SIX
Parsons Valentine Summer Outing Marred by Racist Parody.”
It was nine fifteen when Rachel called. “So were you there for the skit?” she asked breathlessly. “Did you actually see it?”
“Oh, I saw it, Rach,” I sighed.
“And? Was it as bad as all the blogs are saying?”
“It was worse.”
“Wow,” she breathed. “So what do you think they’re going to do about it?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, they’ve got to be in full damage control mode by now.”
“I’m not sure there’s much they can do,” I said. They sure as hell weren’t going to fire Hunter Russell, that much I knew.
“But they’ve got to do some kind of CYA,” Rachel shot back. “Don’t you remember what happened at Foster Cowan?”
Of course I did. Foster Cowan LALSA (Latino American Law Student Association); and LGBTLSA (Lesbian Gay Bisexual Transgendered Law Student Association)—mobilized their troops, firing off thousands of e-mails urging recipients to PLS FORWARD!
!!!!! Sure enough, fewer Harvard Law Review résumés came in to Foster Cowan that year than at any previous time in the firm’s hundred-year history.
A small but conspicuous cluster of Fortune 100 clients began publicly taking their business to other law firms—news that rated a brief item in the business section of the Times. The firm’s Top Ten ranking plummeted.
Foster Cowan had been, as it were, blacklisted.
Two years later, however, Foster Cowan had recruited a high-profile African American female senior partner and inaugurated the Foster Cowan Women in Law Fellowship at Columbia Law School. Many of its top clients returned, and Foster Cowan was allowed back to recruit at Harvard and Yale.
It was back to business as usual.
By midweek, Pamela Karnow, along with a dozen or so other Parsons Valentine partners and associates outraged by the skit, had formed a group called FLARE—Firm Lawyers Against Racism Everywhere.
I’d heard that even a few summer associates had joined up, including none other than Cameron Alexander (along with, I was sure, a couple of members of her fan club).
FLARE was demanding an emergency meeting with the firm’s Management Committee to discuss an appropriate response and possible disciplinary action.
To my knowledge, no one on the Management Committee had said a single word to Matt, Kyle, or Hunter about any disciplinary action.
In fact, the three of them were looking quite chipper when I spotted them together at lunch in the Jury Box.
There’d even been a flattering note in the firm newsletter—the Daily Brief—on our recent Lawyers League softball victory over Simpson Thacher, in a squeaker, thanks to a double late in the final inning, hit by Hunter himself.
In the days since the outing, I’d been trying hard to avoid running into Hunter. Personally, I didn’t think he was an actual racist, just an idiot. Anyway, I resolved not to get in the middle of it. Let FLARE do its thing, if it wanted to. I had enough on my plate to worry about.
“Knock, knock.”
I looked up from the SunCorp purchase agreement I was reviewing to see Marty Adler leaning into my office, a big Cheshire Cat grin on his face. “Hi, Ingrid. You coming up to the meeting?”
“Of course.”
“The meeting” was the Corporate Department lunch scheduled for twelve thirty.
We held these department luncheons the second Friday of every month, ostensibly to “bond” as a department.
The real purpose, however, was for the rainmakers to beat their chests and let the associates know what new deals we should expect to be slaving over in the weeks ahead.
“Care for an escort?” Adler held out an arm as if asking me to dance.
I laughed. “Thanks, but I have to respond to an e-mail from Ted Lassiter first. See you in a minute?”
“Okay. But don’t be late, now.”
Something was up. Marty Adler did not come to associates’ offices merely to round us up for a routine department meeting. “What’s going on, Marty?” I asked, smiling a little, looking at him sideways. “Why are you so worried about me being there?”
“Well, let’s just say we have something a little special on the agenda today. I think you’ll be very pleased, Ingrid.” He winked. “See you up there.” Then he was gone.
I stared at the empty doorway for a full minute, trying to suppress my jubilance.
The e-mail could wait. Adler was clearly planning to mention to the entire department what an amazing job I’d been doing on SunCorp.
How I’d won Ted Lassiter over after our rocky first meeting, and how he would now only phone Adler with a question when he couldn’t reach me first.
I arched my back, took a deep breath, and sauntered over to my wardrobe mirror. I freshened up my lip gloss and mascara before heading up to the conference room.
People were still trickling in, even though it was already ten minutes past our start time. This was common practice. Parsons Valentine lawyers did not show up for internal meetings on the dot; it would suggest you didn’t have enough to do at your desk.
A lectern had been set up at the front of the room.
The tables were arranged in a wide U. Water pitchers were set up at four-seat intervals along the length of the starched white tablecloths, and a buffet lunch was laid out in silver chafing dishes along one wall.
The aromas of roasted potatoes and some kind of fish wafted toward me.
As I got in the buffet line, Hunter came up behind me and said, a little too close to my ear, “God, I hope this doesn’t take all day. I’ve got so much shit to do.”
I wasn’t thrilled to see him, but I was in too good a mood to really mind. “Yeah, tell me about it.”
Murph came into the room, spotted me, and smiled. I smiled back at him, and my face grew warm as he walked toward us.
“Hey, guys.”
“Hi,” I said, trying to sound casual.
Murph studied me. “You look happy. What’s the occasion?”
“Oh, nothing,” I said demurely. I picked up a starched napkin and silverware and used a pair of silver tongs to convey a dinner roll onto my plate.
Murph had gotten a haircut. There was a faint tan line by his ears where his dark blond hair used to be a little longer. He had just shaved. And oh, he smelled good.
The Monday morning after the outing, I’d gotten to work, turned on my computer, and saw an e-mail waiting from jdmurphy, no subject.
I purposely made myself go through the normal motions of any other morning—getting my coffee, playing my voice mails, reading the Journal and the Times business section—before I couldn’t stand it any longer and opened his e-mail.
Hey. So how was your hangover on Saturday? Must have been rough.
My heart filled. I leapt out of my swivel chair and practically floated over to the window, looking the thirty-one stories down at the tiny yellow rectangles moving up and down Madison. Here we go! Our office romance commences!
I stood there at my window mentally auditioning a dozen clever, breezy, flirty replies before finally flopping back down at my desk and typing.
Yeah, pretty brutal. Thanks for putting me in the cab, btw. My hero. How was the rest of your weekend?
The answer came back in two minutes.
Eh. Jury still out on Anna Jergensen. Anyway. Jury Box at 12:30?
Just like that, I deflated. Just like that, Murph had told me that, as far as he was concerned, the old equilibrium had been restored between us.
Here was the old kidding-around, paper-football, a-girl-a-month Murph.
I wanted the Jeff Murphy from the clubhouse, but he was letting me know gently that I wasn’t getting him back.
Murph and I didn’t talk about what had happened between us.
Which I now realized was, actually, nothing.
It’s not like Murph and I had hooked up.
He hadn’t come back to my place. We hadn’t even kissed.
So why was I so nervous? Why was I so worried over how we would act or what we would say to each other once we were back at the office?
Well, Murph had done the humane thing by quickly putting any ambiguity to rest. Besides, guys like Murph weren’t interested in someone like me.
By rights, the firm’s golden boy should be with someone like Cameron Alexander.
So whatever there’d been the potential for last Friday, or however many signals I’d misread, it was over now, and there was nothing to do but follow his cue and pretend that everything felt completely normal to me, too.
But it didn’t.
I knew I was being ridiculous. Here I was, a grown woman, working on a billion-dollar acquisition for the firm’s biggest new client, about to make history at one of the most powerful firms in the world.
Yet for over a week now, I had been lying awake at night wondering why Jeff Murphy hadn’t kissed me that night when he’d had the chance, and realizing with a surprising and sobering clarity that I had really, really wanted him to.
Marty Adler got in line behind us. He gave me a quick smile—almost conspiratorial. I felt a little better.
Adler surveyed the buffet table. “Anything good on the menu?”