In 1993 I am a summer associate at the Palo Alto office of the law firm Cooley Godward in what is, at the time, the firm’s largest-ever class of summer recruits. Thirty-one law students, each with uncreased briefcases and brand-new suits, jockey to prove our mettle to the partners and to discover the pecking order among ourselves. I am determined to be one of the best.
The only Black partner in the three-hundred-lawyer firm is Tom Jackson. A six-foot-six guy with dark skin, a long stride, and a personality that is alternately captivating and terrifying. You love his hearty chortle unless he is actually laughing at you, which is always a distinct possibility. No one is immune.
He’ll come out of his huge corner office and stand near his secretary’s carrel and begin to tell a story in a voice loud enough for anyone within forty feet to hear. Lawyers of various ages, and in particular we young ones, come out from behind our desks and stand in our doorways listening, hanging on every word. A fellow summer associate has the great misfortune of having a name one letter off from Tom’s—Tom Jackston—and one day the summer associate’s biweekly paycheck accidentally gets delivered to Tom the partner. He stands at his secretary’s carrel opening his mail and comes upon the paycheck and shouts, “What is this shit?” Then he strides down the hall to the other Tom’s office and throws the paycheck at him, laughing that it isn’t enough to cover more than a pair of new shoes.
Whenever I hear Tom’s heavy footsteps coming down the hall toward my office, my heart starts beating wildly. One day he shows up at my door.
“You busy?” It is more of a bark than a question.
“Um, no?”
“Great. You’re coming with me.”
He turns around and walks away. I scurry out from behind my desk, grab my briefcase, and race after Tom, who is striding toward the elevators. I catch up to him and we stand waiting in silence. I fidget with the buttons on my double-breasted navy blazer. I am dying to know where we are going—and for how long—but don’t dare ask.
We get to his Lexus sport coupe. He opens the passenger door for me. I sit down and he shuts the door and walks around to the other side. I tuck my briefcase in the footwell and begin smoothing my long navy-and-white-striped skirt. “So where are we going?” I finally ask as he eases the car out of the parking lot and onto the main road. “You’ll see.” I try to affect casual, as if I don’t care that I have no idea what is going on. I try, even, to be delighted by it.
When I cross my right leg over my left and settle back into the bucket seat, I notice my right shoe. It is black. But I was sure I was wearing my navy pumps! I uncross my legs and stare at both feet now side by side in the footwell. One is navy and one is black. As I’d soon learn, Tom and I are headed to court for a hearing. Tom is mentoring me and all I have to do is pay attention. But all I can think about is the ribbing I’ll get if Tom notices my shoes.
Toward the end of the summer, a huge complaint comes in and it becomes my job to analyze and dismiss every case cited by the other side. I stay at the office until midnight or one a.m. every day for a week. When the memo is done, I leave it on Tom’s chair and creep home in the dark of night. The next day I’m in line for lunch at the little café in our office complex. Tom comes up behind me and my heart starts to pound. “That was one helluva memo, kid.” That’s all he says. It was all he needed to say. I am making it even in this Black partner’s eyes. I know he’s been counting on me to get this right.