Page 18 of After Everything
David, please come to the conference room on 12 at 2 PM today. -Margaret
Margaret Chen. One of the named partners. The one who'd brought me onto the Henderson case in the first place, who'd told me last year that I was "on track" for partnership, that the case would "seal the deal."
I stared at the email on my phone screen. The hotel room was too quiet. Too bright. The Sunday paper I'd bought to look normal sat unread on the desk next to the empty whiskey bottle from Saturday night.
It was fine. This was fine. They probably just wanted an update on the case transition. Elliot Webb's firm was taking over—I'd seen the LinkedIn post—and they'd need me to brief them on where everything stood.
This was routine. Nothing to worry about.
I told myself that all the way downtown. Through the shower, the shave, the careful selection of my best suit. The one I'd worn to my partnership interview last year. Navy, perfectly tailored, the one that made me look competent and trustworthy.
I told myself that on the elevator ride up to the twelfth floor.
I was still telling myself that when I walked into the conference room and saw three partners sitting at the table.
Margaret Chen. Richard Lowe. And James Olson himself.
Margaret sat in the center, spine straight, her reading glasses perched on her nose. She was in her late forties, sharply dressed as always, with the kind of controlled expression that made junior associates nervous. She'd mentored me whenI first joined the firm, had been the one to recommend me for the Henderson case.
Richard Lowe was to her right. mid-sixties, steel-gray hair, expensive suit that probably cost more than my monthly hotel bill. He handled the firm's biggest clients, the ones whose names you saw in the Wall Street Journal. I'd worked with him exactly once, on a contract review that had taken three months, and the man was everything I’d ever wanted to be: deadly competent, someone whose name was more than enough to make things happen.
And then… James Olson. The founding partner. The man whose name was literally on the door, first among the three. Late seventies, semi-retired, only came into the office for major decisions and client emergencies. I'd met him exactly twice in my five years at the firm: once at my hiring reception, once at the holiday party two years ago.
The fact that he was here, in this room, looking at me with an expression I couldn't read… Well, that told me everything I needed to know.
My stomach dropped.
"David." Margaret's voice was cool. Professional. "Please, sit down."
I sat. My hands were sweating. I wiped them on my pants under the table where they couldn't see.
"Thank you for coming in," Margaret continued. She had a closed folder in front of her. "I'm sure you're aware that Oakley & Barnes withdrew from the Henderson case last week."
"Yes." My voice came out steady. Good. "I saw the announcement. I've been working on prep, getting ready to coordinate with Elliot Webb's firm to ensure a smooth transition of?—"
"Why did they withdraw, David?" Richard Lowe leaned forward. His eyes looked like they could see straight through bullshit.
"They cited a conflict of interest," I said carefully. "I assume something came up on their end that made continued partnership untenable. These things happen in?—"
"Don't." Olson spoke for the first time. His voice was quiet. Deadly. "Don't insultour intelligence by pretending you don't know exactly why they withdrew."
The room was silent except for the hum of the air conditioning.
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Every lawyer instinct I had was screaming at me to say nothing, to ask for time to consult with... with who? I didn't have a lawyer. I was a lawyer. And I was completely fucked.
"There were rumors," I said finally. "About me and Sarah Oakley. But they were just?—"
"Rumors." Richard picked up the word like it was something distasteful. "Your wife filed for divorce ten days ago, David. Public record. Citing irreconcilable differences after eight years of marriage." He opened a folder in front of him. "Someone at Oakley & Barnes saw you and Ms. Oakley in a compromising position at the Fairmont Hotel three weeks ago. That person reported it to Richard Oakley, the managing partner. Who is also, as you well know, Sarah Oakley's father."
My face was burning. I couldn't look at any of them.
"Oakley called me personally last Thursday," Richard continued. "To inform me that his firm would be withdrawing from the Henderson case due to an 'inappropriate relationship' between co-counsel. He was professional about it. Courteous, even. But he made it very clear that his firm's reputation could not be associated with this kind of conduct."
"I—" I started to say.
"The Henderson case," Margaret cut me off, her voice sharp now, "represented approximately forty million dollars in potential billings over the next three years. It was the largest case this firm has handled in over a decade. We brought in Oakley & Barnes specifically because of their expertise and reputation. And now they're gone. Because of you."
Forty million dollars. The number hung in the air like a guillotine blade.
