Chapter 26
By August, the city is a kiln. Every morning I wake to the boiling heat and the sound of Salem lapping water from his bowl.
I set the coffee to brew, open my laptop, and brace for the daily avalanche of emails, expecting the usual: reminders, billable hours scoldings, nastygrams from opposing counsel.
Instead, there’s a single, high-priority subject line at the top of my inbox: MID-YEAR PERFORMANCE REVIEW SCHEDULING – PLEASE CONFIRM.
I read it, then read it again, the words tinting my face in a shade of dread I haven’t worn since the day bar results were released.
It’s a meeting request, sent on behalf of the partners, to discuss my “progress and future trajectory within the firm.” James is copied on the email. They want to meet in two weeks.
I accept the calendar invite and let it sit there, a red flag planted in the middle of my otherwise uneventful August.
For the rest of the morning, I can’t focus. I map out all the possible areas for improvement. Was it the trial? Are they still thinking about my failure, and waiting for the right moment to lower the guillotine?
Every day that follows is suddenly measured in increments of preparing for my review.
I triple-check my billables, scroll through old client emails to make sure none are brewing into disasters, and highlight every line of my recent work product where I shine.
I update my case tracking spreadsheet so often that I could do it in my sleep.
On the morning of the review, I wake before my alarm and spend a full five minutes staring at the faint blue glow on the ceiling. I dress in my best cream blouse, navy skirt, hair up, not a strand out of place.
I leave early, as if arriving before everyone else will give me some kind of cosmic advantage. The elevator is empty, the doors closing with a hydraulic hiss. By the time I reach the fourteenth floor, my nerves are at an all time high. My hands are slick, my heart pounding.
I force myself to walk at a normal pace to the conference room, but my body betrays me. I’m there first, five minutes early.
James enters, flanked by the firm partners I’ve only seen a handful of times. I know in an instant this is not a formality. This is not just ticking a box.
It’s a reckoning.
James takes the seat at the head of the table but doesn’t look at me. The partners fan out on either side of him, manila folders in hand.
We all murmur our pleasantries, and one partner gives a preamble about the purpose of these mid-year reviews.
It’s all very polite, very “we value your contributions,” and “our firm is committed to developing top talent.”
They slide into the thick of it: my billables are strong, my writing is “sharp and persuasive,” my client reviews “excellent, on par with expectations for first-year associates.” I nod, every muscle frozen.
Then the other shoe drops: “We do, however, have to address the recent trial loss.” For a second, my vision blurs.
I nod. My mouth has gone dry. I nod again, and it feels as if I’m agreeing to be punched.
The partner speaking leans forward, fingers interlocked, and says, “It was an unfortunate outcome. With the case being so large, news of the loss has spread, and it’s a bad look for the firm. You understand why that concerns us.”
I do. I understand perfectly. I also understand that what “concerns us” is the optics, not the outcome. That the firm’s reputation matters far more to them than any one client’s pain. But I keep my face neutral, hands folded, waiting for them to show their real teeth.
“We expected more from you,” the partner says. “You were given a high-visibility matter and full autonomy. Some of us feel that the outcome suggested a lack of knowledge. Or maybe a failure to anticipate defense tactics.”
Heat crawls up my neck. I keep my eyes pinned on my notes in front of me. I want to say I did anticipate them. I want to say I did everything I could, but I don’t.
They go in for the kill, voices soft but still just as lethal.
“The firm’s reputation is built on results, Avery. Not effort. Not intention. If we allow new attorneys to take the lead on top-tier litigation cases, there has to be proof of return on investment.”
The words ‘return on investment’ stick in my brain. I try to keep my face neutral, but I feel James’s gaze finally flick to me.
I brace myself for James to pile on, to let the berating continue, but he says, “That’s enough.”
The room actually goes silent. One partner in particular, James’s father, stutters for a beat.
James doesn’t move, doesn’t change expression.
“Avery’s performance in that trial was exemplary.
The defense had a persuasive expert witness, and the law wasn’t on our side to begin with.
You want to dock her for that? You dock me.
” He turns to meet my eyes for a fraction of a second before turning back to the partners.
“If you have a problem, take it up with me after this meeting.”
The partners stare at James, each calculating whether to escalate or retreat. His father’s jaw ticks. He leans back in his chair, pinches the bridge of his nose, then addresses James. The next words come out low, almost private.
“We’ll discuss this later,” he says, eyes boring into James, then me, then the glass wall where a gaggle of staff has begun to assemble, as if they could smell blood in the water.
Looking past my reflection in the glass, I realize the entire floor has gone still, everyone watching this meeting unfold. My face floods with embarrassment.
James’s father’s gaze snaps from him to me, and in the flicker of that moment I see what he’s thinking. Not just that James is stepping out of line, not just that his own son is willing to go to war for an associate, but the suspicion that there is something else.
He drums his fingers once, twice, against the table, then levels a stare at me so direct it feels like a threat.
The partners have noticed the attention too, though none of them acknowledge it directly. Instead, they close their folders in a near-simultaneous flutter and leave the conference room quickly.
All except James’s father.
“Jameson, your office. Now. I think the prying eyes have seen enough already,” he says, nodding to the paralegals still watching.
They scramble back to their work as Jameson and his father move toward the conference room door.
“You too, Avery. This concerns you, after all,” he adds.
My heart plummets, and I stand, following the two men out.
James sits behind his desk and folds his arms, his face unreadable. “Let’s hear it,” he says, his voice low.
“I don’t know what has gotten into you or what is going on. And I don’t want to know. I could terminate you both if I knew you had an inappropriate relationship. Whatever this is, it ends now.” His gaze slides from his son to me, and then back again.
My pulse drums in my ears. It feels as though all the air has been sucked out of the room.
James doesn’t blink. “You’re out of line,” he says, the words so calm they could freeze water.
His father’s mouth curls. “Jamie, I have never seen you behave that way.” He turns to me. “Avery, I want you to hear this directly. If there is ever a question of impropriety, if you and my son are in any way…entangled, I will act. Do you understand?”
I nod, my teeth nearly shattering from the force of not speaking.
He returns to James. “We’ll deal with this later.”
He’s gone before I can even exhale.
James is quiet for a moment, staring at the floor, then says, “That’s not how it should have gone.” He doesn’t look at me. The line of his jaw is so sharp it could cut. “I’m sorry.”
There’s a hollow in his voice that makes me want to reach across the desk and touch him, but I don’t. Not with the afterimage of his father’s threat still burning in my mind.
I gather my notes, murmur something about getting back to work, and escape to my office, making sure not to look at anyone on my way there and closing my office door behind me.
At my desk, I pull up the brief I’ve been working on and try to lose myself in the research. Try to let the monotony bleach the conversation from my mind, but the words keep echoing back.
“If there is ever a question of impropriety…”
“Whatever this is, it ends now.”
How could James lose his cool like that? I want to be flattered, but mostly I’m nauseous. What the hell was he thinking? What the hell was I, for ever letting this happen?
After all the work I’ve put in to get here, am I really going to allow myself to throw it all away because I can’t keep my hands off my boss? How fucking pathetic. Even worse, I can’t keep my hands off my paralegal, either.
I peek at Nash’s desk, finding his chair empty and breathe the tiniest sigh of relief that he wasn’t here to watch my mid-year review shitshow.