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Authors: Randy Singer
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anything.”
Olivia stepped out, and Jason took the opportunity to glance around. His other visits to this office had been part of quick meetings with Mr. Sherwood and other attorneys—never alone like this. Though he worked hard not to be impressed by the trappings of success, the view out the bank of windows on the west wall was breathtaking even on a rainy day. The Statue of Liberty, the green trees on Ellis Island, a few boats navigating the choppy water of the Hudson River—it was all a little overwhelming for a cop’s kid from Alpharetta, Georgia.
But the view was not the most talked about aspect of Sherwood’s corner office. That honor fell to a mundane navy blue leather chair positioned just in front of Sherwood’s desk. The faded leather was cracked, and the wooden armrests were stained dark on the ends—the result, Jason suspected, of years of accumulated palm sweat. The old chair looked almost comically out of place amid the other expensive office furniture; the navy blue color didn’t even match the rich brown decor of the other furnishings.
But the blue chair had been known to strike terror into the hearts of even the most intrepid young associates. The Justice Inc. rumor mill said that the blue chair was only used for tongue-lashings and firings and similarly unpleasant events. When Mr. Sherwood asked you to have a seat in the blue chair, you’d better have your résumé updated.
When Sherwood entered the room, Jason was rubbing the small brass knobs on the top of the backrest, wondering how many lives had been changed in that chair.
“Thanks for coming,” Sherwood boomed, causing Jason to start. Sherwood walked over and shook Jason’s hand with a grip you might expect from a football coach. The man was old school—white shirt, red tie, black wing-tip loafers. He patted Jason on the shoulder. “Have a seat.”
Jason took a breath and slid reluctantly into the blue chair. Without speaking, Sherwood walked around his desk and sat in his own desk chair. Jason slouched down just a little and crossed his legs by resting his left ankle on his right knee. He wasn’t intimidated… much.
Before Sherwood started speaking, Olivia poked her head back in the office. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but it’s Mr. McDermont, and he’s insisting on speaking with you.”
Sherwood looked annoyed. “I’ve already talked with him twice. Tell him I’ll call back later.”
Olivia’s face fell, as if she knew McDermont would take it out on her. “I’ll let him know,” she said.
As soon as Olivia disappeared and closed the door, Sherwood pushed his chair back and stood, grabbing a sealed envelope as he did so. “They say you should never have a desk between yourself and someone you’re talking with. Creates a barrier or some such nonsense.” He walked out from behind his desk and motioned to a small round table. “Let’s move over here.”
Jason smiled to himself—a student of head games, he was watching a master. He joined Sherwood at the conference table that overlooked the river, suddenly feeling a little more confident after being liberated from the blue chair.
“Did Olivia offer you something to drink?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“You tried a heckuva case in Los Angeles,” Sherwood said.
“Thanks.” Jason felt a small burst of pride—after all, this was the head honcho. But he also noticed that the envelope Sherwood absentmindedly tapped on the table had Jason’s name on it.
“Too bad the real prosecutors didn’t use your playbook.”
Jason thought about his “playbook,” including the hair dye stunt. He had used another product after the trial to regain his natural brown hue. “They played it safe. Prosecutors always play it safe.”
Sherwood frowned at the thought and nodded. “You know what makes our system
Olivia stepped out, and Jason took the opportunity to glance around. His other visits to this office had been part of quick meetings with Mr. Sherwood and other attorneys—never alone like this. Though he worked hard not to be impressed by the trappings of success, the view out the bank of windows on the west wall was breathtaking even on a rainy day. The Statue of Liberty, the green trees on Ellis Island, a few boats navigating the choppy water of the Hudson River—it was all a little overwhelming for a cop’s kid from Alpharetta, Georgia.
But the view was not the most talked about aspect of Sherwood’s corner office. That honor fell to a mundane navy blue leather chair positioned just in front of Sherwood’s desk. The faded leather was cracked, and the wooden armrests were stained dark on the ends—the result, Jason suspected, of years of accumulated palm sweat. The old chair looked almost comically out of place amid the other expensive office furniture; the navy blue color didn’t even match the rich brown decor of the other furnishings.
But the blue chair had been known to strike terror into the hearts of even the most intrepid young associates. The Justice Inc. rumor mill said that the blue chair was only used for tongue-lashings and firings and similarly unpleasant events. When Mr. Sherwood asked you to have a seat in the blue chair, you’d better have your résumé updated.
When Sherwood entered the room, Jason was rubbing the small brass knobs on the top of the backrest, wondering how many lives had been changed in that chair.
“Thanks for coming,” Sherwood boomed, causing Jason to start. Sherwood walked over and shook Jason’s hand with a grip you might expect from a football coach. The man was old school—white shirt, red tie, black wing-tip loafers. He patted Jason on the shoulder. “Have a seat.”
Jason took a breath and slid reluctantly into the blue chair. Without speaking, Sherwood walked around his desk and sat in his own desk chair. Jason slouched down just a little and crossed his legs by resting his left ankle on his right knee. He wasn’t intimidated… much.
Before Sherwood started speaking, Olivia poked her head back in the office. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but it’s Mr. McDermont, and he’s insisting on speaking with you.”
Sherwood looked annoyed. “I’ve already talked with him twice. Tell him I’ll call back later.”
Olivia’s face fell, as if she knew McDermont would take it out on her. “I’ll let him know,” she said.
As soon as Olivia disappeared and closed the door, Sherwood pushed his chair back and stood, grabbing a sealed envelope as he did so. “They say you should never have a desk between yourself and someone you’re talking with. Creates a barrier or some such nonsense.” He walked out from behind his desk and motioned to a small round table. “Let’s move over here.”
Jason smiled to himself—a student of head games, he was watching a master. He joined Sherwood at the conference table that overlooked the river, suddenly feeling a little more confident after being liberated from the blue chair.
“Did Olivia offer you something to drink?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“You tried a heckuva case in Los Angeles,” Sherwood said.
“Thanks.” Jason felt a small burst of pride—after all, this was the head honcho. But he also noticed that the envelope Sherwood absentmindedly tapped on the table had Jason’s name on it.
“Too bad the real prosecutors didn’t use your playbook.”
Jason thought about his “playbook,” including the hair dye stunt. He had used another product after the trial to regain his natural brown hue. “They played it safe. Prosecutors always play it safe.”
Sherwood frowned at the thought and nodded. “You know what makes our system
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