Chapter 3
Erin
Once I’m in the conference room that Monique led me into, I feel relief that I’ll be instructed on what to do. At least I’ll be told what’s expected of me now, and I won’t feel like a little lost sheep.
“These are some other recent entry level hires,” Monique says, her hand outstretched at a small cast of characters who are already sitting around the conference room table. I guess I was the last one she came to get. “Garrett requested quite a few.”
Her tone carries the same snide condemnation that Claude’s had when he spoke of Garrett. Obviously not too many people here are fond of the newest attorney.
But I obviously think it’s a good thing, not only because it is the way I ended up getting a job but also because it means the firm is growing. I’m sure that change is just hard for people. I know that sentiment all too well.
Monique clears her throat before continuing.
“I thought it would be easiest to go over some basic procedures with all of you, and later we can talk more in depth about the particulars of each job role.”
I nod at her and then at the others, as I take a seat at the table. I can’t help but notice that all the new employees are men, minus myself. That’s a little weird. Would that make me the token woman?
I’m pretty sure that the other jobs are basically for legal assistants, floaters who take turns filling in as substitutes where needed, as well as “runners” who file court pleadings or deliver subpoenas and such. It seems as if there would be more women among us. But I push the thought out of my mind, because what can I do about it?
Monique goes over the firm’s filing system and basic menial tasks such as typing and answering phones. It really doesn’t sound like there’s much to the job, which is fine by me. She says that if we work hard, there are opportunities to be given more substantial work and to receive promotions and advancement.
I’m beginning to feel quite over qualified for the job, but I also don’t have a great desire to work one on one with some “drama prone attorney,” as Claude called them, as a legal assistant. So, I’m hoping to keep a low profile until I figure out the lay of the land.
As we leave the room, we’re each handed our assignments for the day. Mine basically tells me what Claude already did— that I’m to answer the phone and connect calls or get messages to the appropriate attorneys or staff. Sounds easy enough. Now my goal is to keep my head out of fantasy land and focused on the task at hand.
Once I’m back at my desk, I focus solely on answering the phone, eating lunch, and avoiding anyone who walks by other than Claude, who frequently comes over to check in on me. I don’t want to send a signal to fellow co-workers that I’m anti-social, but, as someone who was sheltered by strict parents my entire life, I don’t really trust anyone since I often feel as if I know nothing about the world except that people like to make fun of me for not knowing much, so it’s amazing that he and I are getting along so swimmingly so far.
Before the day ends, Monique appears again and announces that they’re holding a welcome party for all the new hires. While it’s not required, she highly recommends we attend and get to know who we’re working for. Her tone sends the message that the party is mandatory, even though her words do not.
“Hallelujah,” Claude exclaims, as soon as Monique is out of earshot. “I could use a cocktail and this firm is known far and well for its happy hour mixers. Why do you think I’ve worked here so long?”
I smile at him, but I can’t help thinking that this is not a great development on my end. I had told my parents I’d be home right after work and they don’t like it when I divert from the plan. I kind of don’t like it either, as having a strict routine helps me not stress out.
I step outside to make the call, trying to think up an excuse as I’m walking.
“Hello.”
“Hi, Mom.”
I need to phrase this perfectly. No mention of it being a party. Maybe the new employees need to stay behind to talk with the bosses. But why didn’t we know about this earlier? Perhaps there’s a surprise evaluation of how our first day went already? That sounds more believable, and due to the formal stuffiness of the earlier brief “orientation,” I could kind of imagine it happening. I’m going to go with that, since it’s the most realistic option.
“Is everything okay? How’s the new job going?”
“Everything’s great. Everyone’s really nice.”
Okay, here goes the lie. It shouldn’t be this hard.
But it is my mom we’re talking about here. The same one who had to look up lyrics for all the songs I tried to download from the Internet as a child, to make sure they conformed to God’s standards. The same one who would drop in on me at school and make sure I wasn’t being exposed to anything ungodly. And who boycotted a book at the school library because it mentioned other world religions, as well as who pulled me out from any class that discussed sex ed or evolution.
“I’m calling because I’m going to be home later than expected. My supervisor just told us the new hires have to meet with the heads. They’re giving us a surprise evaluation of how we did for our first day. It’s super intense here.”
I wait with bated breath. Did I sound convincing? Small prayer that I did.
“That’s a little inconvenient. Making everyone stay behind with such short notice. I wonder if they’re going to be doing this all the time, if they’re starting out this way on the first day?”
She’s going to tell me to come straight home, I think, my stomach filling with dread. Why did I ever think they’d allow me any freedom? Why did I ever think that I could tell a convincing lie?
“But I understand, honey,” she finally says, allowing me to exhale deeply. “Higher-ups aren’t very considerate of the entry-level employees. Just get home when you can, okay.”
Phew.
We talk for a few more minutes, but I let her know I need to get back to work. I don’t like lying to my mom, but I’ve learned it’s sometimes unavoidable. This is one of those times, as I’m not allowed to be around alcohol being served. I’m not twenty-one so this isn’t usually a problem but I’m forbidden to go to parties or establishments where alcohol is served.
By “forbidden,” I mean that my parents always say “their house, their rules,” and if they find out I’m breaking them, I’ll be out on the street. Perhaps that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but they’d definitely shame me, shun me and make my life a hell of a lot harder.
On that note, I really need this job. If I want to leave my parents’ house, I’ve got to save up for my own place. My parents would never pitch in to get me one. They say a young, single woman living alone is an invitation for sin. But if I have the money myself, I don’t need their permission. And I’m starting to not want their permission.
I love my parents but I don’t understand why they don’t get that I’m a grown woman now and that I should be free to make up my own mind about things. Sometimes it feels as if they don’t even want to acknowledge that I even have my own mind.
The rest of the day goes by quickly, since there are a ton of phone calls and time flies as I try to get to them all. Claude explains it’s like playing a game of “whack a mole” and we sometimes laugh as I try to hang up one call and get to the next, which can be difficult if a persistent client or opposing counsel feels like staying on the line and rambling to me about nothing in particular.
“You ready, Champ?” Claude finally asks, and I look up at the clock to see that it’s five o’clock. “Good first day, by the way. You deserve a nice cold drink.”
“Oh, I…”
I’m about to say I don’t drink, but that sounds lame, so instead I say, “I’m only nineteen.”
Claude snorts. “You think they card here, kiddo? The owners of this firm have Rich People Privilege. No cop is going to bust them for serving a glass of wine to a minor.”
I laugh, but I don’t know if it’s convincing enough because he blinks his eyes at me, as if wondering if it’s really possible that I don’t know how the world works. Yes. It’s possible. And it’s one reason I’m always suspicious of opening myself up to people— because I’ll make a fool out of myself based on how little I know about the real world.
“Oh, and just a word of warning,” he says, “This place is full of crazy creepers. One of the legal assistants calls it ‘Sugar Daddy Central.’ They get you liquored up, so that you can let your defenses down.”
A shiver runs down my spine. It’s disgusting, but intriguing at the same time. Most guys my age are afraid to hit on me because the one time a guy tried to kiss me, my mom took out a prayer request ad in the church bulletin, asking everyone to pray for the soul of perverted Charles Gingham. Needless to say, Charles never tried to kiss me again, and neither did anyone else.
“All of them?” I ask Claude.
He shrugs.
“Well, some of them have been taken out of the dating pool,” he concedes. “Asher Marks married his associate, Madilyn, while Cameron Sanchez married a legal assistant named Ruby. Then there’s our biggest client, Damien Hudson—the toy manufacturer?—”
I shake my head at him, not knowing any of these people despite having done my best research on the firm before my interview. I was so nervous at the time that none of it stuck with me. I was afraid I was going to get a pop quiz but luckily that never happened. I think they were just grateful to have someone who wanted to start working right away—which I definitely wanted to do.
“Well, anyway, he has an office here and we work closely with him on a lot of cases. He married a different legal assistant, Katie. But there are still a lot of other partners and senior associates who like to flirt and… dabble… I should say, with their underlings.”
He pauses, a cloud coming over his eyes. “But not Jameson Reed, at least as far as I know. Rumor has it that he has clandestine relationships, but, unlike some of the others, he seems to be really good at keeping them his dirty little secrets.”
I can’t help but blush at that phrase. But Claude doesn’t seem to notice, luckily. He’s already moved on.
“And then there’s Garrett, the new guy,” he says. “I hear he’s one of the worst, so much so that these other hypocrites sat him down for a talk about how he can’t misbehave at work.”
“That does seem awfully hypocritical,” I agree, although I’m not surprised.
At church I’ve seen all kinds of people act holier than thou, only to be caught in extramarital affairs, homosexual relationships, and other such things the church frowns on. Human hypocrisy never seems to faze me.
“Yeah, anyway, you coming?” Claude asks again, impatiently looking in the direction of the stairs that takes us to the large cafeteria style conference room where employees have lunch and events.
“I’ll be right there,” I tell him. “You go ahead—since you can’t wait for that drink and all.”
He laughs. “Thanks, Darling.”
“No, thank you,” I tell him, meaning it. “I really appreciate all your help on my first day.”
And I couldn’t be more sincere. I don’t know what I would have done without Claude here to help me out.