Lawfully Yours (3 page)

CHAPTER 4

Getting into the building at exactly 8:00 a.m. is easy. All it requires is leaving an hour early and then killing time at the McDonald’s down the street. The building opens and I hustle upstairs as fast as a racehorse on steroids. I even beat the receptionist in (impossible, if someone hadn’t left the firm’s door open). Panting up to the office, I notice it looks exactly as before, no staff people anywhere.

When I see Jordan, his expression is so sour I’m sure he wants to be left alone. Good. The less time I spend looking at this handsome man the better. Otherwise I may start to get some really bad ideas. But damn, did he get even better looking? Today his shirt is the same bright blue as his eyes. Instead of sparkling, however, his eyes are scrunched up in a scowl. I get the feeling there’s a lot on his plate, which is soon to be on my plate. Time to get my head in the game. I’ve got to make sure I can keep up with what he throws at me.

He barely lets me step into his office before he launches into business. “The phone call I took during your interview was from one of my most important clients,” he says, words rat-tat-tatting out like bullets from a machine gun. Geez, good morning to you, too. “That client gave us your first assignment. Go to Canton Town Hall and get the following . . .” He spouts off a list that must be two legal pages long.

At first, I try to simply memorize the names of all the documents he wants me to get. Realizing that isn’t feasible, I hold up my hand to stop him.

“You’re giving me the hand already?”

At least it isn’t the finger.

I can’t tell if he’s joking or incredulous at my bad manners. I hurry to smooth things over. “No, of course not!” I choke out. “I’m sorry for interrupting you, but I’ve got to write all of this down.” It’s going to be hard to do with sweaty hands. If the pen doesn’t slide right out of my grip, the ink will run so badly it will form bright blue pools on the yellow paper.

“Quickly, then,” he orders.

I spring up so fast I almost tip my chair backward. I grab a legal pad off his secretary’s desk. Hurrying back, I ask him to repeat everything so I can write it down. When my list is complete I get up to leave. Then I hesitate. “Thank you again for this opportunity,” I say, standing halfway over his threshold. “I’m sure I’ll enjoy the experience, and that I’ll learn a lot.”

“More importantly, I hope I enjoy the experience,” he says, no longer looking at me but at his e-mail.

Not knowing how to respond, I leave his office to go to the well-off suburb of Canton.

My travels to Canton keep me away from the firm all day, every day, well into the week. I arrive at the office every morning at 8:00 a.m. sharp to get my assignment from Jordan. My town hall searches start as soon as the buildings open to the public. At around 6:00 p.m., I travel back to the firm to drop off the documents I’ve gathered. I hand over copies of wetland maps, zoning maps, and land descriptions depicting boundary lines. I also give him my notes from conversations with all the clerks, such as Zoning, Building, Town Clerk, and Public Works. Patiently I wait to hear feedback, but none comes. The following days bring more of the same—a long list of things for me to get from the town hall with no input, commentary, suggestions, compliments, or criticisms. Nada. He’s obviously too busy to speak with me, always holed up in his office, or as I imagine, out having long, expensive lunches with clients.

As a result of my schedule, I still haven’t met any of Jordan’s staff. In fact, his office wing seems more like a ghost town than a place of business. A lone lipstick stained coffee mug on an otherwise immaculate desk is the only proof of one staff member’s existence. Bev the paralegal must sit here. The secretary’s desk on the other hand has a tumbleweed blowing across it—a wasteland.

How about my own desk? Am I ever going to get one? Or am I ostracized, stuck at town halls forever? Too afraid of the answer to ask, I keep my coat and purse in my car to avoid having to inquire where I should put them. I hate the freezing walk from the parking garage to the building’s lobby having only my suit jacket to warm me. The walk takes less than two minutes, but I always shudder with relief when the building’s automatic doors glide open and I feel the vents’ blast of heat.

Thursday morning I finally decide to not the leave the office until after 9:00 a.m. so I can introduce myself to the staff. I greet Bev first. She’s a bleached blonde in her fifties with pearlescent pink lipstick. “I heard a new paralegal started,” she says, tightly pressing her lips together. “I have priority on choosing assignments.”

“Not a problem because I’m a lawyer. Whoever told you I was a paralegal gave you bad information.” Yep, receptionist Barbie gave Bev the head’s up. Bev looks like she has plenty of questions to ask, but isn’t sure if she should. I’m not going to encourage her. Smiling as warmly as possible, I walk away.

As for Jordan’s secretary, her appearance is super-perfect. There’s not a wrinkle or stain in sight. No smudges from her mascara; her makeup is flawless. The blouse she has on is light-colored and very sheer, almost translucent. The look is consistent with her name. Amber. I’m more opaque. If my name were equally accurate, “Susan” would mean “bland suits and no lipstick.”

Maybe I should try to be more like Amber. But my past attempts at wearing makeup did not go over well. Apparently, my applications were heavy-handed, although I have no clue how to improve. I have no more confidence using cosmetics than I do suit shopping—what I think looks okay obviously isn’t. I’ll have to muster up a lot of courage before I try either again.

Thankfully, it’s Friday evening and well past quitting time. The wing is deserted once again. Even Jordan has closed up. I notice an envelope posted to his door that looks like it has my name scrawled on it. Walking over to it, I see it clearly states Sue. I take it down and peer inside at my first paycheck. Sitting down at Bev’s desk I stroke the heavy paper affectionately. It’s for $1,500.00, after taxes, social security, and everything else was deducted. I note that they even deducted for medical insurance.

I’m finally getting a lot of money. Double bonus points if I ever find some friendly people here. Despite the gazillions working at the firm, meeting others has not been easy. I haven’t even been in the office enough to meet H.R. Amber left some forms for me to fill out, and that was it.

Well, for this kind of money, I don’t want to ask too many questions. Who needs work buddies when I’ve got cash?

It’s my second workweek. I think I’ll try to stop feeling so on-edge when I’m around Jordan and loosen up a little. I’ve got to get over both obstacles—his perfect looks and less than perfect personality. Focusing on either won’t help me succeed.

The opportunity to politely chat with him quickly arises. “Did you get your check on Friday?” he asks with a small, but seemingly sincere, smile. “I heard it was left for you outside my door.”

“Yes, thanks. I hope you think I’ve earned it. Were you happy with my work?”

“I’ll let you know when I’m not.”

“Then I kind of hope I don’t hear from you.” I smile back. I’m funny. He should laugh. He obviously doesn’t agree, he drops his smile and quietly walks off.

The weeks pass. Beyond my excitement about Fridays (when I get my checks), things are busy but stagnant, bordering on the uneventful. I don’t hear from Jordan directly anymore. He reads my to-do list into a Dictaphone and has Amber type it. This methodology is cold and impersonal, but efficient. I don’t have to worry about copying something down wrong. It also spares me a repeat of my last job where I was constantly berated by the partners. Here I don’t have to worry about partner interaction because there is no interaction, which is fine by me. It just reinforces my longevity at Grovas & Cleval.

Soon, the job changes.

“How’s it been going here?” Jordan asks. His voice is neutral, giving no tip-off as to where this conversation will lead.

A super-charged question. Fabulous. “Fine,” I mumble. I regret saying this as soon as it comes out of my mouth. He looks at me, single eyebrow arched. I clear my throat. “It’s been a fine experience, sir. Thank you.”

“Yes, well, time for you to grow again. There’s a massive amount of work to be done and minimal time to do it. My development deal is on the Town of Canton’s next Planning and Zoning Board agenda, four weeks from now. Cancel any weekend plans you may have.”

“Okay.”

“Excellent. Be here tomorrow at 9:00 a.m. On second thought, no, I don’t want to burn you out too quickly—9:30 will be fine. See you then.” He goes back to his office.

I’m on time on Saturday morning. I think getting into the building and the firm will be difficult on a non-business day, but I’m wrong. Both the building and the firm are teeming with people. The only difference is their attire. People wear casual clothes in a feeble attempt to enjoy the weekend.

I’m at Jordan’s office. He isn’t here.

Waiting . . .

10:00 a.m.

10:35 a.m.

Continuing to wait.

Needing to kill time.

Needing to kill him.

I don’t have a computer password yet to log onto the firm’s computers, so I can’t even play with the Internet. Mental note: spring for a smart phone, cost of a data plan be damned. Scouring the wing for a newspaper, I find one two days old. At least it’s something to read. I plow through it.

Waiting . . .

Mom, I’m telling you, the murder wasn’t my fault! Anybody would have done the same.

11:00 a.m.

A murder-suicide—I died of boredom.

Still no sign of Jordan.

Am I supposed to keep waiting for him, no matter how long he takes? What an ass. Wait—which one of us is the ass? Him for making me wait, or me for actually doing it?

Maybe he forgot? Does he consider my time cheap? I’m getting myself into a real snit. Isn’t he supposed to work me to death, not wait me to death? I start wondering if all lawyers (with the exception of myself) are asses, or if I’ve just wound up working for the few that are. If the former were true, switching to another firm would just mean swapping asses.

I don’t fully finish contemplating this line of thought, however, because Jordan finally walks in. I glance down at my watch. 11:22 a.m. Almost two whole hours have gone by. I don’t know how he’ll regard my waiting so long—whether I’m dedicated, or desperate.

“Sorry,” he says. He doesn’t look sorry. He looks annoyingly confident for someone who has left me rotting away. “I mentioned I’m divorced, right? Today is usually my day with Marty, but since my day will be swallowed up with work, I thought I’d take her out for breakfast. Now that I’m here, let’s get to work.”

I somehow manage to stifle the sound of my brain’s explosion upon hearing his explanation. It’s okay with me if he wanted to take his daughter out to breakfast on the only day he has her, but why wouldn’t he tell me this beforehand so I didn’t have to wait around?

You can do this, Sue. Time will fly by, you’ll see. After all, how bad can this job be?

Apparently the answer is “pretty bad,” because the work piles on. I have never done in-office work for him before, and my confidence level isn’t great. The work he gives me seems bizarre. I’m to calculate and draw in setback lines on a site plan. I’m to highlight and mark water elevations. I’m to mark off building footprints. I have no idea why he’s having me do all of this. I inquired, but got no response. And no input as to whether I’m doing any of it right.

The tasks keep coming, each one a little stranger. He hands me a video camera, telling me to drive to the planned development site and, while driving, videotape the street. “Sorry,” he says, handing me a heavier, fatter, video camera than the ones I’ve seen. “This camcorder is a little older. It’s best to videotape while holding it with two hands, if you can.”

I know the area. It has a two lane, uphill, curving road that would surround the proposed planned community.

“I’m supposed to drive on the road while videotaping the road?”

“Yes.”

“Simultaneously? How exactly would I be able to do that?”

“Quickly, I hope. We need this immediately.”

“Uh, okay.” Great. I can now be pulled over by a cop for DWV. For someone who makes a lot of money and has a corner office, Jordan Grant isn’t all that smart. Does he not understand that it would defy science for me to have two hands on the wheel and two hands on the video camera? Or perhaps he doesn’t think I need to hold either machine steady.

I ponder the possibilities as I walk to the parking garage. My car could get hit head-on while veering into the opposite lane of traffic while I focus on movie making. The next cop I will encounter (after the one who gives me the ticket for DWV) will be the one who tries to identify my body. In the forensics investigation that follows, they’ll view the little part of my journey I was able to tape. Unfortunately, since I had not been able to hold the camera steady in my attempt to simultaneously hold the steering wheel, they will see only blur and not much else. But maybe that blur will help the police anyway. They’ll be able to link Jordan Grant to my death and hold him accountable for this obviously undoable and dangerous assignment. They’ll demand to speak to him, “Why did you make her do this death trap assignment? Don’t you have a conscience?” But Jordan Grant will never answer these questions. He’ll keep the cops waiting two hours past his scheduled interview because he’ll decide to have a last minute meal with Marty.

The police, instead of being enraged at being blown off, will just lose interest in the whole matter. Soon I will be a distant memory—the gal who was somehow slightly connected to Grovas & Cleval, who paid the ultimate price for not being able to do her job right.