The Associate

His appointment at noon Friday with Doug Peckham was described as a working lunch to review some discovery, but when Kyle arrived ten minutes early, the partner said, "Let's celebrate." They left the building and crawled into the back of a Lincoln sedan, one of the innumerable "black cars" that roam the city and keep the professionals out of the yellow cabs. The firm had a fleet of black cars on call.

"Been to Eleven Madison Park?" Doug asked.

"No. I don't get out much these days, Doug, because I'm a first-year associate and I'm either usually too tired to eat, or I don't have time, or I simply forget."

"Whining, are we?"

"Of course not."

"Congrats on passing the bar."

"Thank you."

"You'll like this place. Great food, beautiful dining room. Let's have a long lunch, with some wine. I know just the client we can stick it to."

Kyle nodded. Two months in, and he was still uncomfortable with the notion of sticking it to clients. Padding the file. Overbilling. Racking up expenses. He wanted to ask what, exactly, the client was about to get stuck for. Just the lunch, which was a certainty, or would the client also get billed for two hours of his time and two hours of Peckham's? But he didn't ask.

The restaurant was in the lobby of the old Metropolitan Life Building, with views of Madison Square Park. The decor was contemporary, with high ceilings and wide windows. Doug, of course, claimed to know the chef and the mattre d' and the sommelier, and Kyle was not surprised when they were seated at a choice table looking at the park.

"Let's get your evaluation out of the way," Doug said, snapping a bread stick and sending crumbs across the pristine white tablecloth.

"Evaluation?"

"Yes, it's my job as your supervising partner to evaluate you after the bar results. Obviously, if you'd flunked, we wouldn't be here, and I wouldn't have nice things to say. We'd probably be stopping by one of those carts pushed by a street vendor, selecting a greasy kielbasa, taking a walk, and having a bad conversation. But you passed, so I'm going to be nice."

"Thank you."

The waiter presented menus while the water was poured. Doug chomped on a bread stick, more crumbs flying across the table. "Your billing is above average; in fact, it's very impressive."

"Thanks." No surprise that any evaluation at Scully & Pershing would begin with how much money one was raking in.

"I've had nothing but positive comments from other partners and senior associates."

"Drinks? Something to start with?" the waiter asked.

"We'll order some wine with lunch," Doug said, almost rudely, and the waiter disappeared.

"At times, though, you seem to lack commitment, as if you're not fully on board. Fair?"

Kyle shook his head and thought about a response. Doug was a no-nonsense type, so why not level with him? "I live, eat, and sleep at the firm, like every other first-year associate, because that's the business model some guy came up with years ago. The same way medical residents go twenty hours a day to prove their mettle. Thank God we're not treating sick people. I don't know what else I can do to prove my commitment."

"Good point," Doug said, suddenly much more concerned with the menu. The waiter hovered, waiting.

"You ready?" Doug said. "I'm starving."

Kyle had yet to look at the menu and was still stinging from the criticism of his commitment. "Sure," he said. Everything looked delicious. They ordered, the waiter approved, and the sommelier appeared. At some point during the serious wine discussion that followed, Doug mentioned a "first bottle" and a "second bottle."

The first was a white burgundy. "You'll love it," Doug said. "One of my favorites."

"I'm sure."

"Any problems, complaints?" Doug asked, as if he were clicking off the items on the evaluation checklist.

With perfect timing, Kyle's FirmFone vibrated. "Funny you should mention it," he said as he pulled it from his coat pocket and looked at the e-mail. "It's Karleen Sanborn, looking for a few hours of light lifting in the Placid Mortgage mess. What shall I tell her?"

"You're having lunch with me."

Kyle typed the e-mail, sent it, then asked, "Can I turn this off?"

"Of course." The wine was being presented. Doug sampled it and rolled his eyes, and two glasses were poured.

Kyle pressed on. "My complaint is this damned phone. It has become my life.

When you were an associate fifteen years ago, they didn't have cell phones and smartphones and FirmFones, and so - "

"We worked just as hard," Doug interrupted with a wave of dismissal. Stop complaining. Get tough. With his other hand he was raising his wineglass to inspect its contents. He finally took a sip, then nodded his approval.

"Well, my complaint is this phone."

"Okay, anything else?" Another check mark in another box.

"No, just the usual complaints of associate abuse. You've heard them before, and you don't want to hear them now."

"You're right, Kyle, I don't want to hear it. Look, as partners we know what's going on. We're not oblivious. We survived it, and now we reap the rewards. It's a bad business model because everybody's miserable. You think I want to push myself out of bed at five every morning so I can spend twelve crazy hours at the office so, at the end of the year, we can divide the spoils and be at the top of the rankings? Last year APE's partners averaged $1.4 million. We were at $1.3 million, and everybody panicked. We gotta cut costs! We gotta bill more! We gotta hire more associates and grind them into the concrete because we're the biggest! It's crazy. No one ever stops and says, "Hey, you know, I can live on a million bucks a year and spend more time with my kids, or more time at the beach." No sir. We gotta be No. 1."

"I'll take a million bucks a year."

"You'll get there. Evaluation's over."

"One quick question."

"Shoot."

"There's a cute first-year associate, and I'm growing rather fond of her. How big a deal is it?"

"Strict prohibition. How cute?"

"Getting cuter by the day."

"Name?"

"Sorry."

"You gonna do it at the office?"

"Haven't got that far yet. There are plenty of sleeping bags."

Doug took a breath and leaned forward on his elbows. "There's a lot of sex around the place. Come on, it's an office. You put five thousand men and women together and it happens. The unwritten rule is this: Don't screw around with the employees. Secretaries, paralegals, support staff, clerks, those who are considered somewhat below us. We call them the nonlawyers. As for your fellow associates, or partners for that matter, no one really cares as long as you don't get caught."

"I've heard some great stories."

"They're probably true. Careers have been ruined. Last year two partners, both married to other people, started a hot affair, got caught, and were kicked out. They're still looking for jobs."

"But for two unmarried associates, come on."

"Just don't get caught."

The first courses arrived and sex was forgotten. Kyle had a leek and cheese tart. Doug went a bit heavier with a salad of Maine lobster with fennel and black trumpet mushrooms. Kyle drank less wine and more water. Doug was determined to polish off the first bottle and get to the second.

"A bit of a shake-up is coming down," Doug said between bites. "I'm sure you've heard."

Kyle nodded with a mouth full.

"It's probably going to happen. Five of our litigation partners are leaving with a bunch of associates and several clients. The mutiny is being led by Toby Roland, and it's not pretty."

"How many associates?" Kyle asked.

"Twenty-six as of this morning. It's a free-for-all. They're waving money and twisting arms and no one knows how many will eventually leave, but it will knock a hole in litigation. We'll survive."

"How do we fill the gap?"

"We'll probably raid another firm. They didn't teach you this in law school?"

They both laughed and returned to their food for a moment.

"Will this increase the workload for those left behind?" Kyle asked between bites.

Doug shrugged as if to say yes. "Maybe. It's too early to tell. They're taking some big clients with some big lawsuits. In fact, that's why they're leaving."

"Is Trylon leaving or staying?"

"Trylon is an old client, and it's firmly within the protective custody of Mr. Wilson Rush. What do you know about Trylon?" Doug was eyeing him closely, as if they were moving into territory that was off-limits.

"Just what I've read in the newspapers and magazines. You ever worked for them?"

"Sure, several times."

Kyle decided to push on, just a little. A waiter removed their plates. Another poured more wine.

"What's this Bartin dispute all about? The Journal said the court file is locked away because the issues are so sensitive."

"Military secrets. Huge sums of money involved. The Pentagon is all over it. They tried like hell to stop the companies from fighting, but it blew up anyway. There's a lot of technology involved, not to mention a few hundred billion dollars."

"Are you working on it?"

"No. I passed. There's quite a team, though."

Fresh bread arrived to cleanse the palate. The first bottle was empty, and Doug ordered a second. Kyle was carefully pacing himself.

"The partners and associates who are leaving," Kyle said, "how many are working on the Bartin lawsuit?"

"I don't know. Why are you so interested?"

"Because I don't want to work on it."

"Why not?"

"Because I think Trylon is a rogue defense contractor with a rotten history of making cheap products, screwing the government and the taxpayers, dumping dirty weapons around the world, killing innocent people, promoting war, and propping up nasty little dictators, all in an effort to increase the bottom line and have something to show the shareholders."

"Anything else?"

"Lots."

"You don't like Trylon?"

"No."

"The company is an extremely valuable client."

"Good. Let someone else work for them."

"Associates are not allowed to choose who they work for."

"I know. I'm just sharing my opinion."

"Well, keep it to yourself, okay. That kind of language will get you a lousy reputation."

"Don't worry. I'll do the work that's assigned to me. But as a favor, as my supervising partner, I'm asking that you keep me busy elsewhere."

"I'll see what I can do, but Mr. Rush makes the final decisions."

The second wine was a pinot noir from South Africa, and it, too, caused Doug's eyes to roll around. Their entrees  -  braised pork shoulder and aged prime rib of beef  -  were not far behind, and they got serious about eating.

"You know your rate now goes to four hundred an hour," Doug said, chewing.

"Are you still at eight hundred?"

"Yes."

Kyle was not sure he had the spine to bill a client, regardless of how large the corporation might be, $400 for an hour of his inexperienced legal work. Not that he had a choice.

"On the subject of billing," Doug said. "For the month of October, I need you to estimate my hours on the Ontario Bank case. I got busy and lost track."

Kyle managed to keep chewing a small bite of braised pork, but he almost choked. Did he say "Estimate my hours"? He certainly did, and this was something new. There had been nothing at orientation, nothing in the handbook, nothing anywhere about "estimating" hours. Just the opposite. They had been trained to treat billing as the most important aspect of their practice. Pick up a file, look at the clock. Make a phone call, record the time. Sit through a meeting, count the minutes. Every hour had to be accounted for, and the billing was done on the spot. It was never to be delayed, and it had to be precise.

"How does one estimate hours?" Kyle asked carefully.

"Look at the file. Check the hours you billed on it. Look at my work, then estimate my time for the month of October. It's no big deal."

At $800 an hour it was indeed a big deal.

"And don't underestimate," Doug said, swirling his wine in the goblet.

Of course not. If we're going to guess here, let's be damned sure we land on the high side. "Is this a common practice?" Kyle asked.

Doug snorted in disbelief and swallowed a hunk of beef. Don't be stupid, boy. It happens all the time. "And since we're now talking about Ontario Bank," he said, meat visible between his teeth, "bill 'em for this lunch."

"I was planning on getting the check," Kyle said, a lame effort at humor.

"Of course not. I'll put it on a credit card and bill the bank. I'm talking about our time. Two hours for you, now at four hundred, and two for me. The bank had record earnings last year."

That was nice to hear. They would need healthy earnings to continue their relationship with Scully & Pershing. Twenty-four hundred dollars for lunch, and that did not include food, wine, or tip.

"And now that you've passed the bar," Doug said as he took another bite, "you are entitled to use the black cars and bill clients for dinner. The rule goes like this: If you work until eight o'clock at night, then call a car. I'll give you the number and code, and be sure the client gets billed for the car. And if you choose, you can go to a restaurant, spend no more than a hundred bucks on yourself, and also bill the client."

"You gotta be kidding."

"Why?"

"Because I'm at the office almost every night until eight, and if somebody else is buying dinner, then I'll be damned sure I stay until eight."

"Attaboy."

"Seems kinda rich, doesn't it?"

"What?"

"Billing the client for expensive dinners and lunches and cars."

A swirl of the pinot, a thoughtful stare at the red liquid, a long pull. "Kyle, my boy, look at it this way. Our biggest client is BXL, the seventh-largest company in the world, sales last year of $200 billion. Very smart businessmen who have a budget for everything. They live by budgets. They are fanatics about budgets. Last year their budget for legal fees was one percent of their total sales, or about $2 billion. We didn't get all of that, because they use twenty different law firms around the world, but we got our share. Guess what happens if they don't spend the amount they budget, if their legal fees fall short? Their in-house lawyers monitor our billings, and if our numbers are low, they call up and raise hell. What are we, the lawyers, doing wrong?

Aren't we properly protecting them? The point is, they expect to spend the money. If we don't take it, then it screws up their budgets, they get worried, and maybe they start looking around for another firm, one that will work harder at billing them. You follow?"

Yes, Kyle followed. It was beginning to make sense. Expensive meals were necessary not only to keep the hungry lawyers going but also to properly balance their clients' financial statements. Now it seemed almost prudent.

"Yes," Kyle said, and for the first time the wine warmed his brain and made him relax.

Doug spread his arms and looked around. "And look at where we are, Kyle. Wall Street. The absolute pinnacle of success in America. We're here, we're on top, we're smart and tough and talented, and we make a boatload of money to prove it. We are entitled, Kyle, and don't forget it. Our clients pay us because they need us and we offer the best legal advice money can buy. Never forget that."

John McAvoy had lunch every day at the same table at an old cafe on Queen Street in York, and from the time Kyle was ten years old and hanging around the office, he loved having lunch with his father. The cafe's special was a vegetable plate that varied each day and cost little, with homemade rolls and iced tea, no sugar. The cafe attracted lawyers, bankers, and judges, but there were also mechanics and bricklayers. The gossip roared and the bantering was nonstop. The lawyers always joked, "Who's paying for lunch?" and boasted of wealthy clients who they'd stick with a $3.99 check.

Kyle doubted that his father ever gave a passing thought to billing a client for lunch.

Doug insisted on dessert. Two hours after entering the restaurant, they pushed themselves out the door and into the black car. Both nodded off during the fifteen-minute ride back to the office.