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  For Jonathan

  Mira’s Birthday

  Exactly four years ago today, Mira and I were sprinting through Times Square in hot pursuit of the Naked Cowboy. It was a Wednesday in June; I was supposed to be in a client meeting. Instead, I was participating in a citywide scavenger hunt that had taken me to four boroughs in just under five hours. There were six teams of two, and my wife and I were in the lead. The only thing that stood between us and victory was a man who wandered around the city wearing only a cowboy hat, a pair of tighty-whities, and a guitar.

  When I asked Mira what she wanted to do on her birthday, “scavenger hunt” was not the answer I was expecting. But then, nothing about my wife was ever expected. She delighted in surprises, in spontaneity, in throwing caution to the wind. She was endlessly curious. Her insatiable appetite for the world was so infectious that it could inspire a square peg like me to play hooky on a Wednesday just because. Because why the hell not, Charlie? Carpe diem, Charlie. You only live once, Charlie! Mira, you see, she got me. She knew me better than I knew myself. Case in point: on that particular Wednesday, she knew that, instead of reviewing tax returns in a windowless conference room, the best thing for me to be doing was to chase a naked man down Eighth Avenue in the middle of rush hour traffic. And so we did. And so we won.

  Mira knew how to make me live.

  • • •

  She would have been thirty-two today.

  Her birthday is my least favorite day of the year, I’ve decided, though Halloween definitely gives it a run for its money. Mira loved Halloween. She used to find the most absurd costumes for us, the more embarrassing the better. Two months after we started going out, she made me go to a party dressed as an Almond Joy. She was a Mounds. On the back of my wrapper it read: I HAVE NUTS. On the back of hers: I DON’T.

  The things you do for love.

  You’d think I’d actually hate March thirteenth the most, but I don’t, not really. That’s the day that Chip McCleary, a pilot with an unfortunate tendency to drink on the job, accidentally flew my wife’s plane into the Atlantic Ocean. There were no survivors.

  With 270 casualties, the crash of Flight 1173 just missed making the list of top ten deadliest aviation disasters in history. It tied with the Lockerbie bombing at number eleven, a statistic that reporters cited with a tinge of disappointment, as though they were just one casualty shy of a truly spectacular story. Still, they loved to talk about it. For weeks, Flight 1173 was the only thing on every channel every hour of every day. There were pictures of the wreckage and of Chip and the flight crew and the passengers and of us, the passengers’ families, and, when those were exhausted, pictures of the wreckage and pilot and the crew and the passengers and the passengers’ families of other aviation disasters (Lockerbie was a favorite). There were interviews with everyone from the air traffic controller on duty that day to conspiracy theorists who were convinced that Chip had ties to Al Qaeda to senators with strong opinions on post-9/11 aviation security. Chip’s estranged wife, a former flight attendant named Jazz with frosted hair and a megawatt smile, loved being on air so much that she managed to parlay her two minutes of fame into a gig as a local weather girl. The story was dissected for so long and from so many angles that, by summer, all that was left was an occasional spot featuring a fourth cousin of some other pilot who suffered from alcoholism. I didn’t watch much of it. None of it resonated. Drunk pilots and senators had nothing to do with me or with Mira or the life we shared together. The crash of Flight 1173 was a public tragedy. The loss of Mira was a private one.

  This past March thirteenth marked the second anniversary of the crash. As with the first anniversary, photos of the wreckage were suddenly on every channel. CNN ran the names of the victims on a ticker tape at the bottom of the screen, like stock symbols or breaking celebrity news on E!. I got phone calls from friends and old colleagues and distant cousins, and a whole pile of mail from a group that called themselves the Families of 1173, informing me of a class action lawsuit against the airline and inviting me to a candlelight vigil at JFK Airport. My buddy Moose showed up at my apartment unannounced, armed with a lifetime supply of booze and a half-eaten box of Junior Mints. I appreciated all of it—the booze especially—but in truth I felt surprisingly numb all day. It was just a gray Tuesday in March, more melancholy, perhaps, than the Tuesday before it, but not markedly so. Not nearly as bleak as Mira’s birthday.

  • • •

  An urgent e-mail from Fred, my boss, pops up in my in-box.

  How’s it going? it says.

  Okay, I guess. Tougher than I would have thought. Thank you for asking, I type, before realizing he’s referring to the Harrison Brothers’ memorandum I’m supposed to be reviewing, not Mira’s birthday. I delete my e-mail.

  Good, almost done, I reply. Will send ASAP.

  Great. Tx. Need by close of business today.

  Understood.

  • • •

  Sighing, I flip to the end of the memorandum. One hundred and fifty pages down, fourteen to go. I’m one paragraph in when I hear a rap on my office door.

  I spin my chair around. In the doorway stands Todd Ellison, my least favorite person at Hardwick, Mays & Kellerman. As usual, Todd has missed the memo that he is not, in fact, a partner, and is wearing a custom-made suit, an Hermès tie, and a pair of shoes that likely cost more than my first car. Todd’s father, Todd Ellison Sr., runs a giant hedge fund, TCE Capital Partners, which happens to be our firm’s biggest client. Last year TCE was responsible for forty percent of our corporate business. Suffice it to say, the partners handle Todd Jr. with kid gloves. In the ten years he’s been at the firm, I’m not sure he’s ever actually practiced any law. While the rest of us are billing ninety-hour weeks, Todd is given cushy assignments, like organizing our firm’s holiday party and acting as head camp counselor for the summer associates.

  “Hey, Todd.” I give him a curt nod and look back at my computer screen, hoping he’ll buzz off and bother someone else.

  “Hey, Charlie,” he says, missing my cue. When he saunters through my door, I notice a gaggle of nerdy-looking kids behind him. “Just taking the newbies for a tour. Thought maybe you could tell these guys a little bit about your practice.”

  The summer associates cram into my office and glance around, taking in the panoramic view of Central Park, the sleek Barcelona chairs, the wall bearing my diplomas, the shelves of client binders with the names of nearly every major bank and hedge fund on the Street. They look suitably impressed.

  “Well,” I say, scratching my head, “I joined the firm almost ten years ago, same class as Todd. I’m a senior associate in the Litigation group. I work primarily with Fred Kellerman, whom you may have met during recruiting. Fred runs Litigation here at Hardwick. He’s also the Kellerman in Hardwick, Mays & Kellerman.”

  Eager nodding from the summer associates. They know Fred. Fred’s a legend. They teach classes about Fred in law school. He’s probably the reason that half of these kids wanted to work at Hardwick in the first place. Fred’s the reason I wanted to work at Hardwick in the first place, and he’s the reason I stay working at Hardwick, despite the hellacious hours, unending stress, and morally bankrupt clients.

  Long before I arrived at Hardwick, I considered Fred a role model. As an economics major at SUNY Albany, I made a point to read the Wall Street Journal every day, taking note of all the ba
nks and hedge funds and law firms that regularly appeared in its pages. One morning I came across a short but exuberant profile of Fred, who had just recently built a library at his alma mater, SUNY Purchase. In the article he said: “Any time I see a strong résumé from a SUNY graduate pass my desk, I take notice. A lot of law firms, my own included, hire almost exclusively from the Ivy League. I want to change that. Pedigrees don’t mean crap to me. I value three things: hard work, integrity, and loyalty. Those aren’t just the characteristics that make for a successful lawyer; they make for a successful person.” Now here, I thought, is my kind of guy. The kind of guy I want to work for. The kind of guy I want to become.

  When I showed up at Hardwick, Fred took a shine to me right away. He singled me out from a class of newly minted associates and made a point of mentoring me. It was a relief; most of the other partners turned their noses up at my cheap suits, the way I occasionally still dragged out the “aw” in “coffee.” Not Fred. Like me, Fred was raised by a single mom in a small blue-collar town on Long Island. Like me, he had a chip on his shoulder because of it. Unlike me, however, Fred wore his background like a badge of honor. Embrace the chip, Charlie, he told me once. Love the chip. It’s your edge. The chip is what keeps you hungry.

  In the past decade, Fred and I have amassed scores of victories and only one notable defeat. We’re a good team, arguably one of the best in town. I’m willing to put up with his famously short temper and penchant for middle-of-the-night phone calls, so long as he takes the time to counsel me and champion my career internally. It hasn’t always been easy. Sometimes working for Fred feels like trying to run a marathon in the middle of a hurricane. But in just a few months’ time senior management will decide who makes partner and who does not. Knowing I have Fred in my corner gets me through my toughest days at Hardwick.

  • • •

  “Why don’t you tell them what’s exciting about today?”

  It takes me a second to realize that Todd, too, is talking about Harrison Brothers, not Mira’s birthday.

  No one here gives a shit about Mira’s birthday, I remind myself. Now, the Harrison Brothers dismissal, that’s big news.

  “Why don’t you tell them about the Harrison case?” Todd prompts.

  “Right, yeah. Okay. So today a court dismissed a class-action lawsuit against our client, Harrison Brothers. Harrison Brothers, as you probably know, was accused of predatory lending practices during the subprime mortgage crisis in 2008.”

  More eager nodding.

  “And how long have you been working on that case, Charlie?” Todd persists. It occurs to me that Todd has been told to entertain the summers for an hour or so and, having no real work experience himself, he has no idea what to talk about.

  “Well, Todd, I’ve been working on this case for four years. I’ve billed 1,900 hours this year already, ninety percent of which is to this case. I’ve been in the office for the past seventy-two hours. It’s possible that my son has forgotten what I look like. This is a fairly common occupational hazard for lawyers.”

  Nervous laughter from the crowd. I make eye contact with Todd, who’s shooting me an aggressive “shut the fuck up” stare.

  “But the point is,” I conclude quickly, “it’s all been worthwhile. The suit was dismissed. Our clients are thrilled. There are very few firms where you can work on cases this complex and this important. Hardwick represents the biggest banks and hedge funds in the world. And there are very few firms where you get to work side by side with lawyers like Fred Kellerman.”

  A couple of the guys in the front row practically have to wipe tears from their eyes. I’ve hooked them, I know. They all come to Hardwick, Mays & Kellerman with big dreams, the same dreams I had when I graduated from law school. I recognize the far-off look on their faces. Right this second, they’re envisioning themselves offering counsel to Fortune 500 CEOs. They’re imagining what it feels like to stride into a courthouse with a client who will be on the cover of tomorrow’s Wall Street Journal. They’re picturing themselves sitting at my desk, in my chair, just six months away from making partner at the most prestigious law firm in New York.

  What they do not yet know is that this summer we will wine them and dine them. We will allow them to rub shoulders with the likes of Steve Mays and Welles Peabody and Fred Kellerman, who will pretend to take an interest in them and may even invite them to lunch to discuss these big dreams of theirs. We will staff them on only the most exciting cases while expecting them to do no real work and add no real value. We will take them to baseball games and Broadway plays, and at the end of the summer we will all get drunk together on a cruise around New York Harbor. They will gratefully, hungrily accept our offer of full-time employment at Hardwick, Mays & Kellerman. And then, when they return one year later as full-fledged members of the Bar, we will promptly crush their souls.

  “Well, hey, thanks, Charlie,” Todd says. “Anyone have any questions for Charlie?”

  A few of the kids throw up their hands, like fourth graders dying to be called on.

  “Uh, yeah, sure—you there,” I say, pointing to one. “What’s your name?”

  “My name is Candice Cho. You said you’ve been here for nearly ten years. So when will you be up for partner?”

  “Hi, Candice. I know at some firms, partner track is eight years long. Here at Hardwick, it’s more like ten. I’ll keep you posted. I’m up for it this year.” I hold up crossed fingers.

  A shy-looking guy at the back raises his hand. He bears such a striking resemblance to Rob, my childhood best friend, that it throws me for a moment. It’s not just his face, it’s how he carries himself that feels familiar. The way he stuffs his hands casually in his pockets, the awkward knotting of his tie, and his shoes, which are too beaten-up and casual to be worn with a suit. He looks at me with a cool, even stare. I realize I’ve got twenty eyes on me, waiting.

  “Ah, sure, you there,” I say, pointing to him. He pushes his hair out of his eyes before he speaks.

  “Does it, like, ever bother you?”

  The group turns to gawk at him.

  I let out an awkward chuckle. “Sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

  “Sam.”

  “Does what bother me, Sam?”

  He’s staring at me with eyes so blue they’re practically translucent. He can see through my bullshit already, and I haven’t even begun to answer his question.

  “Does it ever bother you to represent people who you know are guilty? Harrison Brothers ruined millions of lives. They destroyed our economy. And yet their CEO got paid $25 million last year, and now they’ve gotten off from this class action suit scot-free. So I’m just wondering how you sleep at night.”

  Amazed guffaws go up from the crowd. They stare at me, agog, wondering how I will respond to such blasphemy.

  Over the years I’ve gotten pretty good at pat responses to this kind of question. One has to when one is in my line of work. I usually fall back on that old law school rhetoric about everyone deserving a good defense and the obligation of every attorney to zealously advocate for their client no matter what, that sort of thing. It’s all crap, of course, but once I throw in a couple of self-deprecating jokes, folks start to laugh and then they start to nod, and soon we can all move on to a different, more engaging topic than how it is that I can sleep at night, given that I’m Satan’s attorney.

  This kid, however, is one cool customer.

  “Well, that’s definitely one perspective. But I think we can all agree that it’s a little more complicated than that,” I say lamely. “And Harrison Brothers did agree to pay $300 million to the SEC, so they haven’t exactly gotten off scot-free.”

  “Three hundred million dollars is less than they make in a day.”

  “That—I’m not sure that’s accurate. In any case, it’s the number the SEC agreed to.”

  Todd clears his throat loudly. “So does anyone else have a question for Charlie?” he says, trying to get the conversation back on the rails. Sam ope
ns his mouth as though he has more to say, but stops himself.

  Two more hands shoot up in the crowd, but my phone rings, my own home number blinking on its screen.

  “Sorry,” I say, “I have to take this call. Important client. But listen, feel free to stop by my office anytime. Welcome to the firm!”

  As the associates begin to file out of my office, I throw on my headset.

  “Could you hold for one second?” I say in my serious business voice. “Just wrapping up a meeting here.”

  “Uh, sure, Mr. Goldwyn. I can hold,” my twin sister, Zadie, replies in her best imitation of my serious business voice.

  I wave at Todd.

  “Thanks, SUNY,” he says loudly. “See ya later.”

  “Just close the door on your way out, Todd.”

  “Did that guy just call you ‘SUNY’? As in ‘State University of New York’?” Zadie asks, disgusted. Zadie, who has never managed to hold down a job for more than six months, is incapable of masking her contempt for mine. She thinks I’m some kind of corporate sellout, which, of course, is true. For the first year or so after I graduated from law school, she’d carp at me constantly for not taking a job at the DA’s office or the public defender’s office or Amnesty International—somewhere, anywhere, I might be able to contribute to society. By now she’s more or less accepted the fact that I’m at Hardwick to stay, but still can’t resist taking the occasional jab at my colleagues. To be fair, Todd is low-hanging fruit.

  “Yup. I’m not sure Todd’s actually ever met anyone from a state school before. I’m quite the novelty around here. It’s like being Amish. Or an albino.”

  “Wow. What an asshole. He must have gone to Harvard.” I can hear her rolling her eyes through the phone.

  “Princeton, actually. Harvard Law School.”

  “He’s not a partner, is he?”

  “Nope. But he’s up for it, just like me. In fact, it’s possible he’ll get it over me. His dad is a big hedge fund honcho.”