Chapter Eight
My new boss strides to the windowsill where he presses the top of a small domed container, sending a burst of cherry mist into the air. “That’s better. I like a fresh office.” He resumes his seat and palms a bright-yellow stress ball, working it automatically, as if it’s an extension of his hand. “Welcome to your first day at Janks and Lowe.”
“Thank you. I’m happy to be here.” I dart a look to the ten tiny troll dolls that stand in a straight line on his desk, their neon hair and naked bodies daring me to laugh. Behind them, three penny-candy jars sit in a row. One holds Atomic Fireballs, the next, gummy candies, and the last one is stocked with stress balls like the one in his hand. It would be better suited as a kids’ carnival prize table, not a lawyer’s desk. I imagine Ryan’s niece would be thrilled with all the toys and candy. Being here makes it seem like an eternity since I last saw him rather than the few days it’s actually been.
Mr. York—Kenneth, that’s what he asked me to call him—plunks the ball next to the jar and taps the desk. “We’re going to have fun here. I like to work hard, but I play hard, too. It’s a fine balance.” His lips curve and return to a neutral position as though he’s a real-life GIF. “Before I introduce you around, let me make a few things clear: when there’s new meat in the office, everyone wants a bite. They’ll snatch you up and pile their grunt work on you, only to leave you buried alive.” Leaning forward, he says, “I’m telling you now—don’t get sucked into that vortex—you work for me. Period. Stay away from the hungry wolves. They won’t have your best interests at heart, but I do. I’ll make sure you’re doing only high-level projects.”
That could mean I’ll never see the light of day, but it doesn’t intimidate me in the least. This sounds like the perfect job. “I’m excited to get started. It’s sort of surreal sitting here right now.”
He nods. “It’s about to get real. Once you’re settled, I’ll have you look at the file you’ll be working up. The case isn’t a large one, but the client is important to our firm. Very important.” He lifts his eyebrows, and I notice for the first time they’re barely visible—a light reddish blond that blends with his skin. “He’s a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon who wants to bring things to a quiet end without filing a complaint. The wrong kind of attention could hurt his business. To put it plainly, the boob and Botox doctor to the stars doesn’t want to risk the privacy of his clients by inviting a media circus.” He pushes back from his desk and stands, pausing to straighten the troll with the red hair. “All right. Let’s make the rounds so I can introduce you.”
He holds the door, allowing me to step out first. At the adjacent office, he taps the door before pushing it open and stepping inside. “Brooks, I want to introduce you to our newest associate, Katie Capwell. Katie, this is Brooks McDonough. He’s on the dark side, but we forgive him because he’s a brilliant attorney. He’s not a partner here but rents space from us.” He gives him a hearty clap on the shoulder. “Everyone loves Brooks.”
I cross to shake his meaty hand. His bulky frame is covered by a crisp white dress shirt. It’s the tie that worries me. The stripes are nice—a blue-and-white diagonal pattern—but it looks like it’s capable of crushing his larynx the way he has it knotted so tightly. “Nice to meet you, Katie. Welcome to the jungle.” He booms out a laugh, causing his face to redden, and he brushes a hand down his thick mustache.
“Thanks. Happy to be a part of it.”
He coughs out another laugh. He really should loosen the tie. “Stop by if you have any defense needs. Brooks McDonough is here to help.”
“I appreciate the offer. Thanks.”
By the time we reach our final stop, my mouth hurts from smiling. I only hope I can put names to faces when I see them in the hallway. I’ll have to review the firm website again tonight, just to be on the safe side. The door is open, and I follow Kenneth in, my polite smile firmly in place. “Craig, I’d like you to meet Katie Capwell, our newest associate.”
I definitely recognize him from his website profile. He’s even better looking in real life. To be honest, everyone here is rather attractive. Well, maybe not Kenneth, but he certainly has a commanding presence.
“Ah yes. Word is out that you’re Lin Collins-Capwell’s daughter.”
“I am.”
“Must be nice.” His gaze is cold.
“Why do you say that?”
“Oh, come on. Don’t pretend that you’re not aware of the fact that your mother wields some serious power in the legal world. She could’ve gotten you a job anywhere.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Unless you lack gray matter. That would make things difficult.”
“Fortunately for me, I don’t have that problem.”
Kenneth bobs his head back and forth, as though he’s enjoying a tennis match.
Craig rolls back in his chair and spins to face his computer screen. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a motion in limine due.”
Kenneth waves an angry hand toward him. “Don’t be an ass, Craig. She deserves to be here.”
“Of course she does. Welcome.” He forces a tight smile that I don’t bother returning. We step into the hallway, and Kenneth waits until we’re well past Craig’s office before he breaks the silence. “Ignore him. He was pushing hard for a friend to get the position.”
“And he thinks I got the job because of my mom.”
He shrugs. “It happens all the time.”
But not with me. She insisted they could hire whomever they wanted.
He turns slightly, catching my expression. “Who cares what anyone thinks? Craig can get over it as far as I’m concerned.”
I wonder how many others think I got the job because I’m Lin Collins-Capwell’s daughter. Maybe their good wishes were obligatory. We reach the reception area, and Kenneth stops. “How’d you like to get some lunch? My treat.”
At least my boss seems happy to have me here. “That sounds great.” My stomach rumbles as I speak. I was too nervous to eat much breakfast.
A relentless sun beats down as we step outside, and I wonder if Kenneth used sunscreen this morning. With his pale skin, he must burn easily. I slip off my blazer and whip on my sunglasses. The sidewalks are jammed with people rushing past us. Only the homeless man slumped on a bus bench is still, his gnarled hand loosely gripping a tattered Styrofoam cup. A cardboard sign sits next to him, the words GOD BLESS scrawled in all caps. I wonder where he found a marker.
Kenneth catches me looking at him. “There’re too many of them out here. The cops do a sweep every few months.” He flicks a hand in the man’s direction. “They should come in more often, if you ask me. These guys reek of piss and liquor. What kind of food do you like?”
“Uh, anything but sushi,” I mutter, my mind stuck on his commentary. I wonder if I’ll become as jaded as he is one day. How many homeless people do you have to see before you stop caring where they sleep at night, or if they have friends who watch out for them?
“That’s rare—pun intended.” He laughs. “There’s a good American cuisine place just up the street. We’ll go there.”
“Thanks. Not liking sushi is as socially acceptable as being a smoker in L.A., but I can’t get past how it looks like an orange caterpillar laid out on a bed of rice.”
“You don’t look at it. Just slather wasabi on it and eat the little sucker. Pretend it’s something else.” He turns to me. “Heed my advice. It applies to more than sushi, if you catch my drift.”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” I say slowly.
“It’s what we do, Katie. We paint lipstick on pigs and pass them off as prom queens.”
Gooseflesh erupts across my arms, defying the weather. Does he have any idea how offensive his words are? “Are you—” I start but stop abruptly. Maybe I shouldn’t lecture my boss. It could be a onetime offense. But seriously?
We reach the restaurant, and the hostess greets Kenneth by name. She leads us to a quiet table next to a window. I order the truffle mac and cheese while Kenneth orders an iceberg wedge with grilled chicken, dressing on the side. Once the server leaves, he places his napkin in his lap and straightens the salt and pepper shakers.
“The case you’ll work up is an animal bite case. Bird, to be exact. The good doctor was injured when he took his niece to a pet store and a scarlet macaw bit him. You’d think a bird couldn’t do much damage, but that pretty little shit nearly bit off the tip of his finger.” He pauses to pour Perrier into a glass. “It didn’t end there. He contracted psittacosis, also known as parrot fever, as a result of the bite. It’s an infection caused by a type of bacteria called chlamydia psittaci. Sounds like an STD to me. Finger chlamydia. The doc and I had a laugh over that.”
“That’s awful.”
“It’s something. The symptoms of parrot fever are similar to those of the flu or viral pneumonia, and he was initially misdiagnosed, which resulted in an extended loss of work.”
I shift my napkin to my lap and try not to picture the doctor wearing one of those finger condoms librarians wear.
“And while the case is strong—we have an infected bird that bit our client—we have some problems. A sign is posted near the bird’s perch warning patrons not to touch it.”
“Did he admit to touching the bird?”
“He did, but I have some ideas on how to handle it. There’s pretty clear-cut liability.” Our food arrives, and Kenneth begins cutting his lettuce with the precision of a surgeon. Once it’s sliced into uniform squares, he says, “Take a look at jury instructions and case law for similar cases and prepare a memo for me.”
His phone trills as he tucks into his salad, and he glances at the number. “Damn it! I’ve been waiting for this call all morning, and it comes during lunch.” He shoves one more bite of food into his mouth as he stands. He speaks into the phone, telling the person on the other end to hang on as he pulls a credit card from a black wallet and tosses it on the table. He covers the mouthpiece and says, “Finish your lunch and get mine packed to go. Sign my card and leave a twenty percent tip. I’ll see you back at the office.”
Before I can respond, he has the phone to his ear and is weaving through throngs of tables and chairs to the door. Part of me is relieved he’s gone. I need some time alone to process my morning.
When the server returns, I sign for the bill and place our food in the takeout boxes she brought. I’ve barely touched mine, but I’m too antsy to sit and eat. I dump the entire basket of bread into an extra container and stack all three in a paper bag.
The harsh sunshine greets me. By the time I reach the spot near our building where the homeless guy sits, my blouse clings to me from the heat. The poor guy must be miserable. I remove Kenneth’s salad from my takeout bag and leave my leftovers on the bench near him. I can eat when I get home tonight, but who knows when he’ll have his next meal? He loops a shaky finger through the handle and mutters words I don’t understand before I head into my air-conditioned office.
At four fifty, my phone buzzes, causing my hands to spring from my keyboard. I grab the receiver. “This is Katie.”
“We have a situation. Come to my office.” Kenneth hangs up without waiting for a response. I hurry across the hall and tap the door.
“Come in.” I’m barely through the door when he continues. “I need you to locate the exhibits for the Watkins file. I hate to dump this on you last minute, but I thought another clerk had pulled them.” His cheek is puffed out with what appears to be an Atomic Fireball. Would it be weird to ask for one? Visions of my uneaten mac and cheese tease me, but I blink them away, forcing myself to focus. He raises his brow and waves a hand in my direction. “You should write this down.”
“Right.” I grab my phone from the pocket of my blazer. “Okay. Watkins file,” I say, typing into my phone.
“I need you to organize the exhibits and make five copies of each.” His voice is muffled as he talks around the candy. “The files are big, so make sure you send them to the copier, not your desktop printer. Start now. It’s going to take a while.”
“I’m on it.”
“Very well. Meet me here tomorrow morning at seven forty-five. We’ll leave for the depo then. Defense counsel’s offices are in our building on the seventeenth floor, so we won’t have far to go. It’s getting real, Katie. I hope you’re up to the task.”
“I am.” I leave his office with a purposeful stride. He may have trolls and treats, but he’s clearly a dedicated worker. Lauren was right when she said something greater than Bradshaw, Burke and Doyle was on the horizon. As I walk, I send her a quick text.
Going to be late tonight. Already working on a big project!
Hey! I’ve been thinking about you. Good first day?
Yes. Kind of a whirlwind, but good. Xo
Our suite is eerily quiet as I walk to the copy room. There could be other attorneys working behind closed doors, but it feels like I’m the only one here. My hunger pangs disappeared a few hours ago, but it’s possible my stomach ate itself. I try not to think about it as I watch the pages land softly in the output tray. Whish, whish, whish. The sound shouldn’t remind me of sizzling bacon. Who am I kidding? I’m starving. There’s no crime in checking out the office kitchen while I wait.
A cafeteria-style table and chairs sits in the middle of the room, surrounded by every imaginable kitchen appliance. I open drawer after drawer in the large counter, but find only assorted plastic utensils, paper napkins, and some takeout menus. I scan the delivery times with a sinking heart. They’re all closed for the night.
The refrigerator gleams in front of me, and I walk toward it, begging it to be stocked with leftover bagels and cream cheese that some kind soul brought in this morning. I open the door to find Tupperware containers sitting on the shelf along with a crusty jar of peanut butter, some condiments, and what looks like a little pie covered in crumpled tinfoil. I peel back the foil to see what it is. The stench of old meat wafts to my nose. Disgusting. I slam the refrigerator door and lean against it.
There are some sugar packets next to the tea bags, and I rip one open, dumping the sweet crystals into my mouth. Lauren would grab it from my hands, telling me it’s worse than crack cocaine and heroin, but I don’t care. It’ll give me a jolt of energy. I head back to the copy room and check my email as I wait for the last pages to print. There’s one from my mother asking how my first day went. Instead of responding to her email, I call.
“Hello, dear,” she says in her signature crisp voice. I’m sure she’s in her post-work dressing gown enjoying a nice glass of pinot noir.
“Hi, Mom. I got your email.”
“How was your first day?”
I watch the stack of pages in the output tray grow taller. “It’s been busy but great. Kenneth already has me writing a memo for a new case, and I’m printing exhibits for a big depo as we speak. The best part is, I’ll attend the depo with him.”
“It sounds like you’re off to a roaring start.”
The copy machine beeps at me, demanding more paper, and I rush to add some. “Thanks again for setting up the interview. Speaking of which, did you—” I can’t finish the question. Maybe I don’t want to know.
“Did I what?”
Pressing a hand to my forehead, I say, “Did you get me the job?”
“For heaven’s sake, Katie. You got yourself the job. What is this about?”
“One of the lawyers said something, and it bothered me. I should be used to it by now, right?”
“Ignore them. As I’ve always said, you are the only one in charge of your life.”
It doesn’t reassure me as much as I’d hoped. “Thanks, Mom. I’ll try to remember that.”
“You’re welcome, dear. Don’t stay too late. Prove yourself, but don’t create a situation in which you burn out.”
I click off and turn to watch the machine as it continues to churn pages neatly into the tray. She’s right. All I need to focus on is working hard and proving myself. Stealing a glance at my watch, I note that it’s only nine forty-five. If this were a Saturday night, I’d just be getting ready to go out. I’ll simply pretend it’s the weekend. A lot of drive-throughs are open twenty-four hours. I can stop at one on my way home and order the largest shake they offer. I’ve earned it.
Suddenly, I’m in complete darkness, and the papers I was holding fall to the floor.
The lights flash back on, and Craig stands in the doorway, a computer bag hanging from his shoulder. “Sorry. I didn’t realize anyone was in here.”
I fumble to pick up the scattered papers. “Yeah,” I say, looking up. “Kenneth needed a file organized for a depo tomorrow, so…”
“So you stayed late. Sorry I startled you.” He swipes the last page from the ground and hands it to me. “Have the security guard walk you to your car when you leave. His name is Harold. He’s a good guy.”
“Thanks.”
He pats the door twice before stepping out, as if emphasizing his words. His advice is surprisingly nice. Maybe he isn’t as bad as I presumed.