Stark got to the first floor. Each of the doors on the corridors had little bronze nameplates. Paul Hutchison’s office was not hard to find.
He knocked, entered. The room was spacious. A large desk occupied the far wall, upon which, a general muddle of papers. Behind sat Paul Hutchison. The smell of the place was reminiscent of a Burger King. He appeared to be eating something from a Styrofoam food carton, hooking food into his mouth with a plastic fork, some of which missed, trailing down his chin, falling onto the desk top. Looked like scrambled eggs. He glanced up at Stark, pointed to a chair on the opposite side of the desk, continued eating. Stark said nothing, trying to maintain a degree of dignity, approached, and sat. Hutchison didn’t look up, concentrating on the contents of the food carton. He continued this for twenty seconds. Stark counted. He finished, closed the carton, tossed it into a metal bin. He reached for a plastic coffee cup, took a slurp, then brought his attention to Stark.
“You’re probably wondering why I asked you up here,” he said. Stark tried hard to ignore a sliver of egg on the side of Hutchison’s mouth. Stark had no opportunity to respond. Hutchison answered for him.
“You may have guessed from your interview, I’m not your number one fan.” Another slurp of coffee, then, “I’d like you to know, the situation remains the same.”
Stark said nothing.
“I have a talent, Stark. A special talent. Call it a gift. Do you want to know what it is?”
Stark said nothing.
“Let me tell you. I can see through people.”
He paused, obviously wishing the words to sink in. He stared at Stark with his round, moist unblinking eyes. Definitely like a lizard.
“It’s a useful ability to have,” he continued. “Being a court litigator. Understanding the opposition. Reading the signs. Gauging weaknesses, measuring vulnerabilities. Knowing the buttons to press, and when to press them. You understand how advantageous it is to have such a talent, yes?”
Stark remained silent, wondering where the hell this was going.
Hutchison went on, seemingly unperturbed by Stark’s lack of response.
“And here’s the thing.” He put both elbows on the table, leaned his heavy shoulders forward. The table creaked. “I can see through you.”
Stark didn’t reply. There was nothing he could think of to say. Hutchison continued, clearly on a roll.
“You’re not a right fit for this firm. We don’t like people with a past. Because people with a past always drag it into the present. When that happens, things start to go wrong. Work becomes secondary. Suddenly, the issues these people have are paramount, to the exclusion of everything else. In a nutshell, you’re damaged goods. Those are your words. Damaged goods. And I don’t trade with damaged goods. Damaged goods need to be returned, to whatever shithole they came from. You get the drift, Stark. It’s not personal. I just don’t think I can trust you to do the job I would expect you to do. I think you’re going to let the firm down.”
Stark sat, motionless.
“In conclusion,” said Hutchison, “I don’t want you here. And people I don’t want here don’t tend to last long. Perhaps, to save yourself grief and worry, you might want to think about your future, and what you’re going to do with it.” He leaned back in his chair, curling his mouth into a wintry smile. “Any comments, Stark?”
Stark nodded slowly. He stood, reached into his trouser pocket, pulled out a paper napkin he’d got with his early morning coffee, tossed it onto the desk, and said, “You’ve got egg on your chin.”