I returned to my office, opened my soda, and bopped my head to my playlist as I checked the clock and opened Below the Belt, the site Carmen had introduced me to, to catch up on the latest gossip in BigLaw. I perused the headlines: “Inebriated Davis & Gilroy Associate Topples Display at MOMA Gala,” “Record-High Bonuses Rumored This Christmas,” “Is BigLaw Going the Way of the Dodo?”
I looked back at my clock. Only three minutes had passed since I had last checked it. I turned my music off and tried to breathe to steady the thudding in my chest. My office felt suddenly tiny, as though the walls were slowly closing in on me, and I suddenly needed to get out. I dialed Derrick’s extension, hoping he was free for a walk around the block.
No answer.
I texted him.
Alex: You around? Need a break.
Derrick: Litigation settled today so hopped on a flight to Vegas. Back tomorrow.
Who goes to Vegas for a night? I yanked at the collar of my shirt. Was this claustrophobia?
Was that even possible, given the view of the entirety of downtown Manhattan outside my window?
There were still twenty-three minutes before our status call. Antsy, I walked into the hallway, where a couple of still-lit offices and the hum of a vacuum from somewhere behind me were the only evidence of life in the building. My eye caught on the reflective sign hanging from the ceiling of a stick figure taking a flight of stairs, and it gave me an idea. I went back to my office, kicked off my heels, and laced up the nearly unused gym shoes I kept under my desk. I returned to the stairwell, opened the door, and breathed in the musk of dusty, industrial concrete, then hiked up my skirt and started to climb slowly, savoring the tightening in my calves and feeling my thighs start to burn from the rare physical exertion.
And then I heard a soft whimper, and stopped short. I couldn’t hear anything but silence for a moment, yet I felt another presence in the stairwell, and then I registered another faint feminine whine. I silently continued upward, wondering if I should offer comfort to a colleague who was clearly having a tough time, or just retreat and leave her in peace.
Then I heard a grunt.
A distinctly male grunt.
I instinctively covered my mouth and lowered myself to sit on a step. I glided slowly upward using both my hands and feet, craning my neck slightly, too curious not to look but terrified I’d spot somebody who I definitely did not want to see me. What if it was Mike Baccard? Or any partner? He’d never be able to look me in the eye again. My career would be over! But I couldn’t help myself. I crawled one step higher, and one body came into view, long blond hair on a head bobbing back and forth at the waist level of a man who was standing, his head thankfully just out of range, his white button-down untucked, his navy pinstripe jacket still on. His pants, I imagined, lay crumpled around his ankles. I watched for longer than I should have. I knew it was somehow depraved, but I couldn’t tear myself away. I craned my neck again, bringing the girl’s gossamer pink shirt further into view. Nancy!
I retreated back down the stairs as quietly as I could, but I dropped my phone on the concrete. A sound like china plates shattering on a restaurant floor echoed off the unforgiving surface. I stood frozen for a moment, and felt the two bodies above me tense. There was whispering. And then movement. I was certain they’d run away up the stairs, but I heard them thudding down them instead. I snapped into action, grabbing my phone and darting out of the door on the first landing I came to. I let the door close behind me, then leaned back against it for a moment, shutting my eyes. It occurred to me then that they needed to know who I was so that they could determine just how much trouble they would be in with the firm, if I was somebody who would talk. They might still be following me.
I sprinted to the elevator bank and pressed the down button frantically, then dove into the elevator. But before the doors could close all the way, Nancy appeared on the other side. We stared at each other, dumbfounded, as the steel doors sealed me in and shoved me downward. I looked up at the camera in the corner of the elevator. Lincoln must be getting quite the show tonight.
Jordan was going to find it absolutely hilarious that annoying, judgmental little Nancy was giving head in a dirty stairwell. As I walked to his office, I practiced how I’d begin the story, but when I arrived, Jordan looked stressed. He beckoned me in impatiently and immediately dialed the conference line. Hold music came on. I wiped the shit-eating grin from my face. Something must have gone south with the deal. Shit.
He opened his mouth to speak just as the voice on the line announced that the conference would begin.
Despite his seeming anxiety, the call was going according to script—which I’d learned was the absolute best-case scenario in the legal world. We had already signed up the deal, and everybody had agreed to the terms, but we had bifurcated closing, meaning that all that needed to happen was for the funds to transfer from the buyer’s account to the seller’s—save our $2 million worth of legal fees, of course. The closing call was scheduled for nine tomorrow morning, and with any luck, I could be home in bed by eleven a.m.
As we were wrapping up, the opposing counsel said he had one more thing to add. “Lastly, we need to disclose that there appears to have been a small breach by the buyer in the confidentiality agreement. The news of the asset purchase seems to have been announced at the annual shareholders meeting.”
I lifted my head up from my pad and turned wide-eyed to Jordan. I opened my mouth to whisper a question, and he silenced me with a quick shake of his head.
“Jordan?” the opposing counsel asked. “Did I lose you?”
“No,” he said.
“Look, Jordan, I don’t think there is actually any effect on the company, or—” He stopped himself. “It could have been an agreement only for the seller to sign to begin with. There was no reason for the buyer to remain hush-hush. But I will have all answers by nine a.m.”
Jordan sat there without speaking.
“I know this could potentially unravel the deal, but it won’t,” the opposing counsel stammered, filling the silence.
Matt’s voice came through the phone. “That’s for our client to say, not yours, John.” Jordan and I breathed a sigh of relief. “And going forward, I’d appreciate you not waiting until the end of a call to tell us something that could kill the deal. It’s irrelevant whether the confidentiality agreement could have been one-sided. It is, in fact, reciprocal. We’ll get back to you once we confer with our client.” There was a beep, and the automated voice let us know Matt had left the conference, so we hung up, too.
“I have to call Didier and tell him what’s going on,” Jordan said. “But I need to know all scenarios. Call Taylor now and have them run valuations now and at nine in the morning based on market rumors affecting revenue by fifteen percent going forward. I need an answer by two a.m.” He glanced at his open door to dismiss me. “I’m going to circle back with Matt. It’s going to be a long night.”
I nodded, and was almost out the door when he spoke again.
“Alex.” I turned around to see him staring at me. “Did you see how I kept my mouth shut on that call?” I gave a hesitant nod. “It’s important to know when not to speak.”
I nodded again, more than slightly confused. Did I speak too much on client calls?