would probably be more of a seventy-or eighty-hour commitment. He signaled the end of our conversation by pressing Sheila’s extension on his phone and indicating that I should open the door.
Her melodious voice came through the speakerphone. “Yes, sir?”
“Please give Julia a tour of the office. Apparently Jane didn’t do a proper job in orientation. Also, she will be running over to Rothsfield to get the Danko file, so please explain the mileage system and petty cash.”
“Certainly.”
Sheila appeared in Broward’s doorway within seconds. She matched her polished voice—an older woman, in her sixties, with a blue sweater set, gray wool dress pants, perfectly coiffed silver hair and a string of pearls. She smiled kindly at me and ushered me out of Broward’s office, closing his door softly behind her.
Sheila’s tour of the wing was in-depth and informative. I met over twelve secretaries, six paralegals, and Attorney Liz Renfield. I nodded at the other interns as we passed through their areas, but didn’t have any conversations. I figured out early why Sheila didn’t bring Broward’s coffee. Handing me the petty cash key, she had an extreme shake to her hands. She was a talker, and I learned as much about her as the firm. She had been there twenty-two years, since it was just Clarke Law Firm and they had to occasionally miss a paycheck if it had been a slow month. By the end of the tour I had learned that Liz Renfield and Robert Handler had once shared more than a case, and that recently Chris Hemming, a civil attorney, had been caught embezzling funds and had been fired.
Sheila led me up a vacant and stale stairway leading to the attic file storage, pausing at the top, key pointed toward the lock in her shaky hand. She glanced at me, somewhat casually. “Did Mr. Broward mention anything about Brad De Luca?”
Four
Sheila and I were alone in the attic, a stuffy room with rows and rows of file boxes. At my initial estimate, there seemed to be over twenty rows, each over fifteen boxes deep and eight or nine boxes high on each side. Fluorescent lights above us made it a well-lit but hot area. The lights combined with Sheila’s question made me feel like a prisoner being interrogated. What is everyone’s obsession with this guy?
“Yes, Broward—Mr. Broward—told me that their side of the office operates a little differently than ours, and that I should steer clear of it.” I mumbled the words like a schoolgirl reciting her daily duties.
Sheila’s eyes gleamed with the excitement of gossip, but also with warning. “Mr. Broward was probably too proper to say that Brad is absolutely incorrigible! He stopped being assigned female interns three years ago because he couldn’t keep his hands off them. He’s divorced due to another one of his...relationships, and is never without some young thing on his arm. He’s Italian— You know how those men are.” She pronounced “Italian” as if it was some kind of diseased animal, and waved her hand as if that should explain everything. “Bottom line...” She fixed her steely gaze on me. “You are exactly his type. You need to stay as far away from Brad De Luca as you can get.”
Sheesh. This is what everyone is worried about? That I am about to become one of a senior partner’s latest conquests? First off, I am as sexually unpromiscuous as...probably Sheila! I am a twenty-one-year-old college student who has had a total of two partners. In college terms, I’m practically a saint! Secondly, isn’t De Luca like forty? In his late thirties at least. Who in their right mind would think I would be attracted to someone that old?
I was more than a little offended by the perception of my low standards.
I met Sheila’s eyes firmly and confidently. “Sheila, you have absolutely nothing to worry about. Trust me.”
Her return look was less confident.
Five
A bit awkwardly, we finished the tour, and ten minutes later I was in my car with the windows down and “Whatever” by Hot Chelle Rae blaring. It was hot as hell outside but I didn’t care. I needed wind filling my car and blaring music in order to get my funk to pass. I wanted to make an impression at my internship, but one as an intelligent hardworker, not as the chick that everyone thinks Brad freaking De Luca is going to bang. My head was properly cleared but I was still a little bitchy when I returned to the office, Danko file in hand, along with a still-steaming cup of Starbucks coffee with “light cream and Equal” in it.
I gave the file to Sheila and dropped the coffee off at Broward’s desk. He was on another call and waved distractedly to me. I went into my office and started where I had left off the night before. Within three minutes, my office door banged open and Todd Appleton plopped his body into one of my chairs. Really? Am I going to get any freaking work done today?
I looked up over my file with what I hoped was an “I’m busy, what the hell do you want?” look.
“Yes, Todd?”
“Where have you been all day? We’ve been so busy on the East Wing. This one case, the wife caught her husband doing his boss’s daughter! And then we found out that...” His voice droned on and on and I began focusing on his beautiful features as opposed to his words. I snapped myself out of my mind fart and waved my hand in front of Todd.
“Todd, can’t talk. I’m busy.” I gestured to all the work filling my desk and office.
He glanced around. “I know, but...you’ve been gone all morning.”
“Exactly. Hence my heavy workload. I need to get some stuff done.”
“Oh.” His dejected face reminded me of the time I told the four-year-old I used to babysit that even though he had asked Santa for a real baby alien, it probably wasn’t going to happen.
“Sorry, Todd. I’m just buried right now in superexciting deposition reviews.”
“Sure, no problem. Hey, we missed you last night. You’ll have to come out with us soon.” He grinned that smile at me, scratched the back of his head and then stood up, five-feet-ten inches of classic Abercrombie & Fitch beautiful looks.
I flashed him an apologetic smile and returned to my depositions. It was 11:00 a.m. Only eleven or twelve hours to go.
* * *
My first two weeks passed excruciatingly slowly. Other than learning office politics, I garnered few legal skills besides filing, typing and deposition review, most of which I had mastered already. My only solace was thinking about the upcoming week—when Broward would be in Fort Lauderdale. I had already cornered Sheila to get the scoop on office hours during that time.
“Nine-to-five workdays,” she promised me, an understanding look in her eyes. “This week been rough on you?” Her voice had taken on a motherly concern, and I wanted to hug her for showing some compassion. Everyone else in the wing seemed to work with an unending supply of energy. It wouldn’t have sucked so bad if I hadn’t been hearing about the party life in the East Wing.
The East Wing had their own set of big, dark walnut-and-leather double doors. The only glimpses you got inside came when someone was entering or leaving. It was like a superexclusive club that I couldn’t get into, so my mind created impossibly extravagant fantasies about the world inside. Following closely the instructions—or threats—of Broward, I stayed away from the East Wing and all of its “activities,” but drooled jealously from afar.
Often as I passed their big double doors, I’d hear loud laughter and other sounds coming from inside. On Wednesday, there was some kind of a party. At five-thirty, Smith & Wollensky waiters started unloading trays of lobsters, steaks and carts of large silver dishes from our elevators. They were followed with five cases of chilled champagne and sumptuous dessert trays that made my mouth water. Muted music could be heard from behind their doors, and a thumping bass. The bass only lasted about three minutes before Broward screamed some form of profanity, opened his door and stomped his way over to the East Wing. About a minute later, the music was turned down and our floor stopped systematically vibrating. Sheila leaned backward in her chair