Before joining my father at the Law Offices of F. Clinton Broden, I was an Assistant District Attorney in Manhattan for six years, rising to become the deputy chief of the Special Victims Bureau. Three months in, I’m still not completely comfortable at my father’s firm. Putting away the bad guys was far more satisfying than defending them.
My office in the private sector is actually smaller than the one I worked out of at the DA’s office. This one is nicer, though. Views that go for miles and expensive built-ins. My high-back, ergonomic leather desk chair cost more than three grand. The computer is also a step up. My desktop at the DA’s office was forever buffering, but my new PC fires up as fast as lightning.
I still haven’t put anything on the walls. I wanted to hang a plaque the District Attorney gave me for outstanding service, but my father suggested that I not seem too beholden to my former employer. “It’s one thing,” he said, “to tout to clients that you know the enemy’s secrets; it’s quite another to indicate that you actually enjoyed the time you spent behind enemy lines.”
My father offered to move the Miró that hangs in the hallway to my office, but I declined. I told him that I wanted the space to reflect my personality, and I’d figure something out soon enough. For the last three months, however, my personality has been a blank slate.
Home is a one-bedroom, third-floor walk-up in a Greenwich Village brownstone. I realize that sounds depressing to non–New Yorkers, but it’s actually considered to be desirable housing. Up until four months ago, I shared the apartment with my boyfriend, Jeffrey. He lived here before we met and after dating for a year we decided that paying two rents made no sense, so I moved in. That was two years ago.
Jeffrey is a lawyer at Lowell and Pike, one of those megafirms with more than eight hundred lawyers in New York and offices in every major city in the world. He’s a tenth-year associate, which means he’s been passed over for partner once and this year is his last shot at that Holy Grail. If he doesn’t make it, he’ll end up in the lawyer-purgatory known as “of counsel” and watch more junior lawyers—lawyers he now commands to give up their weekend plans or work all-nighters—become partners, and thereby gain the authority to boss him around.
Four months ago, Jeffrey came home and matter-of-factly told me that he owed it to himself to give his full-time attention to making partner. I tried not to laugh. Ever since we’d started dating, he’d made it quite clear in word and deed that I took a backseat to that quest. Apparently he’d decided that more drastic measures were required than merely working ninety-hour weeks, because the next day he moved to a furnished studio apartment a block from his office. He left behind virtually all his worldly possessions aside from his clothing.
Jeffrey was the latest in a long line of decisions I’d made about my life because they seemed right on paper. I never met a single person who didn’t think Jeffrey and I were perfect for each other. He’s handsome, but not so much that I worried about his fidelity, and the kind of person the phrase “smartest guy in the room” was coined to describe.
But even in the early days, I knew that I didn’t feel the head-over-heels passion for him that I’d always craved. What I had instead was a talent for convincing myself that lacking a little spark didn’t matter because Jeffrey possessed so many other important attributes. Deep down, of course, I knew it was a lie. When he told me it was over, I felt relieved more than anything.
Even before Jeffrey left, I’d already begun thinking about my next professional act. Most Assistant District Attorneys cash out after three or four years, as soon as they’ve tried enough cases that headhunters representing Wall Street law firms and investment banks start calling with offers to triple their salaries. The true believers—like me—stay longer, eventually moving to a supervisory role because the grind of trying a case every few months is brutal. But life as a supervisor is like being a shark—you either constantly move ahead or you die. And I had stopped moving. My ex-boss at the Special Victims Bureau was a lifer like me, which meant that becoming bureau chief of Special Vics wasn’t going to happen for me for another ten years, minimum. I saw no other division that I would be a natural fit to lead, and even if I did want to go to General Crimes or Forfeiture, deputy chiefs in those groups were already waiting in the wings.
So when Jeffrey left me with a monthly rent I couldn’t afford on an ADA’s salary and my father reiterated for the millionth time that it would be the perfect moment for me to come aboard and practice “real” law—by which he meant for clients who pay—my resolve finally cracked and I accepted.
I’ve wished I hadn’t every day since.
Tonight that regret is hitting me hard. I can feel the pull toward Lava, but that will have to wait one more evening. More and more, I’ve begun to feel that my secret life is becoming as addictive as a drug habit—and perhaps just as dangerous to my long-term well-being. I know that Charlotte’s news is the reason I feel like I need just a little hit, and I’m also self-aware enough to appreciate that it will be an increasing problem as my sister becomes more successful by following her passion and I’m left with the harsh truth that my life is, for lack of a better word, passionless.
I open a bottle of white wine and take it, a glass, and Charlotte’s manuscript over to my sofa. My plan is to start Charlotte’s book after I unwind a bit, but half a bottle later, in the middle of some ridiculous pay-for-view rom-com that I have no idea why I selected, I pass out on my sofa.
If I hadn’t been wallowing in my own self-pity, I might have paid more attention to the fact that I hadn’t heard from Charlotte that evening. It’s not unprecedented for us to go twenty-four hours without any type of contact, but it’s much more the exception than the rule. Usually I’ll get a text of her toes or something before bed, or I’ll see that she’s posted something on Facebook or Instagram or tweeted something that I’ll “like,” or vice versa.
But on that night, I don’t hear a peep.
DAY TWO
WEDNESDAY
4.
I’m still feeling a little hungover the next morning. As I walk through the glass double doors leading to the Law Offices of F. Clinton Broden, all I can think about is getting some coffee in my bloodstream.
Unfortunately, before I can get my fix, Ashleigh says, “Your father’s in the conference room with a client. New business. He wants you to join them.”
New business is the siren song that no lawyer can resist. Even the receptionist knows it’s the lifeblood of any law firm.
“For the love of God, please tell me that there’s coffee in there?”
“Yes.” Ashleigh laughs. “Freshly brewed, in fact. And muffins. I ordered them from Angelina’s.”
I take a deep breath and push open the conference-room door. My father is sitting with his back to the window, allowing the client to enjoy the helicopter views.
“We’ve been waiting for you, Ella,” my father says.
The client turns around. For the second time, I suck in a mouthful of oxygen.