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Authors: Tara Conklin
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accounts of the lawyers for whom they worked and there seemed to exist an unwritten code of information sharing among them: any noteworthy matter, personal or professional, was dispersed cubicle to cubicle, floor to floor with the speed of an airborne tropical virus. The ethics of this were straightforward and unassailable: any lawyer fool enough to conduct their personal life via a work e-mail account deserved to have their secrets revealed to the Clifton & Harp populace.
Lina gave her stock gossip-response smile of part shock, part disapproval, part delight. “Wow, that was fast!”
“I know . Not even six months.” Sherri’s eyes widened.
Lina waited. “And the second? You said there were two things?”
“Oh, yeah.” Gleeful Sherri vanished. With great care, she picked with a fingernail at a front incisor. “Dan phoned. You’re meeting with Mr. Dresser tomorrow morning. Conference room … oh, which one was it? I can’t remember. Call facilities and they’ll have the booking.” Sherri turned back to her newspaper; her brow furrowed immediately with grave concentration.
As always, Lina felt powerless in the face of Sherri’s secretarial indifference. She had tried, how Lina had tried! Movie tickets, thank-you e-mails studded with exclamation points, vanilla lattes delivered to Sherri’s desk. But all Lina’s efforts were met with the same emotionless smirk and an apathy so clear it seemed manufactured from glass.
For a moment Lina lingered, and then, inspired by the amiable Garrison Hall, resolved to try a new strategy. Lina would invite Sherri to lunch. A conversation, a shared meal, and afterward their relationship would blossom and Sherri would never again shunt Lina’s phone calls to voice mail, or miss the FedEx deadline, or forget a conference room number. But before Lina could speak, a red light blinked on Sherri’s phone and she answered the call. “Meredith Stewart’s office,” she said with authority, and began writing a lengthy telephone message in looping longhand.
Lina retreated slowly to her office. She picked up her phone, called facilities, and got the conference room number for tomorrow’s meeting. Room 2005, twentieth floor. Eight A.M . Breakfast not provided.
F RIDAY
Three heads turned toward Lina as she opened the meeting room door. She was five minutes early and yet, apparently, the last to arrive. It was raining and she had not stopped at her office to unload her coat and bag and now, standing in the doorway, struggling out of her wet yellow slicker, she wished she had. The men watched her for a moment, then swiveled away and resumed talking.
Dan, Garrison, and, she presumed, Mr. Dresser sat at a small circular table with various firm paraphernalia arranged as a neat centerpiece. A coffee mug held a collection of pens and pencils, and beside the mug rested a stiff-billed baseball cap—all items emblazoned with the Clifton & Harp logo. A fourth person, a young blond man, blue-suited and glossy, sat off to one side with paper and a pen poised above it. Dresser’s assistant, of course; men like Ron Dresser never came to meetings alone.
Small talk, Lina could tell. Dan speaking too loudly, Garrison murmuring in low pleasant-sounding notes. Mr. Dresser angled his head slightly at their efforts, the gesture of a man accustomed to being the subject of the desperate attention of others. All superfluous, his angled head seemed to say, Mr. Dresser was at ease. He wore a dark gray suit, a purple tie that glowed regally, shiny black leather shoes. His skin was coffee colored, coffee with much cream, and it was clear, even sitting down, that Dresser was large, not fat but rather monumental in length and width. His chair seemed barely able to contain him. Beside Dresser, Dan and Garrison looked like mini-men.
Lina slid into the only empty chair at the table. Mr. Dresser was the first to acknowledge her. “You must be …” and he looked down at a paper in front of him.
“Lina.
Lina gave her stock gossip-response smile of part shock, part disapproval, part delight. “Wow, that was fast!”
“I know . Not even six months.” Sherri’s eyes widened.
Lina waited. “And the second? You said there were two things?”
“Oh, yeah.” Gleeful Sherri vanished. With great care, she picked with a fingernail at a front incisor. “Dan phoned. You’re meeting with Mr. Dresser tomorrow morning. Conference room … oh, which one was it? I can’t remember. Call facilities and they’ll have the booking.” Sherri turned back to her newspaper; her brow furrowed immediately with grave concentration.
As always, Lina felt powerless in the face of Sherri’s secretarial indifference. She had tried, how Lina had tried! Movie tickets, thank-you e-mails studded with exclamation points, vanilla lattes delivered to Sherri’s desk. But all Lina’s efforts were met with the same emotionless smirk and an apathy so clear it seemed manufactured from glass.
For a moment Lina lingered, and then, inspired by the amiable Garrison Hall, resolved to try a new strategy. Lina would invite Sherri to lunch. A conversation, a shared meal, and afterward their relationship would blossom and Sherri would never again shunt Lina’s phone calls to voice mail, or miss the FedEx deadline, or forget a conference room number. But before Lina could speak, a red light blinked on Sherri’s phone and she answered the call. “Meredith Stewart’s office,” she said with authority, and began writing a lengthy telephone message in looping longhand.
Lina retreated slowly to her office. She picked up her phone, called facilities, and got the conference room number for tomorrow’s meeting. Room 2005, twentieth floor. Eight A.M . Breakfast not provided.
F RIDAY
Three heads turned toward Lina as she opened the meeting room door. She was five minutes early and yet, apparently, the last to arrive. It was raining and she had not stopped at her office to unload her coat and bag and now, standing in the doorway, struggling out of her wet yellow slicker, she wished she had. The men watched her for a moment, then swiveled away and resumed talking.
Dan, Garrison, and, she presumed, Mr. Dresser sat at a small circular table with various firm paraphernalia arranged as a neat centerpiece. A coffee mug held a collection of pens and pencils, and beside the mug rested a stiff-billed baseball cap—all items emblazoned with the Clifton & Harp logo. A fourth person, a young blond man, blue-suited and glossy, sat off to one side with paper and a pen poised above it. Dresser’s assistant, of course; men like Ron Dresser never came to meetings alone.
Small talk, Lina could tell. Dan speaking too loudly, Garrison murmuring in low pleasant-sounding notes. Mr. Dresser angled his head slightly at their efforts, the gesture of a man accustomed to being the subject of the desperate attention of others. All superfluous, his angled head seemed to say, Mr. Dresser was at ease. He wore a dark gray suit, a purple tie that glowed regally, shiny black leather shoes. His skin was coffee colored, coffee with much cream, and it was clear, even sitting down, that Dresser was large, not fat but rather monumental in length and width. His chair seemed barely able to contain him. Beside Dresser, Dan and Garrison looked like mini-men.
Lina slid into the only empty chair at the table. Mr. Dresser was the first to acknowledge her. “You must be …” and he looked down at a paper in front of him.
“Lina.
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