"Twenty-one."
"I'll take it," I say. "I'll start tomorrow at twenty-one. And I'll work a whole year at twenty-one. I promise I won't leave for twelve months, regardless of whether I pass the bar. I put in sixty, seventy hours a week for twelve months. No vacation. You have my word. I'll sign a contract."
"We require five years' experience before we'll look at a paralegal. This is high-powered stuff."
"I'll learn it quick. I clerked last summer for a defense firm downtown, nothing but litigation."
There's something unfair here, and he's just figured it out. I walked in with my guns loaded, and he's been ambushed. It's obvious that I've done this several times, because I have such rapid responses to anything he says.
I don't exactly feel sorry for him. He can always order me out.
"I'll run it by Mr. Lake," he says, conceding a little. "He has pretty strict rules about personnel. I don't have the authority to hire a paralegal who doesn't meet our specs."
"Sure," I say sadly. Kicked in the face again. I've actually become quite good at this. I've learned that lawyers, regardless of how busy they are, have an inherent sympathy for a fresh new graduate who can't find work. Limited sympathy.
"Maybe he'll say yes, and if he does, then the job's yours." He offers this to ease me down gently.
"There's something else," I say, rallying. "I do have a case. A very good one."
This causes him to be extremely suspicious. "What kind of case?" he asks.
"Insurance bad faith."
"You the client?"
"Nope. I'm the lawyer. I sort of stumbled across it."
"What's it worth?"
I hand him a two-page summary of the Black case, heavily modified and sensationalized. I've worked on this synopsis for a while now, fine-tuning it every time some lawyer read it and turned me down.
Barry X. reads it carefully, with more concentration than I've seen from anyone yet. He reads it a second time
as I admire his aged-brick walls and dream of an office like this.
"Not bad," he says when he's finished. There's a gleam in his eye, and I think he's more excited than he lets on. "Lemme guess. You want a job, and a piece of the action."
"Nope. Just the job. The case is yours. I'd like to work on it, and I'll need to handle the client. But the fee is yours."
"Part of the fee. Mr. Lake gets most of it," he says with a grin.
Whatever. I honestly don't care how they split the money. I only want a job. The thought of working for Jonathan Lake in this opulent setting makes me dizzy.
I've decided to keep Miss Birdie for myself. As a client, she's not that attractive because she spends nothing on lawyers. She'll probably live to be a hundred and twenty, so there's no benefit in using her as a trump card. I'm sure there are highly skilled lawyers who could show her all sorts of ways to pay them, but this would not appeal to the Lake firm. These guys litigate. They're not interested in drafting wills and probating estates.
I stand again. I've taken enough of Barry's time. "Look," I say as sincerely as possible, "I know you're busy. I'm completely legitimate. You can check me out at the law school. Call Madeline Skinner if you want."
"Mad Madeline. She's still there?"
"Yes, and right now she's my best friend. She'll vouch for me."
"Sure. I'll get back with you as soon as possible."
Sure you will.
I get lost twice trying to find the front door. No one's watching me, so I take my time, admiring the large offices scattered around the building. At one point, I stop at the edge of the library and gaze up at three levels of walkways and narrow promenades. No two offices are even re-
motely similar. Conference rooms are stuck here and there. Secretaries and clerks and flunkies move quietly about on the heartpine floors.
I'd work here for a lot less than twenty-one thousand a year.
I PARK QUIETLY behind the long Cadillac, and ease from my car without a sound. I'm in no mood to repot mums. I step softly around the house and am greeted by a tall stack of huge white plastic bags. Dozens of them. Pine bark mulch, by the ton. Each bag weighs one hundred pounds. I now recall something Miss Birdie said a few days ago about remulching all the flower beds, but I had no idea.
I dart for the steps leading to my apartment, and as I bound for the top I hear her calling, "Rudy. Rudy dear, let's have some coffee." She's standing by the monument of pine bark, grinning broadly at me with her gray and yellow teeth. She is truly happy I'm home. It's almost dark and she likes to sip coffee on the patio as the sun disappears.
"Of course," I say, folding my jacket over the rail and ripping off my tie.
"How are you, dear?" she sings upward. She started this "Dear" business about a week ago. It's dear this and dear that.
"Just fine. Tired. My back is bothering me." I've been hinting about a bad back for several days, and so far she hasn't taken the bait.
I take my familiar chair while she mixes her dreadful brew in the kitchen. It's late afternoon, the shadows are falling across the back lawn. I count the bags of mulch. Eight across, four deep, eight high. That's 256 bags. At 100 pounds each, that's a total of 25,600 pounds. Of mulch. To be spread. By me.
We sip our coffee, very small sips for me, and she wants to know everything I've done today. I lie and tell her I've been talking to some lawyers about some lawsuits, then I studied for the bar exam. Same thing tomorrow. Busy, busy, you know, with lawyer stuff. Certainly no time to lift and carry a ton of mulch.
Both of us are sort of facing the white bags, but neither wants to look at them. I avoid eye contact.
"When do you start working as a lawyer?" she asks.
"Not sure," I say, then explain for the tenth time how I will study hard for the next few weeks, just bury myself in the books at law school, and hope I pass the bar exam. Can't practice till I pass the exam.
"How nice," she says, drifting away for a moment. "We really need to get started with that mulch," she adds, nodding and rolling her eyes wildly at it.
I can't think of anything to say for a moment, then, "Sure is a lot."
"Oh, it won't be bad. Ill help."
That means she'll point with her spade and maintain an endless line of chatter.
"Yeah, well, maybe tomorrow. It's late and I've had a rough day."
She thinks about this for a second. "I was hoping we could start this afternoon," she says. "I'll help."
"Well, I haven't had dinner," I say.
"I'll make you a sandwich," she offers quickly. A sandwich to Miss Birdie is a transparent slice of processed turkey between two thin slices of no-fat white bread. Not a drop of mustard or mayo. No thought of lettuce or cheese. It would take four to knock off the slightest of hunger pains.
She stands and heads for the kitchen as the phone rings. I have yet to receive a separate line into my apartment, though she's been promising one for two weeks.
Right now I have an extension, which means there is no privacy on the phone. She has asked me to restrict my calls because she needs complete access to it. It seldom rings.
"It's for you, Rudy," she calls from the kitchen. "Some lawyer."
It's Barry X. He says he's talked it over with Jonathan Lake, and it's okay if we pursue another conversation. He asks if I can come to his office now, at this moment, he says he works all night. And he wants me to bring the file. He wants to see the entire file on my bad-faith case.