Read Big Law for Free Online

could rattle off my schedule better than I could. But after he witnessed my attempt to discretely shave my legs at my desk one morning, I came to grips with the fact that there were never going to be any secrets between us.
    “Have you heard anything about a deal Ben would be staffing?” If anyone would be in the know, it would be Sadir.
    He shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe you’ve been picked for the associates committee.”
    The newest thing in Biglaw propaganda was to have an “associates committee” that supposedly dealt with associate satisfaction issues. In reality, the committee would meet with the partners once a month and suck up to them by telling them they were all doing abang-up job and the associates were blissfully happy. What associate would risk saying anything to the contrary? No one. Then the committee would institute something like “Jamba Juice Fridays,” and somehow this was supposed to miraculously increase morale. Like a free Jamba Juice made up for our indentured servitude.
    “Wouldn’t that be nice?” I responded sarcastically, grabbing my notepad and heading out the door. But inside I was secretly hoping that Sadir was right. Ben was a partner who had many roles in the department. I could see him being the one responsible for staffing the associates committee. Or it could be any number of things—he wants to know how the CLEs are going? Suggestions for the next department lunch? My opinion about the success of Jamba Juice Fridays?
    I reached Ben’s office and noticed two first year associates were already sitting on the couch off to the side of Ben’s desk, legal pads perched on their laps. Ben was in a large leather chair behind his desk, his greying temples framing what anywhere else would be considered an average looking face, but in a law firm was considered handsome. I felt as if I was walking the plank as I took a few slow steps from the door to the seat across from Ben’s desk. Patrick O’Shea, another first year associate, entered the office last and took the last spot on the nubby maroon couch. Ben continued to scan his email, ignoring us, while we waited to hear our fate.
    I’d never worked for Ben before, but had attended a dinner at his house when I was summer associate. Every summer the partners with the nicest houses hosted a dinner for the summer associates. A sort of “this could be yours” party. Personally, I think the plan backfires because you end up getting a rather unfortunate glimpse into their lives. Of course, Ben’s house was amazing—a huge old brick colonial home on a large piece of land in Scarsdale with a pool, tennis court, and a circular driveway that took visitors to the private parking lot behind the house. Inside, there was a grand staircase ascending down into the foyer—wide enough that a car could probably drive down it. From the foyer, double French doors led to a large room where the furniture had been cleared out to accommodate the party. It was clear from the food and drink thatthe dinner had a Mexican theme—waiters holding silver trays with sangria and pomegranate margaritas greeted everyone at the door and tiny empanadas and spicy shrimp were being offered by waitresses circulating through the crowd. Ben had done his best to portray the “laid back fun partner” look, wearing a cream colored linen shirt rolled up to the elbows and matching linen pants. To me it ended up looking more like a pair of oversized pajamas Hugh Hefner might wear.
    Ben’s wife, Katrina, was easy to spot. She was the petite, blue-eyed blonde floating through the crowd with a blinding amount of diamonds around her wrist and neck, talking a little louder than everyone else. Her tanned skin was flawless and perfectly set off by her white, flowing linen dress. She’d be the first to tell you she was from a prominent Russian family and clearly embraced her roots in her home decorating. Large, gilded arm chairs and ornate tables were proudly displayed in the