Sun - July 11, 2004

In the civil justice system, the people are represented by two separate, unequally important groups—the partners who send out the bills, and the associates whose time appears on them. These are their stories.

CHA-CHUNG!

It surprised me to find four messages waiting.

The first was from Rob Goldman, a lawyer at the firm. Another attorney, who arranged work assignments for new associates, had volunteered me for an important, time sensitive project. Goldman laid out the essential points and urged me to call him right away. "The client needs answers for its board meeting tomorrow," he said. "Time is of the essence."

The message was two weeks old.

The second message—also from Goldman—had arrived only hours after the first. "I need you to call me now," he said. "This is an important client. You're to start immediately."

I thumbed madly through the firm directory, looking for his name as the third message started. Galen, Gelanti, Goldfarb—

"—the hell are you doing up there? I've called you twice already. You're placing this account in jeopardy, not to mention your career ..."

I found his listing. Goldman, Robert L. A senior partner in the firm. Former chairman of an ABA Division. Principal outside counsel to two of America's largest companies. Head of the litigation department. A member of the firm's executive committee. One of the country's top trial attorneys. Jimminy Crickets...

Words failed him. Over the kettledrums pounding in my head, I caught the essence of his final message.

"The most ... unacceptable ... conduct. Found someone else for the project ... Certainly going in your review..."

I sat at my desk for five minutes without moving, without breathing, my only thought a fervent prayer that I be granted the privilege of spontaneous combustion. The request was denied.

Striking out with God, I consulted the closest available substitute: My secretary. She listened intently as I replayed the voicemail. Although we had known each other less than an hour, the significance of the hand that she clapped over her mouth during Goldman's fourth message did not escape me.

"You need to go up and talk to him. Right now."

Goldman's office on the highest floor in the most scenic corner of the firm's leased space had its own waiting area. Before this, perched like a library lion, sat his executive secretary. She hardly looked up from the romance novel she was reading when I shuffled over. A nameplate in front of her said, "Lynette." Through a frosted glass panel behind her, I could see Goldman's office light on. His door was closed.

"Name?" she asked, tiredly.

I told her.

"He's expecting you?"

Not exactly.

"He called you?"

"Yes ... well, no. Well, yes and no."

She stared at me.

"I'm a new associate here," I explained.

It was the wrong thing to say.

You see, before they graduate, law students typically spend their summers working at different law firms. While they strive to curry job offers through social skill and legal acumen, the biggest firms woo students from leading schools with an ardency that borders upon the sycophantic. We're not just talking about dinners after work at top local restaurants—we're talking about dinners at top restaurants in Paris.

It's heady stuff while it lasts, but there's a price to be paid.

Because once you become a new associate at a large law firm, the wooing stops. You carry partners' litigation bags. You take partners' notes. You toil in the law library or in warehouses filled with banker's boxes, reading, categorizing, and labeling documents for months on end. Or you sit at a printer proofreading SEC filings late at night until your head throbs and your vision swims. You find that you now hold one of the lowest ranks in a rigid professional hierarchy, sandwiched neatly between convicted felons and amoeboid forms of life.

"I'll let him know that you're waiting," she said. "In the meantime, sit."

I sat. I noticed that Lynette made absolutely no effort to let Goldman know that I was waiting.

A half hour passed without word from him.

Then forty five minutes.

Then an hour.

I asked if she could call me when he finally became available.

"I could do that," she shrugged, "but he's not always very good about calling associates back, and I'm getting ready to leave for my lunch break."

I was about to give a sarcastic reply—something about the peculiarity of taking a "break" from recreational reading—when my quarry at last emerged from his den. He stood well over six feet, thin, gray-haired and impeccably dressed, also in gray, his monogrammed sleeves fastened with expensive-looking clasps. The irony of his calling habits would have to wait.

"This young man has has been waiting to see you, Mr. Goldman."

He waved me in.

"And you are?"

I told him.

He scowled at my name, but before he could speak, before he could even utter the fateful words—"You're fired!"—I launched hurriedly into my story.

For an uncomfortably long time after I finished, he simply stared at me.

"You're a new associate," he said at last.

"Yes."

"This is your first day at the firm?"

"Yes."

"And the first voicemails you received were messages from me telling you that you were late on an assignment and were probably going to be fired?"

"Yes."

He laughed and offered his hand. I shook it.

"Well," he said, "I'm Robert Goldman. Welcome to the practice of law!"

I've had tougher and longer working days since then, but none so telling or so aptly metaphoric.