“I’m good at my job.”
“Try and sound a little more convincing.”
I take a deep breath and say it with determination. “I’m good at my job.”
“Atta girl.” My friend Justine hits the elevator button. She swears by positive affirmations. She takes a gulp of the venti-sized coffee I just bought her and yawns. I’m a paralegal at the firm, not her assistant, but she’s the one who got me this gig, so I try to repay her with lattes. I also do my best to make sure she doesn’t go into work looking like she just got out of bed from a weekend-long sex marathon.
“Your shirt’s done up wrong,” I tell her, as the crowd of businessmen cram into the elevator with us. “And you forgot to brush your hair.”
“Whoops.” Justine laughs. She holds out the coffee for me to hold, and rebuttons her shirt. All the guys around us stare, but she just winks. “Sorry boys, I’m all worn out,” she says, as we reach our floor.
“Justine!” I hiss, as we walk past the reception to Hudgens, Cartwright & Abrams, one of the top law firms in LA. “You can’t say stuff like that, not if you want to be taken seriously around here.”
“Please.” She rolls her eyes. “I bring in a shit-ton of business and my billables are through the roof. They respect me plenty.”
I sigh. I could only dream of having Justine’s reputation as a cut-throat litigator and all round ball-buster. As a paralegal, I’m the bottom of the food-chain around here. It’s my goal to go to law-school and become a real lawyer one day, but that’s going to take a stellar LSAT score and a couple of hundred thousand dollars in student loans I can’t afford.
For now, I’m stuck assisting the real lawyers on their cases: doing all the research while they take the glory. Most of the time, it’s not so bad: I’m learning a lot here. But then there are the lawyers who treat me like their own personal slave.
“Flaws!”
The yell makes me flinch. Carter Abrams IV, son of the senior partner here, and all round jackass. I’ve told him a hundred times my last name is Fawes, but he just likes to make my life a living hell.
“Remember, you’ve got to stand up to him if you want to be taken seriously,” Justine reminds me. “Keep letting him treat you like shit, and you’ll never earn his respect.”
I could single-handedly win every case on the books right now, and Carter would still hate my guts, but I give Justine a smile all the same. “Thanks, babe,” I sigh. “I better get to it.”
“Flaws!”
I open the door to his office just as Carter lets out another yell. “I’m right here.” I try to sound like Justine: confident and in control. Carter just sneers.
“Old man Ashcroft is in Conference Room B. He’s got more questions.”
I pause, confused. “It’s a simple will we’re drawing up. I wonder what’s the problem.”
“I don’t give a shit what his problem is,” Carter says. “Go handle it. That old fart rambles on, it makes me want to blow my fucking brains out.”
“But you told me to gather case files for the Montgomery appeal,” I start to reply. I’m buried with work as it is -- not just from Carter, but three of the other associates too.
“So? I’m not your fucking mother. Multitask!” Carter scowls at me. “Now don’t leave him waiting. He’s an important client.”
Not important enough for you to get off your fat ass and work for a change, I silently reply. But Carter is already clicking at his computer again. As I turn to leave, I hear the first moans from his speakers that mean he’s looking at porn again.
“Close the door!” he yells. I shut it behind me with a shudder. One time I walked in on him without knocking and found one of the assistants on her knees. Carter treats the office like his personal playroom -- and because his daddy is the boss, he gets away with it too.
But as I turn down the hall to the conference room, my spirits lift again. Our client, Charles Ashcroft, is a great guy. He made his fortune in paper mills and shipping, back in the day. He’s in his late seventies now, and needs a full-time nurse to wheel an oxygen tank behind him wherever he goes, but he loves to chat and tell funny stories about his youth.
“There’s my favorite future lawyer,” Ashcroft greets me as I step into the room.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I tell him. “Can I get you tea or coffee, or something to eat?”
“Psh.” Ashcroft waves my offer away, his blue eyes bright and full of life, even against the wrinkles of his old, weathered face. “You shouldn’t be fetching and carrying for anyone.”
“You sound like my friend, Justine,” I laugh, pulling up a chair.
“She’s right you know.” Ashcroft nods. “That mind’s too good to waste on these fools.”
“I’ll let the partners know you said hello.” I smile. “Ready to get started?”
“Wait a moment. Before we get down to business, I have something for you.” Ashcroft reaches into his jacket pocket.
“For me?” I frown. “You shouldn’t have.”
“Here.” He pulls out a slim, rectangular jewelry box and passes it to me. I open it, still confused.
Holy shit.
It’s a bracelet. An antique-looking piece laid with sparkling stones that couldn’t be...?
“Are these diamonds?” I ask, stunned.
Ashcroft chuckles. “Wouldn’t be any good if they weren’t. A token of my thanks for all your assistance on my case.”
“I can’t accept this.” I regretfully snap the box shut and place it back on the table. “But thank you, it’s so nice of you.”
“Why ever not?” Ashcroft looks surprised.
“I can’t,” I insist again, unsettled. “You’re a client. And a gentleman. But I wouldn’t feel right.”
“I send Cartwright whiskey every Christmas,” he argues. “I’m allowed to give you gifts if I damn please. How is this any different?”
“It just is.” I know he’s rich and eccentric, but this is too weird. I wonder if he is losing it. “I’m sorry,” I say quickly, “but I wouldn’t be comfortable taking this. It looks like an heirloom.”
“But you should have it.” Ashcroft’s eyes turn watery. “You have to take it!” He reaches across, trying to push the box back into my hands. I resist, but he’s insistent. “Please,” he begs, then suddenly breaks into a cough, the spasms shaking his frail body.
“Oh God, are you OK?” I leap up to grab a glass of water. “Here, drink this.”
Ashcroft sips at the water, and slowly his gasping cough fades away.
“Can I get you anything?” I hover, worried. “Where’s June?” I look around for the nurse who’s usually nearby.
“I sent her to run errands.” Ashcroft shakes his head, recovering. “There’s no cure for old age, my dear,” he says, his voice still hoarse. He sips the water again, and looks around the room, his expression confused. “What were we talking about?”
“Your will,” I tell him, carefully moving the bracelet box out of sight. I’ll give it to June to take back later; with any luck, he’ll forget all about the strange gift.
“Ah, yes.” Ashcroft blinks. “Of course.”
I sit down again, but keep an eye on him, just in case. “It’s all fairly straightforward,” I say, turning to his file, the one I’ve been working on all month. “We’ve gone over your assets, and you’ve drawn up a list of charities.” I pause, still wondering about one thing. “Are you sure you don’t want to name any of your children? According to this document, they get nothing.”
Mr. Ashcroft scowls. “Spoiled, selfish bastards, all of them. Spent their lives using my money, and what do they have to show for it? Never even visited for the holidays, until I had my third stroke and it looked like I might not make it. Then they couldn’t fly in fast enough. Vultures.”
“OK,” I calm him, worried he’ll have another coughing fit. “I’ll finalize the will.”
“I bet you treat your folks better than my pack of disappointments do me.” Mr. Ashcroft gives me a look.
I pause. “My parents passed,” I tell him, feeling a pang.
Mr. Ashcroft looks shocked. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize. When did it happen?”
“A car crash, five years ago,” I reply.
“And you have other family?” he asks.
“Nope. Just me.”
“Terrible. Terrible.” Ashcroft coughs again, looking even more distressed. He’s still staring at me with sad eyes, so I force a smile.
“It’s fine,” I insist, not wanting to make him feel any more uncomfortable. “You couldn’t have known. Now, it looks like we’re all set here. I’ll have Mr. Abrams Jr. look over the papers, and you can sign them.”
“That doofus?” Ashcroft snorts. “No, honey, I’d rather stick with you.”
“You know I’m not a real lawyer,” I tell him, laughing. “I just help prepare the documents.”
“You’ve got more smarts in that pretty head of yours than half this bunch of asses put together,” Mr. Ashcroft tells me.
I smile. “Well, until I magically come up with a couple of hundred thousand dollars for law school, I’m afraid they’re the ones signing on the dotted line.”
My parents weren’t wealthy people, and they didn’t have life insurance. They left me a small amount from the house, but once their debts and the mortgage were paid off, it barely covered my college tuition and living expenses. Now I’m on my own with only my dying succulent plant for company, scraping rent on a tiny studio apartment, and working extra hours here at the law firm whenever I can.
Mr. Ashcroft gives me a piercing look. “Never say never, my dear. We don’t know what the future will bring.”
I smile and nod, but inside, I stifle a sigh. The problem is I know exactly what my future holds: another five years of fetching Carter’s dry-cleaning -- unless he fires me first.