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Authors: Elyssa Friedland
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from a girl who identified herself as Legal Biznatch.
At least several associates came to her defense. LoonyLawyer wrote, “Evie was always nice to me. She was a pleasure to work with and I’m sad to see her go.” Other commentators added that she was smart and capable and that Baker Smith dumping eighth-year associates was total BS. Then the conversation rerouted, thanks to Legal Eagle NYC’s remark: “Whatever, at least she was a nice piece of ass at the office. Now all we’re left with are the dogs.”
Then came the clincher. The one that hit her like a sucker punch.
“Evie Rosen’s not even that hot. Polly Yang in Bankruptcy is way hotter.” Signed, Juris Dokta.
She was incensed. The Scrabble comment had to come from that third-year associate who was always making disgusting smacking noises with his yogurt. She never should have asked him not to eat in her office. And who the hell was Polly Yang?
Evie cringed thinking about Jack seeing this. It wasn’t that he frequented legal blogs—she knew that—but if he ever looked her up from time to time (and she liked to think he did) this might be the first thing to come up. Negative press always had a way of floating to the top, like oil in a dressing.
She sank back into the chair across from Mitchell’s desk, speechless. He looked at her with what appeared to be genuine empathy before speaking.
“I’m sorry, Evie. We really just had no choice. Our clients actually read these blogs. Our services are expensive, and they want to make sure they are getting their money’s worth. Now more than ever we have to be careful about our image. I’m not even surehow this blog got ahold of our internal partnership memos. Evie—you are a wonderful lawyer. I don’t know if this is really your passion, but you are damn good at it. If the economy wasn’t in the gutter, maybe we could have overcome this little setback,” he said, gesturing once again at the screen. “But with the market conditions as they are, we’re basically looking for any reason to keep new partners to a minimum. I’m not sure if that helps you feel better, but in some ways this decision had more to do with us than you.”
Evie actually laughed. Baker Smith was breaking up with her and giving her the oldest line in the book—it’s not you, it’s me. Pathetic.
“Thank you, Mitchell. For the record, I have never once padded my hours. That was actually me, working all the time, for this place.” She stood up abruptly, offered her hand to him, and turned to leave before he could reply. Her watch read 4:11. Less than an hour until she’d be booted out of the building. In a daze, she made her way back down to her office. Seated in the chair whose vinyl seat had taken the permanent imprint of her butt, she instinctively tried to log into her computer but was denied access. The words INVALID USER burned holes in her retinas. She swiveled around to take one last look at the view from the thirty-ninth floor—the one that used to make her feel triumphant, but now was making her queasy. It was a long way down from here.
Per firm protocol, a uniformed security guard came upstairs to escort her out of the building at five o’clock.
“Ready, miss?” he asked, hulking in the doorway to her office.
“As I’ll ever be,” Evie said, and rose from her chair. She gathered the few personal effects she had on her desk (an immortal orchid; a framed picture of her, Fran, and Bette taken at Thanksgiving a few years ago; a picture of her clad in a bridesmaid dress with her girlfriends at Tracy’s wedding; and an AnselAdams black-and-white print hanging on the wall). She debated leaving the picture of her and Jack in the file cabinet, where it would languish eternally in Records. That was probably where it belonged, but she snatched it up at the last minute and threw it in her tote bag.
The office she left looked more bare than usual, but then again she had never taken the time to properly decorate it
At least several associates came to her defense. LoonyLawyer wrote, “Evie was always nice to me. She was a pleasure to work with and I’m sad to see her go.” Other commentators added that she was smart and capable and that Baker Smith dumping eighth-year associates was total BS. Then the conversation rerouted, thanks to Legal Eagle NYC’s remark: “Whatever, at least she was a nice piece of ass at the office. Now all we’re left with are the dogs.”
Then came the clincher. The one that hit her like a sucker punch.
“Evie Rosen’s not even that hot. Polly Yang in Bankruptcy is way hotter.” Signed, Juris Dokta.
She was incensed. The Scrabble comment had to come from that third-year associate who was always making disgusting smacking noises with his yogurt. She never should have asked him not to eat in her office. And who the hell was Polly Yang?
Evie cringed thinking about Jack seeing this. It wasn’t that he frequented legal blogs—she knew that—but if he ever looked her up from time to time (and she liked to think he did) this might be the first thing to come up. Negative press always had a way of floating to the top, like oil in a dressing.
She sank back into the chair across from Mitchell’s desk, speechless. He looked at her with what appeared to be genuine empathy before speaking.
“I’m sorry, Evie. We really just had no choice. Our clients actually read these blogs. Our services are expensive, and they want to make sure they are getting their money’s worth. Now more than ever we have to be careful about our image. I’m not even surehow this blog got ahold of our internal partnership memos. Evie—you are a wonderful lawyer. I don’t know if this is really your passion, but you are damn good at it. If the economy wasn’t in the gutter, maybe we could have overcome this little setback,” he said, gesturing once again at the screen. “But with the market conditions as they are, we’re basically looking for any reason to keep new partners to a minimum. I’m not sure if that helps you feel better, but in some ways this decision had more to do with us than you.”
Evie actually laughed. Baker Smith was breaking up with her and giving her the oldest line in the book—it’s not you, it’s me. Pathetic.
“Thank you, Mitchell. For the record, I have never once padded my hours. That was actually me, working all the time, for this place.” She stood up abruptly, offered her hand to him, and turned to leave before he could reply. Her watch read 4:11. Less than an hour until she’d be booted out of the building. In a daze, she made her way back down to her office. Seated in the chair whose vinyl seat had taken the permanent imprint of her butt, she instinctively tried to log into her computer but was denied access. The words INVALID USER burned holes in her retinas. She swiveled around to take one last look at the view from the thirty-ninth floor—the one that used to make her feel triumphant, but now was making her queasy. It was a long way down from here.
Per firm protocol, a uniformed security guard came upstairs to escort her out of the building at five o’clock.
“Ready, miss?” he asked, hulking in the doorway to her office.
“As I’ll ever be,” Evie said, and rose from her chair. She gathered the few personal effects she had on her desk (an immortal orchid; a framed picture of her, Fran, and Bette taken at Thanksgiving a few years ago; a picture of her clad in a bridesmaid dress with her girlfriends at Tracy’s wedding; and an AnselAdams black-and-white print hanging on the wall). She debated leaving the picture of her and Jack in the file cabinet, where it would languish eternally in Records. That was probably where it belonged, but she snatched it up at the last minute and threw it in her tote bag.
The office she left looked more bare than usual, but then again she had never taken the time to properly decorate it
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