Page 37 of Love Is an Art
I turn, and it’s a managing director from Morgan Bank. I represented Morgan in an internal investigation involving kickbacks, and he was my client contact. That’s the thing about New York City. I’d think I would never run into anyone I know because it’s so big. But it is such a small village sometimes.
I am so dead.
“Jim. So good to see you,” I say.
“I was just telling my wife here about how impressed I was by your work,” Jim says.
That could be interpreted as my artwork. If he has terrible taste.
“Thank you.” I shake his wife’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“This is Zeke, Jim,” I say.
“I told her that figuring it all out was like a multi-layered puzzle, boosted by flashes of intuition,” Jim says. “It definitely makes sense to look at the big picture and then get down to the nitty gritty of the fine details.”
“Yes. Jim is one of my biggest supporters,” I say to Zeke. It’s true. He wrote the firm a lovely recommendation for my personnel file that should help me get the bonus.
“Knock on wood we don’t have that situation again. But if we do, you’re the first person I’d call.”
I cough. My throat has closed up. I can’t stop coughing.
“Are you okay?” Jim asks.
“I’ll get you a glass of water,” Zeke says.
I nod, still unable to talk, as Zeke leaves.
Phew.
I move up one space in the line.
I manage to stop coughing. “Thanks so much again for the recommendation. That was amazing.”
“Of course. Have you decided to apply yet for the FLAFL job? I’ll tailor my previous recommendation for it.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.” Check that outside reference off—along with the one from the grandparents in the adoption case. Now I need one more for the FLAFL application. And that will be Jack Miller, my mentor. “I haven’t applied yet. I’m still learning so much at White & Gilman.” The line moves another space, and I step forward to stand next to one of the metal columns interspersed throughout the white space.
“Well, for my own self-interest, I hope you stay. But let me know when you need it. I can’t imagine they’d turn you down.” He and his wife leave.
I breathe a sigh of relief. Lying is hard. How do people who commit fraud do it? I couldn’t live with the fear of discovery.
Zeke returns, and I sip the cup of water gratefully.
“What situation did you help with?” he asks.
“I’m sorry. It’s confidential.” That’s one of the best excuses for avoiding conversation about work as a lawyer. And I have no idea if an art project would be confidential, but then again, neither does Zeke. Or even if he does, it’s not exactly a statement he can challenge. “Thanks for the water.”
He nods.
It’s finally our turn to check out. Volunteers wrap the two paintings in bubble wrap and place them in a Fresh Direct shopping bag.
I excuse myself to go to the bathroom. The line is ten-women deep. I should’ve gone when we were waiting to pay. Wyatt comes out of the men’s room.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I say. And there’s a pause. There was a time when I called him first to tell him that I won a case or thought of a good argument, and now I have nothing to say to him.
He leans in. “There’s another bathroom around the corner, downstairs, next to the offices. When we had a meeting to discuss this event, the director showed it to me. Do you want me to take you there?”
