To my right, Krystal Nichols, who is an attorney, is wearing a pair of green camouflage spandex pants with bright red heels and a gauzy, cream-colored top. It screams redneck tramp. She’s currently talking on the phone to an insurance adjuster and threatening to eat his balls for lunch. She graduated at the top of her law school class from Duke.
To my left is Fletch Stiles. He’s a big, burly dude who has been a secretary here at the firm for the past fifteen years. He’s probably in his mid-forties and does bodybuilding competitions. His fashion sense is still stuck in the 80s as evidenced by the acid-washed jeans he’s wearing that barely fit over his bulging thighs. His Led Zeppelin t-shirt is equally stretched over biceps that are roughly the size of hams. Fletch is snarky and slightly abusive, even to the attorneys who work here, and he intimidates the hell out of me. Thank God he doesn’t do any work for me.
In the seven months I’ve been here at Knight & Payne, I’ve not been able to get used to this work environment. It’s noisy and I can’t concentrate. I don’t like people being able to listen in on my conversations, and I can’t stand the laughing and joking that goes on throughout the day. It’s not how I envisioned the way I would practice law.
I thought I’d have my own office like my mom did, complete with wood-paneled walls, a lustrous mahogany desk, and shelves lined with law books just begging me to read them. I imagined I’d work hours upon hours poring over legal documents and trying to figure out loopholes so I could impress my clients. I’d have fancy lunches in the Capital Club with my peers, and we’d discuss the law and politics. I’d call my mom up at night, so we could argue and debate. I’d be looked upon with respect and eventually, I’d meet a nice man with similar interests and ambitions, we’d get married and have three kids, and maybe a dog.
At least, that was the game plan.
Instead, I accepted a job here at my father’s law firm because I wasn’t given an offer anywhere else. Instead of pursuing corporate law, I’m doing grunt work for Leary, who’s always off crusading to save some poor schmuck’s dignity.
Not to say there’s anything wrong with her practice of law. It’s admirable, no doubt.
It’s just not what I wanted.
I look around The Pit again.
I don’t want any of this, and I’m biding my time until a better opportunity comes along.
My phone chimes on my desk, jolting me out of my thoughts. I look around guiltily to see if anyone noticed I’d been daydreaming a bit, but everyone’s busy with either their own work or discussing cases. While Midge gives a ton of personal freedom to the people who work for her, no one ever takes advantage of it. I will have to say this is the hardest-working group of people I’ve ever encountered in my life.
I reach out and pick up my phone. Pulling the receiver to my ear, I say, “Emma Peterson.”
“Emma.” At the silky smooth woman’s voice coming through, I immediately go on hyper alert. While I don’t get much interaction with her, I would recognize Midge Payne’s voice anywhere. I’m stunned because she doesn’t ever deal with the associate attorneys, and my heart starts an erratic beat.
“Um… yes, Miss Payne… what can I do for you?” I ask, my voice trembling.
“It’s Midge,” she says curtly but not unkindly, a quick reminder we are all on a first-name basis here. This is another example of how this law firm is not meshing with my ideals of what a law practice should look like.
For example, Fletch should call me Miss Peterson, not Squirt, which is apparently the nickname he’d pinned on me due to my diminutive size. I dare not correct him.
“Yes, of course, Midge,” I stumble in apology. “How can I help you?”
“I need to see you,” she says. “In my office. Now.”
And then she hangs up.
I stare dumbfounded at my phone for about three seconds, then lift my head so my gaze focuses on Midge’s office door in the eastern corner of the twenty-seventh floor. Probably at least twenty Pit desks are lined up between Midge and me right now, yet I feel I need more protection for some reason.
The massive wooden door swings open slowly, revealing the reclusive yet beautiful woman known as Midge Payne. She’s the only attorney in this firm who rates an actual office with real walls that give her complete privacy. All other offices are bordered by glass walls. She stares at me directly with the silent message of, “Get your ass up and get in my office.”
I’m surprised my legs can even hold my weight as I slowly stand up from my desk and walk her way. Past the other Pit desks, the noise of people talking and laughing and debating. Past her cool-as-a-cucumber secretary who looks like she stepped out of the pages of Vogue and I realize I have no clue what her name is.
Midge steps backward into her office, motions me inside, and closes the door behind me.