Chapter Five
Olney & Henderson, LLP
Washington, DC
One week later
Dean
News flash: The first day back at work after your wedding is called off sucks.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d worry that my job is in jeopardy. But I do know better, and this walk of shame across Olney & Henderson’s main floor is just a necessary rite of passage when you’re the focus of office gossip. By now, everyone knows that I didn’t get married while I was out on vacation. They also know why.
In an environment like this one, where people are openly and secretly cutthroat, it’s crucial to give your colleagues as little ammunition as possible. Understanding this, I chose to invite only two people from Olney to my wedding: my assistant, Ginny Sloane, and Michael Benitez, a junior partner two years senior to me and the only person here I consider a true friend.
Michael spread the breakup news at my request, the canned message we jointly put together meant to eliminate anyone’s inclination to ask me for details. But I’m sure Ginny filled in the gaps with her own colorful commentary; hence, the office scuttlebutt.
So far, there’s no snickering. But I see several sets of wide eyes, and so many people are clearing their throats as I pass them, you’d think everyone in the whole damn firm is dehydrated. Fuck me, this is going to be painful. It’s not that I care what they think; what bothers me is that they’re thinking about my personal business at all.
After running the gauntlet, I sit at my desk and take a deep breath.
Within seconds, Michael swoops into my office and closes the door. “Heads up before we go into the morning meeting: The EQs are wondering if they should take some work off your plate.”
The EQs, or equity partners, are at the top of our law firm’s hierarchy. Unlike Michael, who’s a non-equity partner, they actually own the firm and make the important decisions—such as which senior associates they’ll invite to join their ranks.
I take a sip of coffee as though I’m unconcerned by the intel. Nothing could be further from the truth, though. “Why did that even come up?”
“As expected, the canceled wedding hit the rounds,” Michael says. “They’re thinking you’re probably bummed about it and need a little time to regroup. Olney said she wanted to be more sensitive to associates’ needs. Per usual, Henderson doesn’t give a shit. He also complained that you’ve been doing a bunch of work for that pro bono clinic at Georgetown, and if anything, that stuff should go first.”
Christ. We’re six weeks away from partnership decisions, and this is the state of play: Olney thinks I’m emotionally distraught; Henderson isn’t impressed with my workload. They’re looking for go-getters, dealmakers, and client magnets, not people who need their hands held when a romantic relationship goes sour, or worse, people who don’t pull in their fair share of business. “As much as I hate to admit it, Henderson’s right. I’m fine. And they shouldn’t give a shit about my private life. One way or another, I’ll make that clear to them.”
“Well, you may get a chance to do just that,” Michael says with a sly smile.
“You’re so fucking shady, and I appreciate it with every fiber of my being. What do you know?”
He scoots to the edge of his seat and leans forward. “A couple of months ago, a headhunter contacted us about an associate who’s considering a lateral move to the DC area. Her name is Kimberly Bailey. Word is, her partner is interviewing for artist-in-residence programs in the DMV area. Bailey’s a dream candidate: top-tier law degree, law review, a federal clerkship, 30 Under 30 in Atlanta Law Magazine, the whole shebang. She’s the fish we never expected to catch.”
That’s an understatement. Lawyers with a pedigree like Kimberly’s don’t usually leave their firms, not when partnership is on the table. But a relocation, especially for family reasons, is a solid justification that doesn’t raise red flags with prospective employers.
Michael gives me a Grinch-who-stole-Christmas grin. “There’s more, though. The headhunter didn’t mention this, but Henderson knows from his own sources that her father is Larry Bailey, general counsel of Baxter Media Group.”
Holy shit. Baxter Media is huge, and I know exactly where this is going. With numerous television, newspaper, and advertising properties all over the country, Baxter Media must generate a ton of legal work. One of their flagship companies, SwiftNet, is a major internet service provider with headquarters right here in DC. For a firm like ours, which has branded itself as the lawyer’s law firm, snagging a client like Baxter Media could keep the lights on for a long time; recruiting Kimberly Bailey would be the logical first step in that process.
“We’re going to bring her in for a round of interviews,” Michael explains. “And unless she runs naked through the halls, I think it’s fair to say we’re going to offer her a job. But she’s also looking at other firms, so Olney and Henderson want to make sure we come out on top in the end.”
“How do they expect to guarantee that?”
“By showing her a great time when she and her partner visit the DMV. They’ll be here for the next couple of weeks, and she’s asked to meet with senior associates during that time. Apparently, she joked that it was the only way she’d get the real scoop on the firm’s culture.”
“She’s right,” I say, nodding.
“The partners know this too. But they don’t think the usual fancy dinner is enough. They want to offer an insider’s tour of DC. ‘Do whatever it is young people do,’ is how Henderson put it. All expenses paid.”
“Damn, they didn’t bother with any of that when I interviewed.”
“Can your dad give the firm millions of dollars in business each year?”
I don’t even know where my father is, but I doubt it’s anyplace good. “I’m guessing not.”
“Exactly,” Michael says. “This is big-league stuff here.”
Knowing exactly what’s at stake, I rub my hands together in anticipation. “So, in other words, I need to get in on whatever they’re planning.”
“Let me put it this way: If you manage to lure Kimberly Bailey to the firm, the partners will be so far up your ass you’ll need an enema to flush them out.”
I stare at him blankly. “This was all good news until you said that.”
He shakes his head at me. “Focus, Dean. You want to be the master of your own fate? Well, here’s your shot.”
“All right, all right. Thanks for having my back.”
Michael salutes me. “Admittedly, I’m doing this for my own benefit too. It’s hard hanging around with those folks. They’re stodgy as hell, and they wouldn’t recognize an innovative idea even if it was delivered in wrapping paper that literally said ‘Innovative ideas inside.’ I need you to get your ass in gear and join me.”
“I plan to, and I’m on it.”
A quarter of an hour into the Monday Morning Meeting—capitalized because it’s very much a specific phenomenon at Olney & Henderson—I sit in one of the chairs reserved for associates that frame the perimeter of the room and wait for the opportunity to snag the Bailey assignment.
“Final order of business,” Sam Henderson says from the head of the partners-only conference table. “Senior associates, we’re looking for one of you to work on an after-hours assignment. Non-billable. Any takers?”
Henderson is in typical form; everything’s a game to him. This must be the Kimberly Bailey assignment, but he’s testing us to see who’s willing to take on an extra project. No associate with a sense of self-preservation volunteers for anything that doesn’t count toward their minimum billable hours requirement, so most associates’ gazes fall to their laps. Not me, though. Thanks to Michael, I know this will be a relatively easy task with the potential for great rewards.
I shoot up my hand. “I’d be happy to.”
Peter Barnum, an Ed Sheeran lookalike who’s as close to a nemesis as I have at the firm, shoots up a hand as well. “Me too.”
Henderson looks between us. “Dean, I don’t think—”
Olney clears her throat, eliciting an eye roll from Henderson.
“Come see me after the meeting, then,” he says to us both.
Ten minutes later, Peter and I arrive at the threshold of Henderson’s office. Our boss’s assistant, who only works for Henderson, ignores us.
“Peter.”
“Dean.”
“Heard about the wedding,” he says matter-of-factly. “Can’t win ’em all, I guess.”
What an asshole. Everything’s a competition to Peter, and I suspect he thinks of me as his fiercest challenger. “That’s actually one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me. You’re a stand-up guy.”
Peter lacks even a shred of self-awareness. First case in point: He’s wearing a baby-blue polo with an upturned collar. Reminds me of the arrogant pricks I used to ring out in the dorm commissary as part of my work-study job at Penn. Second case in point: He actually smiles at my comment—as though I’ve just given him a compliment.
Thankfully, Henderson’s assistant deigns to acknowledge us and waves us back. When we enter, our boss nods and gestures for us to sit in the guest chairs facing his desk. “Dean. Peter. I’ll make this quick.”
True to his word, he gives us a rapid-fire rundown of the assignment, then he turns his gaze to me. “Dean, I envision this as a welcoming committee of sorts. Ms. Bailey and her partner are interested in asking about work-life balance, housing in the area, firm dynamics, and the like. I figure this might be something right up Peter’s alley. He and . . .”
“Molly,” Peter offers, looking like an overeager puppy desperate to be petted.
“Yes, that’s right. Peter and Molly just purchased a home in NoVa, so they may be a better fit for this.”
Henderson’s a smart man. He wouldn’t dare say outright that I’m not a good fit for the task because I’m unattached, but the implication is there just the same. It truly burns that I’m in this position. If Ella had stuck to her end of the bargain, I would be a shoo-in for this assignment. Instead, I’m scrambling to make myself relevant. And sure, I could try to persuade Henderson to disregard my newly single status, but I know he’s looking for any reason to box me out of opportunities whenever Olney isn’t around to run interference. Henderson’s considered me a threat ever since a major client dropped him from a trial team because they wanted me to handle the case on my own. Embarrassing for Henderson, sure. Still, I didn’t orchestrate that shitshow, so this personal vendetta is uncalled for. If he’d just give me a goddamn chance, I’d do a bang-up job of selling Kimberly Bailey on both the firm and DC life. Unfortunately, Henderson doesn’t want to give me a chance, and now he has a decent excuse for his decision.
Michael’s crass prediction flashes in my brain. On the eve of associate evaluations, what could be better than having my bosses so far up my ass that I’d need an enema to flush them out? Metaphorically speaking, of course. I’m already on shaky ground with the firm, which means I need this assignment. Without it, I’m unlikely to turn things around to make partner by thirty, and if I don’t, what the hell was the point of never deviating from my plan for success all this time?
A woman with curly hair and chocolate-brown eyes immediately comes to mind, and my solution tumbles out effortlessly, pure adrenaline fueling my pitch-perfect delivery. “Sir, I didn’t bring this up earlier because it didn’t seem relevant, but since you mentioned wanting these outings to be with our significant others, now’s an appropriate time to tell you that I’m in a serious relationship with someone, and I think she’d be a real asset to our effort to recruit Kimberly Bailey.”
“Bullshit,” Peter coughs into his hand.
Henderson cocks his head. “You’re in a serious relationship? Less than two weeks after you canceled your wedding?”
I chuckle and massage the back of my head. Shit, my ears are burning. Don’t pass out, Dean. Don’t you fucking dare pass out. “It’s definitely an unconventional turn of events, I get it, but the short story is that the woman who stopped my wedding is a longtime friend. And, well, I’ll just say that once the dust settled after the ceremony, we realized we’d been suppressing some pretty big feelings. She’s known me longer than I’ve worked here, and we’ve shared a condo for years, so she really is qualified to speak to what she’s observed about my lifestyle as an associate firsthand, and what’s even better is that she knows DC inside out. Anyway, I think she’d be more than happy to join us.”
“What’s her name?” Peter asks.
He’s trying to box me into a corner. Well played, Peter.
“Her name’s Solange Pereira.”
Peter narrows his gaze on me but says nothing.
Henderson knows I’m more charming than the sack of potatoes to my right. I mean, Peter unironically brags that he “bagged” his wife as soon as he told her he’d graduated from Harvard—a moment he describes as the dating equivalent of a mic drop. Skin-crawling stuff, really. Once Henderson considers Peter’s insufferably douchey upturned collar, his choice will be clear.
But then Peter adds, “You mentioned Bailey’s partner is looking at artist-in-residence programs, right? Well, Molly’s dad is an art professor at NYU. It’s a superbly teed up icebreaker.”
I clench my jaw so hard I’m probably at risk of rupturing a blood vessel somewhere.
Henderson snaps his fingers. “You both should do it. The more, the merrier. I think you two would strike a good balance. Keep the other one on his toes. It’ll feel festive. Engaging. Besides, I need you to be candid, but not too candid. What better way to ensure a light muzzle on your honesty than to have you keep tabs on each other?”
Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. It’s bad enough that I just forced myself to fake a relationship, but now Peter’s going to be watching my every move? This is bad. Really fucking bad. But I’m pinned against the ropes, and there’s no way out that won’t damage my already tenuous standing with Henderson.
It’s okay, Dean. You’re a fighter. And you know how to execute a plan. Think of this as the biggest assignment of your career, and you’ll excel in it like you always do.
Still, that little voice in my head is begging me to heed the warning signs. Given the stakes, I choose to ignore it.
Somehow, I need to convince Solange to go along with my scheme.
Somehow, we’ll need to convince Peter that we’ve known each other a long time and that we live together now.
Somehow, I’ll need to pretend this woman is my partner even though I know nothing about her other than that she’s blessed with great hair and possesses nerves of steel.
Henderson drums his hands on his desk. “I’ll send you the dates Ms. Bailey is available once I have them. Keep me apprised of your plans.”
I stand up awkwardly, a bunch of chaotic thoughts rattling around in my brain and messing with my equilibrium. What if Solange refuses to help me? And even if she says yes, what if we do a shit job of pretending to be a couple? What if Peter finds out I’m lying and rats me out to the firm?
Stop, Dean. There’s no point in second-guessing yourself. You can’t do anything about it. I draw up straight and square my shoulders. “Thanks for the opportunity, sir. We won’t let you down.”
Outside Henderson’s office, Peter shakes his head. “I don’t know what the hell you were thinking back there, but I know a con when I see one.”
“Believe what you want, Peter,” I say, my head down as I type a quick text to Lina. Solange did say her cousin would know where to find her if I needed her—and I definitely need Solange now.
Peter shuffles off without another word.
When I’m sure he’s gone, I take a deep breath. Will I live to regret this? Probably. Am I committed to seeing it through anyway? Damn right I am.