with a reputation that would follow me everywhere.
"I need time to think," I said.
"You have until end of business today," Margaret said. "If you choose to stay, you'll be reassigned tomorrow morning. If you choose to leave, we'll need your resignation letter by five PM."
She closed the folder in front of her. The meeting was over.
I stood on shaking legs. Walked to the door. My hand was on the handle when Olson spoke again.
"David."
I turned.
"I remember when you first joined the firm," he said. His voice wasn't angry anymore. Just tired. Disappointed. "You'd just moved to the city. You came to that reception, brought your wife. Emma, wasn't it?"
I nodded. My throat was too tight to speak.
"You told me she'd given up medical school to move here with you. That she'd turned down her acceptance so you could take this position." He paused. "You said you were going to make it worth it. That you were going to build something she could be proud of."
The memory hit me. I'd been so eager that night, so full of ambition. Emma had been by my side in a blue dress, smiling, supportive. I'd introduced her to everyone. Told them how lucky I was.
"I hope it was worth it," James said quietly.
Then he looked away, and I knew I was dismissed.
Six weeks later, I sat in a conference room that wasn't mine, in a building I'd never been to before, staring at papers that would end my marriage.
The mediator, a woman in her fifties with gray hair and a kind face that had probably seen a thousand divorces, pushed the documents across the table toward me. "If you'll just sign here, here, and initial here."
Emma wasn't even in the room.
She'd sent her sister, Rachel. The one who'd never liked me, who'd given me that look at our wedding like she could see exactly how this would end. She sat across from me now, perfectly still, watching me with the same cold assessment I'd just received from the partners at my firm.
My firm. Except it wasn't really mine anymore, was it?
I picked up the pen. Put it down again.
"Is Emma..." I looked at Rachel. "Is she okay?"
Rachel's expression didn't change. "Sign the papers, David."
"I just want to know if she's—"
"She's fine." Rachel's voice was clipped. "Better than fine, actually. She's thriving. Now sign the papers."
I looked down at the documents. Eight years of marriage reduced to legal language and property division.
The house would be sold, proceeds split evenly.
I'd keep my car, she'd keep hers. Retirement accounts divided.
No alimony: Emma had insisted on that, Rachel had told me via email.
She didn't want anything from me except out.
"Rachel." I tried to keep my voice steady. "I know you never liked me, but… can we just talk for a minute? Just... is there any way to fix this? Can I at least speak to Emma? Explain—"
"Explain what?" Rachel leaned forward slightly.
"That you were sleeping with another woman for five months?
That you used my sister's work schedule to plan your affair?
That you came home and kissed her after being with someone else?
" Her voice was still controlled, but there was steel underneath.
"Trust me, David. Emma understands the situation perfectly. "
"I made a mistake—"
"You made a choice." She cut me off. "Multiple choices.
Every single time you texted that other woman, every time you met her at a hotel, every time you lied to Emma's face…” She paused, as if giving enough time for the words to land.
“Those were choices. And now you get to live with the consequences. "
The mediator cleared her throat gently. "Mr. Harrison, we do need to move forward. If you're not prepared to sign today, we can reschedule, but—"
"No." I picked up the pen again. "I'll sign."
Because what else was I going to do? Emma wasn't coming back. She'd made that clear by not even showing up today. By sending her sister, the lawyer, the one who'd negotiate the best deal, who'd make sure Emma got everything she deserved and I got exactly what I'd earned.
Which was nothing.
I signed. Initialed. Signed again. Each stroke of the pen felt like a door closing. A future erasing itself.
When I was done, Rachel gathered the papers efficiently. She didn't say anything. Didn't offer condolences or awkward pleasantries. Just packed up her briefcase and stood to leave.
"Rachel," I said. She paused at the door. "Can you at least tell her... tell her I'm sorry?"
Rachel looked at me for a long moment. Then: "She knows."
"And?"
"And she doesn't care."
Then she was gone, and I was alone in the conference room with the mediator, who was looking at me with something that might have been pity.
I didn't want pity. I wanted Emma. I wanted Sarah. I wanted my partnership back, my reputation, my life before everything fell apart.
But I'd lost all of it.
And for what?