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“Yes, the kitchen with the coffeepot is on the third floor. I’m sorry I didn’t give you the proper tour, but I thought they might have covered that in orientation.” A phone began ringing in his office, and he glanced back at me with agitation.
“Yes, I’ll get it now.” I stood quickly and smoothed down my dress. He disappeared, and I heard him answer his phone a few seconds later.
Coffee. Okay, I can do this. Are Trevor and Todd brewing freaking coffee?
I found the third-floor kitchen without too much trouble and stared at the complex stainless steel coffeepot. I came from a noncoffee family. I had never desired to attach myself to a caffeine habit, and had treated coffee the same way I treated cigarettes, drugs and—until I was nineteen—sex. I stayed away from them, and they stayed away from me. Therefore, my coffee education rivaled that of a newborn.
Should I admit weakness and ask Ancient Dorothy for help? Nope. I started opening drawers in the kitchen, hoping to find a user’s manual for the coffeepot.
My butt was saved by a short, round woman with spiky red hair and an I Love My Labradoodle sweatshirt. Sarcastically, I wondered if the sweatshirt classified as business attire until my subconscious smacked me across the face. Who was I to judge salvation?
“Good morning!” Labradoodle woman chirped happily, bustling past me and settling her orange-and-blue polka-dot lunch box in the fridge.
“Hi!” I blurted out enthusiastically. Probably a little too enthusiastically. She gave me an odd smile before heading to the sink to wash her hands.
I cornered the Labradoodle-loving stranger by the sink. “My name is Julia,” I said. “Today is my second day, and Broward just asked me for coffee, and I’ve never made coffee before, and I can’t find a user’s manual for the coffee machine, and I don’t know how it’s supposed to taste....” My rush of words faltered and I looked at her in desperation. Please, have some compassion!
She beamed at me and patted my arm reassuringly. “Now, now, that is no problem! I don’t drink a lot of coffee myself, but I’ll show you how to fix it!” With purpose, she bustled over to the cabinet and pulled out a jug of ground coffee. “Now, the way I fix it is to put three teaspoons of coffee grounds in...and then fill the water canister to eight cups.” Three teaspoons, eight cups. Sounds easy enough.
I followed her instructions and had a pot of watery brown liquid brewing in no time. I didn’t trust myself with a taste test, but poured Broward a cup and stuck one of the prepared containers of sweeteners, creamers and stirrers under my arm. I carefully navigated my way through the halls to the elevator and used my elbow to press the button. The doors opened to Todd Appleton’s perky good looks. His glowing skin and enthusiastic “good morning” spoke of a full night of rest. I stepped into the elevator with him and watched his eyes travel up my legs and stop on my shaky coffee cup and creamer selection. I had already sloshed at least a fourth of the coffee around the rim, and could feel some drops running down my fingers. Great.
“Making coffee for the office?” he teased, his gaze finally reaching my face.
“Very funny,” I responded. “Did you know our duties include coffee prep? Something I have never attempted before,” I added dryly.
“Maybe for you,” he shot back. “De Luca has Le Croissant bring up a full spread every morning, with coffee, fruits and a bunch of pastries. They deliver at 8:00 a.m.” He paused, glancing at his watch. “Hence my early arrival. I want to get some while they’re fresh.”
The elevator pinged and stopped at the fourth floor, doors opening slowly. Todd bounded off, apparently never having been taught by his doting mother that ladies go first. I exited carefully, trying my best to keep every last remaining drop of coffee in the cup, and traversed the three turns and two straightaways until I stopped in front of Broward’s door. I bumped the door gently with my knee, and then pushed it in.
I could feel tendrils of my hair coming out of my French twist, and felt completely out of sorts when I tried to gracefully place—and more like dumped—the cup and ceramic container on Broward’s desk. He was on a call, discussing what sounded like an environmental issue, and held up one finger to indicate that I should stay. I chose one of the two heavy leather chairs facing his desk and sat, waiting for his call to finish.
While he droned on about the impact of what sounded like a nature trail, I discreetly checked out his office. It was decorated in the heavy, ornate, masculine fashion that all our offices seemed to share. He had stacks of files everywhere and file boxes lining any free space on the edges of the walls. Six file cabinets lined one wall, and a six-person conference table took up the right side of the room. It was a large office, more than twice the size of mine, but what I would have expected for a firm partner. The table didn’t look as though it was used for many meetings. Every inch of it was buried in stacks of papers, with hundreds of small and large Post-it notes covering them. My head spun with the enormity of his workload. I had naively assumed that I was making some headway with the measly fourteen hours I had put in the day before. I grew stressed just sitting in his office.
His desk was the cleanest place in the office. He had three legal folders on its surface, one open to the file he was discussing on the phone. He had a large digital clock, no doubt to help him keep track of billable hours. He had two framed photos next to his phone. I couldn’t see them from this angle, but assumed they were of his wife and kids. Those photos were probably the most he ever saw of them. My snooping was cut short by the sound of his phone handset being returned to its rightful place. I looked up and into his blue eyes.
“I didn’t know how you liked your coffee, so I brought it black,” I said, gesturing to the accompaniments in the ceramic holder. I stood up and slid the coffee cup toward him until it was in easy reach.
“Just light cream and Equal,” he said, standing up, grabbing the creamer box and flipping through it.
What defines “light”? And how much Equal? I watched him closely, noting how much he added of each to the cup. He looked at the color of the coffee a moment longer than what I would define as normal, and then, dismissing whatever thought was in his head, brought the cup to his mouth.
Gag would be too strong a word for what happened next. An involuntary wince perhaps? His blink was a bit forced, his mouth curled into an unpleasant grimace and there was a slight shudder that he tried hard to cover. An involuntary giggle popped out of me and I slapped a hand over my mouth. He looked at me in confusion, trying to figure out if I was trying to play a joke on him. His expression looked somewhere between mad and amused.
“I’m sorry,” I gasped, fighting the ridiculous hiccuping laugh that was fighting tooth and nail to come out. “I don’t drink coffee. I’ve never made it. I was stumbling through trying to figure it out when someone downstairs was kind enough to show me how....” My voice trailed off as my giggle urge left and I felt despair creeping in. “Is it...horrible?” I whispered.
“A little,” Broward admitted, a wry smile coming to his lips. “But, no worries. I’ll have Sheila walk you through it tomorrow morning. In the meantime, I need a file couriered over from Rothsfield and Merchant. Could you stop by Starbucks on the way back?”
I nodded rapidly, some relief flowing into my body. He didn’t seem mad. Yes, I had looked inept, but it seemed to be okay.
“If you prefer,” I ventured, “I think Mr. De Luca had some breakfast delivered. I could grab some coffee from their conference room?”
His face darkened. Okay...maybe not something he’d prefer. Did I say something wrong?
“No,” he said sharply. “Brad orders that for his secretaries, intern and his clients. We don’t mess with, or borrow, from his staff, and I expect the same from him.” His glowering tone softened slightly at my pale face. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Maybe now is when I should go through the office background.” He stood, shut the file on his desk and pressed the call button on his phone.
A delicate, professional voice sounded through the speakerphone. “Yes, Mr. Broward?” It sounded like Sheila, his secretary. Why wasn’t Sheila getting his coffee? That seemed a secretarial duty.
“I will be indisposed for the next...ten minutes. Please hold my calls.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Broward.”
“Can you please shut the door?” Broward asked as he sat down. I quickly walked to the door and shut it softly, then returned to my place in front of his desk. Broward leaned back in his chair and tapped his finger to his chin, mulling something over while looking at me. I fought the urge to fidget.
“Okay, to begin, let’s attack the elephant in the room.” He leaned forward and met my gaze firmly, his almost-stern expression reminding me of when my father used to lecture me on the importance of high school English. What elephant in the room? Is this about the coffee?
“Brad De Luca,” he began. “Brad is, without a doubt, the best divorce attorney in the south. His waiting list is over ten months long, and many unhappy wives prolong a marriage for the sole reason of waiting to have Brad represent them.” His voice was matter-of-fact and slightly wry. “Brad is a shark in the courtroom and has no problem splattering the walls with blood. He also takes very, very good care of his clients.”
His tone and expression led me to believe that “taking care” of his clients might mean a little more than one would think. I nodded to indicate that I got the point.
“You will no doubt notice the daily breakfast platters, be invited on the Bahamas work weekends and hear the drone of excessive and unnecessary celebrations going on in that wing of this floor.” His stern gaze moved up in intensity to level six. “Julia, I don’t want you to have any part of that. Brad runs his part of the office that way—I run mine in a more...professional and efficient manner. There is a reason that you were not assigned to Brad. Stay away from him.” The approachable, friendly Broward was gone. In his chair sat a dictator speaking to me in the manner one might use on a bad puppy.
I was contrite and didn’t even know why. “Yes, sir,” I said, firmly but quietly.
“Great,” he said briskly. “Now, moving on to the other partner, Hugo Clarke. Clarke focuses on criminal law. His clients are mostly white-collar, though if a case has enough publicity, he will take on the bloodier ones. He is a great source of knowledge, and is always happy to help our interns. He has a young grandson who often spends time here at the office. If you see a two-year-old wandering around, that would be Clarke’s.”
I waited for another death glare and a warning that Clarke sold black market organs, but Broward seemed to be off his soapbox and was now almost jovial. Good lord, it was like dealing with a menopausal woman.
“I focus almost entirely on corporate law—all civil matters. Our work has a lot less emotion involved, but is exciting all the same.” Right. Every law student can’t wait to dive into corporate reform.
Broward skimmed over the other attorneys and reviewed the billing procedures and his general expectations. They all seemed reasonable, though I suspected his general reference to my expected sixty-hour weeks would probably be more of a seventy-or eighty-hour commitment. He signaled the end of our conversation by pressing Sheila’s extension on his phone and indicating that I should open the door.
Her melodious voice came through the speakerphone. “Yes, sir?”
“Please give Julia a tour of the office. Apparently Jane didn’t do a proper job in orientation. Also, she will be running over to Rothsfield to get the Danko file, so please explain the mileage system and petty cash.”
“Certainly.”
Sheila appeared in Broward’s doorway within seconds. She matched her polished voice—an older woman, in her sixties, with a blue sweater set, gray wool dress pants, perfectly coiffed silver hair and a string of pearls. She smiled kindly at me and ushered me out of Broward’s office, closing his door softly behind her.
Sheila’s tour of the wing was in-depth and informative. I met over twelve secretaries, six paralegals, and Attorney Liz Renfield. I nodded at the other interns as we passed through their areas, but didn’t have any conversations. I figured out early why Sheila didn’t bring Broward’s coffee. Handing me the petty cash key, she had an extreme shake to her hands. She was a talker, and I learned as much about her as the firm. She had been there twenty-two years, since it was just Clarke Law Firm and they had to occasionally miss a paycheck if it had been a slow month. By the end of the tour I had learned that Liz Renfield and Robert Handler had once shared more than a case, and that recently Chris Hemming, a civil attorney, had been caught embezzling funds and had been fired.
Sheila led me up a vacant and stale stairway leading to the attic file storage, pausing at the top, key pointed toward the lock in her shaky hand. She glanced at me, somewhat casually. “Did Mr. Broward mention anything about Brad De Luca?”
Four
Sheila and I were alone in the attic, a stuffy room with rows and rows of file boxes. At my initial estimate, there seemed to be over twenty rows, each over fifteen boxes deep and eight or nine boxes high on each side. Fluorescent lights above us made it a well-lit but hot area. The lights combined with Sheila’s question made me feel like a prisoner being interrogated. What is everyone’s obsession with this guy?
“Yes, Broward—Mr. Broward—told me that their side of the office operates a little differently than ours, and that I should steer clear of it.” I mumbled the words like a schoolgirl reciting her daily duties.
Sheila’s eyes gleamed with the excitement of gossip, but also with warning. “Mr. Broward was probably too proper to say that Brad is absolutely incorrigible! He stopped being assigned female interns three years ago because he couldn’t keep his hands off them. He’s divorced due to another one of his...relationships, and is never without some young thing on his arm. He’s Italian— You know how those men are.” She pronounced “Italian” as if it was some kind of diseased animal, and waved her hand as if that should explain everything. “Bottom line...” She fixed her steely gaze on me. “You are exactly his type. You need to stay as far away from Brad De Luca as you can get.”
Sheesh. This is what everyone is worried about? That I am about to become one of a senior partner’s latest conquests? First off, I am as sexually unpromiscuous as...probably Sheila! I am a twenty-one-year-old college student who has had a total of two partners. In college terms, I’m practically a saint! Secondly, isn’t De Luca like forty? In his late thirties at least. Who in their right mind would think I would be attracted to someone that old?
I was more than a little offended by the perception of my low standards.
I met Sheila’s eyes firmly and confidently. “Sheila, you have absolutely nothing to worry about. Trust me.”
Her return look was less confident.
Five
A bit awkwardly, we finished the tour, and ten minutes later I was in my car with the windows down and “Whatever” by Hot Chelle Rae blaring. It was hot as hell outside but I didn’t care. I needed wind filling my car and blaring music in order to get my funk to pass. I wanted to make an impression at my internship, but one as an intelligent hardworker, not as the chick that everyone thinks Brad freaking De Luca is going to bang. My head was properly cleared but I was still a little bitchy when I returned to the office, Danko file in hand, along with a still-steaming cup of Starbucks coffee with “light cream and Equal” in it.
I gave the file to Sheila and dropped the coffee off at Broward’s desk. He was on another call and waved distractedly to me. I went into my office and started where I had left off the night before. Within three minutes, my office door banged open and Todd Appleton plopped his body into one of my chairs. Really? Am I going to get any freaking work done today?
I looked up over my file with what I hoped was an “I’m busy, what the hell do you want?” look.
“Yes, Todd?”
“Where have you been all day? We’ve been so busy on the East Wing. This one case, the wife caught her husband doing his boss’s daughter! And then we found out that...” His voice droned on and on and I began focusing on his beautiful features as opposed to his words. I snapped myself out of my mind fart and waved my hand in front of Todd.
“Todd, can’t talk. I’m busy.” I gestured to all the work filling my desk and office.
He glanced around. “I know, but...you’ve been gone all morning.”
“Exactly. Hence my heavy workload. I need to get some stuff done.”
“Oh.” His dejected face reminded me of the time I told the four-year-old I used to babysit that even though he had asked Santa for a real baby alien, it probably wasn’t going to happen.
“Sorry, Todd. I’m just buried right now in superexciting deposition reviews.”
“Sure, no problem. Hey, we missed you last night. You’ll have to come out with us soon.” He grinned that smile at me, scratched the back of his head and then stood up, five-feet-ten inches of classic Abercrombie & Fitch beautiful looks.
I flashed him an apologetic smile and returned to my depositions. It was 11:00 a.m. Only eleven or twelve hours to go.
* * *
My first two weeks passed excruciatingly slowly. Other than learning office politics, I garnered few legal skills besides filing, typing and deposition review, most of which I had mastered already. My only solace was thinking about the upcoming week—when Broward would be in Fort Lauderdale. I had already cornered Sheila to get the scoop on office hours during that time.
“Nine-to-five workdays,” she promised me, an understanding look in her eyes. “This week been rough on you?” Her voice had taken on a motherly concern, and I wanted to hug her for showing some compassion. Everyone else in the wing seemed to work with an unending supply of energy. It wouldn’t have sucked so bad if I hadn’t been hearing about the party life in the East Wing.
The East Wing had their own set of big, dark walnut-and-leather double doors. The only glimpses you got inside came when someone was entering or leaving. It was like a superexclusive club that I couldn’t get into, so my mind created impossibly extravagant fantasies about the world inside. Following closely the instructions—or threats—of Broward, I stayed away from the East Wing and all of its “activities,” but drooled jealously from afar.
Often as I passed their big double doors, I’d hear loud laughter and other sounds coming from inside. On Wednesday, there was some kind of a party. At five-thirty, Smith & Wollensky waiters started unloading trays of lobsters, steaks and carts of large silver dishes from our elevators. They were followed with five cases of chilled champagne and sumptuous dessert trays that made my mouth water. Muted music could be heard from behind their doors, and a thumping bass. The bass only lasted about three minutes before Broward screamed some form of profanity, opened his door and stomped his way over to the East Wing. About a minute later, the music was turned down and our floor stopped systematically vibrating. Sheila leaned backward in her chair until she could see into my office and winked at me.
The East Wing, unless they were partying, never stayed past 6:00 p.m. The North Wing, Clarke’s domain, worked till about eight-thirty most nights. We, the West Wingers, were the night owls. Most Broward paralegals stayed till about 9:30 p.m. I stayed till Broward left, which normally ended up being sometime between ten and eleven. It was better than manual labor, but still mentally exhausting. I went straight home each night, showered, crawled into bed and fell asleep before my head hit the bed. Eat, sleep and work had been the past two weeks of my life. I leaned my head on Sheila’s shoulder and signed dramatically.
“There, there,” she said, patting my shoulder. “I promise you, you’ll get used to it.”
* * *
The first weekend of my internship I had wallowed in bed the entire time, eating Sour Patch Kids and watching Cameron Diaz movies. Seeing as how texts and Facebook posts from my friends had started to drop off, I figured I needed to spend this weekend back in the land of the living. Friday evening, getting home at a remarkably early 8:00 p.m., I returned two weeks’ worth of missed calls. After begging for forgiveness and promising to do better, I cajoled my two closest friends into margaritas and Mexican food at Los Amigos, a run-down college hangout four blocks from my house. My plan was to get sloshed on margaritas, then stumble home—the perfect “college girl gets snatched by a serial killer” scenario, but at twenty-one years old, it sounded like a reasonably good plan.
At 9:30 p.m., dressed in a blue sundress and heels, my hair loose and makeup subdued, I wrestled through the line outside the bar and made my way inside. My skin was paler than usual due to my recent inability to spend any time outside, but I still turned a few heads. I saw Olivia and Becca perched at a high-top in the corner. The bar was filling up, and it took a few minutes of squeezing through people to get over to them.
“Hola!” I said enthusiastically, giving them both hugs before climbing onto one of the stools. They both had ridiculously huge margarita glasses with goofy straws in front of them, and I looked around for the waiter. He came over shortly, took a cursory look at my ID and then disappeared to get us some queso and chips. Becca didn’t wait long to start chewing me out.
“So, seriously,” she snapped, glancing at her imaginary watch, “it’s been almost two weeks since we’ve seen you. Unacceptable!” She slapped her well-manicured open palm on the table to emphasize her point.
“Go easy on her, Becca,” Olivia chided. “She’s working—something you wouldn’t understand!” She shot a playful smile in Becca’s direction.
Olivia was right—working was something Becca would probably never understand. Her wealthy parents and their generous funding pretty much guaranteed Becca an easy ride to whatever wealthy husband she’d eventually marry. With Becca’s perfect body, classic bone structure and disarming personality, she had basically won the genetic lottery.
Olivia was more like me—from working-class parents, barely surviving on student loans and part-time jobs. I was especially tight at the moment, due to my full-time unpaid internship. We were all prelaw students, but I was a semester ahead of them, and therefore the first to undergo the intern experience.
“Really, Jules, how’s it going?” Olivia said.
I shrugged. “So far, it’s a lot of menial work. My boss is okay, just a complete workaholic.”
“Oh, please!” Becca said. “Tell me what he’s really like. Is he Mr. Sexy-Aggressive Attorney, or the nerd you’d like to bang some freakiness into?” She grinned at me across her margarita.
“Uhh...neither. Try happily-married-plus-I-wouldn’t-hook-up-with-someone-at-the-office sexuality. If that even exists.” I smirked at her, taking a big swig of my drink.
Olivia laughed, and Becca’s eyes rolled. She leaned forward and pointed at me. “Don’t give me that high-and-mighty routine. You make it a profession to tease half the men in this town into drooling oblivion, and leave them high and dry. Don’t tell me you would pass up the opportunity to have the upper hand in the office.”
I pasted an offended look on my face. “Why, Becca! I can see why you think it’s easier to ‘actually’ have sex with guys, but I enjoy the chase more than the actual rewards. If I slept with every guy I made out with, can you imagine my reputation? Not to mention I’d be pregnant with six kids!”
Olivia cut in. “Sweetie, you have a reputation anyway—as the biggest tease this side of the interstate. There’s not a guy on campus who doesn’t know your game by now.”
They were right in their harassment. I teased guys all the time—got them worked up to the point of excitement and then stopped the action. My methods may have been frowned upon, but it allowed me to preserve my relative innocence and get a confidence boost at the same time. “I assure you, there are plenty of guys on campus who have yet to find out about my teasing ways. I’m not going to fuck guys just because they’re worked up.”
Becca snagged a chip, dipping it into the cheese, and shrugged at me. “At least suck them off, Jules. Then they’re not left hanging, and you can sorta retain your moral high ground.”
“Becca, then she wouldn’t have the power over them. She wants them to continue wanting her. Wants them to imagine ‘what could have been.’” Olivia nodded knowingly.
“Oh my lord—are we done with my pysch evaluation?” I asked. “Why does it matter that I’m a tease? I don’t see us giving Becca the third degree when she decides to bang half the lacrosse team!”
Becca was in the middle of a strong rebuttal when I felt an arm slip around my shoulders. “Hey, beautiful,” a voice said in my ear. I pulled back and stared into Todd Appleton’s face.
“Todd!” I said, surprised to see him out of the office. I hadn’t seen much of him in the past two weeks since I was banned from entering the East Wing. He had stopped in once or twice, but I’d always been too busy to chat.
“This seat taken?” he asked, gesturing to the empty stool.
“Not at all!” Becca said, smiling brightly. She flipped her brown hair over her shoulder and leaned forward, flashing Todd her best megawatt smile.
I looked to Olivia for approval, and she rolled her eyes good-naturedly and smiled agreeably at me.
Todd introduced himself to my friends, and then slid onto the stool. He motioned for the waiter, and then leaned back, drumming his fingers on the table. Grabbing a handful of chips, he turned to me.
