at the firm hope she’ll give up and go elsewhere—once they’ve made enough money off of her. But they don’t know her. She never gives up. Slowly, grudgingly, E. Bartlett has been forced to acknowledge her talents. Although he will never admit it, she is the associate he turns to when a crisis erupts; when a complex case presents an esoteric legal issue; when an important client from overseas must be wined and dined. He even leaves matchbooks on her chair from the all-male club where he takes the prep boys for lunch. It’s as close as E. Bartlett comes to having a sense of humor. Despite his currently favorable assessment of her, she knows he will use any excuse to keep her from joining the fraternity of the testicularly anointed. E. Bartlett also has a W. C. Fields view of children. If she hadn’t already billed thirty-two hundred hours this year and wasn’t due two years’ worth of vacation, he would have already dropped her in the dirt. She lights a cigarette, ignoring Georgia’s disapproving glance. “Okay, let’s hear it.”
“It’s the Sterns case.”
“What about it?” Sterns involves Danielle’s biggest client. It is a juicy class-action suit that has all the earmarks to make the firm millions. That, coupled with her big win in the Baines case, is her ace in the hole for partnership. Michael Sterns, the young CEO of the company, loves Danielle’s aggressive litigation style and has, thus far, refused to be represented by any of her partners.
Georgia glances away. “The bastard turned over the next slew of depositions to Matthews.”
“But that’s my client—” Danielle cries. “I spent two years wooing that company.”
Georgia shrugs. “Too true, my dear, but you are a mere associate.”
Danielle slaps her hand to her forehead. “Goddammit.”
Only partners are allowed to put their names on the case-generation form. Her initials appear in small type as the assigned minion. E. Bartlett has been getting credit for Sterns for over a year now. That, coupled with the fact that her billable hours have dropped precipitously since Maitland, puts her into the average category. And average won’t make her a partner. Panic rises in her throat. She can’t let this partnership slip through her hands. She’s earned it—not to mention the fact that she needs the extra income to help pay Maitland’s phenomenal bill. As usual, insurance only covers the bare minimum, and there is no way she can cover the uninsured portion on her salary and savings. She also has Max’s future expenses to consider—whatever they might be.
“That’s not all,” says Georgia. “Last night I stayed late to work and ran down to Harry’s for a drink and a sandwich. You know the scene—the whole firm crawls over there before the partnership meeting—boozing it up while they bullshit each other about how great their candidates are.” Harry’s is a terrific place for lawyers to gather. Danielle almost feels the cool dark of the room; the huge oak bar with brass bar stools; the rows of dusky liquor bottles; the deep, red leather booths; the blurred light from the candles on the tables.
Danielle puts her bare feet on top of the cheap coffee table. She wishes she were half as relaxed as she appears. “So this year is exactly like any other.”
Georgia frowns. “You’re wrong there, I’m afraid. Guess who I saw—all closed off and cozy?”
“Who?”
“E. Bartlett and Lyman—two snakes in a pit.”
Danielle sits up straight, her eyes wide. “But that’s impossible.”
Lyman and E. Bartlett started with the firm in the same class and have been bitter rivals ever since. E. Bartlett made partner a year before Lyman, and he’s never forgotten it. The lengths to which the two go to stab each other in the back are legend.
Georgia takes the cigarette out of Danielle’s hand and stubs it out. “Well, the impossible has occurred. They were knocking back a bottle of single malt and grinning from ear to ear.”
It doesn’t take a clairvoyant to know what’s happening. Her absence has so pissed off E. Bartlett that he’s agreed to let Lyman’s boy leapfrog her. She wraps her sweater tighter around her. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“No kidding,” says Georgia. “I also overheard one of Lyman’s lackeys saying that Lyman didn’t trust E. Bartlett farther than he could kick him. It would be just like E. Bartlett to put on a great friendship act with Lyman and then totally screw him over at the partners’ meeting.”
Danielle feels a flicker of hope and grabs Georgia’s hand. “It would be just like him, wouldn’t it?”
“True.” Georgia gives Danielle’s hand a firm squeeze, but something is very wrong with her voice. “Look, E. Bartlett isn’t all you have to worry about. The scuttlebutt is that the partners met last week and decided that, due to financial concerns and low billable hours, they’re considering firing some associates.”
“What?”
“The goal is to get rid of four of us by January,” she says softly.
Danielle’s heart lurches until she runs the numbers through her head. “Well, at least you and I are in the clear. We’re the top producers of the whole damned section.”
“Exactly—and the most expensive.” Georgia sighs and hands her a piece of paper. “There’s more. I got a copy of the latest musings of the partnership committee yesterday—from the trash can of E. Bartlett’s secretary.”
Danielle doesn’t comment on Georgia’s methods. “And?”
“And …” Georgia draws a deep breath. “You’re up—or you’re out.”
CHAPTER NINE
Danielle sits in a battered vinyl chair, jacked up with a hydraulic thing so the flashy hairdresser with the flaming red lipstick can get a good look at her. Country music blares as the woman pops her gum and delivers her verdict.
“Cut.” She wheels Danielle around. “Perm.”
Danielle sees her eyes in the mirror, as large and wild as a religious zealot who shows up on your doorstep to pray for your soul. Oh, well, she thinks. Drastic times require drastic measures. She nods her assent.
After Georgia left, Danielle worked like a madwoman, making client calls; following up on court and deposition dates; catching up on her billing records. Georgia’s visit struck terror into her heart. She has to make partner. If she doesn’t, there will be no way to fund Maitland’s expenses, much less the special schools and future treatment Max may need.
She is bleary-eyed by the time Marianne shows up at her door and asks if she would like to escape for a while. Danielle grabs her bag and hops into Marianne’s car. They laugh and chat their way across town to a small beauty shop with the name Pearl’s above the door in faded red letters. Danielle so thoroughly enjoys herself that when the pedicures are over, she lets Marianne whirl her in front of a mirror and convince her that it is definitely time to take a serious stab at personal grooming. Besides, Danielle wants to look her best when she has dinner with Tony tonight. She has a brief consultation with Pearl, drops into a chair and surrenders herself to the process.
The scissors are sweet as they slice through her hair. So true, so simple. The acrid solution on her head is shockingly cold. Under the dryer, she falls into a trance. Pregnant with Max, she sees him through the translucent onionskin that is her stomach. He is a tiny fetus, perfectly formed, eyes closed. Red and blue veins interlineate his little body. He curls around them, waiting to come out. Wine-colored blood and magenta amniotic fluid flow seamlessly from mother to son in primal grace. She rubs her stomach under the warm air.
Relaxed, she lets her mind wander to Tony and their dinner tonight. Will they make love again? A warm blush suffuses her body as she considers the possibility. She lets herself fantasize about a holiday with Tony—on a sandy beach somewhere in the Caribbean, the glistering azure of the waves lapping before them as they lie with their arms entwined like teenagers exploring a first love. After that, Tony will