Primary Justice (Ben Kincaid series Book 1) (7 page)

Ben didn’t say anything.

Christina changed the subject abruptly. “Are you going to the Raven, Tucker & Tubb dinner and dance gala Friday night?”

“Do I have any choice?” They laughed. “How about you?” he asked.

“
Faux pas, faux pas
. Legal assistants are not invited. Only lawyers and their chosen companions.”

Ben’s face reddened. “Oh. Sorry …”

“It’s all right. It gave me a chance to speak French. Are you impressed that I know French phrases? I love the way they sound. Especially
faux pas
. It’s my favorite. I can spell it, too. Can you?”

Ben blinked. “I was never very good at spelling.”

“Don’t sweat it. You’ll enjoy the party. I mean, not that I’d know, ’cause I’ve never been. Don’t let that spoil it for you, though. I’m sure I’ll find something else to do. Of course, nothing could compare with the thrill of going to the Excelsior ballroom and mixing with the Tulsa
crème de la crème
.” She paused. “More French.
Crème de la crème
.”

“I noticed.”

“Do you know what it means?”

“I think so.”

“Can you spell it?”

“Ahhh … no.”

“Oh, well.
C’est la vie
.” She uncrossed, then re-crossed her legs. “Now, if I had a boyfriend, I might consider gate-crashing. The party, I mean. On Friday night. But on my own? No, it would never do.”

Information received and catalogued, Ben thought.

Christina reached into her satchel and withdrew a thick pad of printed paper, then passed the pad across the desk to Ben. “These are your time sheets. There are spaces here for the name of the client, the computer code number of the billing matter, the number of hours worked, and a brief, not-very-informative description of the work performed. This is how we bill clients.”

Ben scanned the billing sheets. “Thanks,” he said. “I was wondering about the mechanics.”

Christina brushed her hair away from her face. “Ben, do you mind if I give you some advice?”

“Thanks, I’ve already had plenty from Derek.”

“Yeah, but this advice will do you some good. I don’t want to be presumptuous, but you seem like a nice guy, not like the usual young lawyer zombies we get around here. You’ve got a certain
je ne sais quoi
.”

“More French,” he noted.

“Yeah.” Her broad smile flashed again. “Didn’t you formerly work for a legal aid society or something?”

“The D.A.’s office.”

“Well, you’re at a private law firm now, a big one, and the rules of the game are entirely different. Let me tell you what I, based on my five years at Raven, Tucker & Tubb, perceive to be the three principal guidelines for new associates. If you don’t mind.”

Ben shook his head. “Please. I need all the help I can get.”

“First, fill out your time sheets every day. Don’t put it off till the end of the week or when you think you’ll have more time. If you do, you’ll forget things you did, and you won’t understand your notes, and every minute lost is a minute Raven doesn’t get paid for. The shareholders may tell you they’re concerned with … oh, associate training or family or inner growth or whatever; but when they’re making the decisions about issues that really matter, like raises and bonuses and making partner, shareholders care about two things. Billing big hours and bringing in new clients. You’ve just moved to Tulsa, so barring a miracle, you ain’t gonna be bringing in any big new corporate clients. So fill out your time sheets. Generously. Every day.”

Ben pretended to be making notes. “Time sheets, every day. Got it. What’s rule number two?”

“Lunch at the Oil Capital Club every Thursday. That’s where the shareholders hold their weekly meetings. You can’t go to the meeting, of course, but they can see you on their way in or out. It seems ridiculous, and it costs bucks, but it makes a lasting impression. So remember, rule number two: future shareholders lunch at the Oil Capital Club.”

“I’m pretty fond of Carl’s Coney Island myself.”

“Future permanent associates lunch at Carl’s Coney Island. That’s rule number three.”

“I see.”

“So make a sacrifice for your career.”

“Is this Oil Capital Club a decent eatery?”

“Beats me. No women allowed.”

Ben’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding.”

“Scout’s honor.”

“How could female shareholders attend the meetings?”

Christina offered a thin smile. “Fortunately, that contingency hasn’t arisen yet.”

Ben rubbed his eyes. “Okay. Any other words of wisdom?”

Christina batted her lips with her index finger. “I’m going to offer you a specially tailored rule, because I think you’re subject to special circumstances. You’ve got Richard Derek for a supervising attorney.” She looked over her shoulder and verified that the door was shut. “Derek comes from an oil-rich Tulsa family; he’s the baby boy in a family of five; he’s Harvard-educated; he did a short stint with a Philadelphia law firm, then returned home to Tulsa. He’s well connected and knows a lot of important people. He’s incredibly intelligent and evidently is an effective, if undiplomatic, lawyer. He’s egotistical, imperious, thoughtless, and generally difficult to get along with. He’s made a career out of good looks and a fondness for bullying.” She caught Ben’s eye. “And you haven’t exactly gotten off to a great start.”

Ben groaned. “Don’t tell me you’ve heard.”

“About the toupee tragicomedy? Everyone has.” She grinned. “It’s made you very popular in certain circles. We always suspected the egomaniac wore a rug. Thanks for the confirmation.”

Christina laid her hand on the edge of Ben’s desk. “The fact is, Ben, you
have
to get along with him. Maybe later, a year or so down the road, you can ask for a transfer, or ask to work for a variety of masters. The shareholders will understand, believe me. But not yet.”

“First I’ve got to pay my dues, eh?”

“Something like that. You don’t want to develop a reputation for being a troublemaker. Nothing is more expendable to a big firm than a young, salaried troublemaker. So tread softly. Humor the jerk.”

Christina glanced at her wristwatch. “Good grief, I didn’t mean to prattle on.” She rose to her feet. “I must be moseying. I just wanted to introduce myself. Don’t hesitate to ask me for help. I’m working for four other attorneys in addition to you, but I can always do a little more.” She glanced at the files on Ben’s desk. “Looks as if you’re already behind.”

Ben followed her gaze. He’d forgotten all about the new files, and he was supposed to familiarize himself with both cases by tomorrow morning. Could she help? He realized he didn’t even know what legal assistants did.

“I can help with proofreading, cite checking, document control, cataloguing, deposition summaries. You name it—I can do it.”

And read minds, too, apparently. “Could you … summarize a case file?”

“No problem.” She reached toward the two files on the desk. “Which one?”

“Take your pick.”

She took the thicker of the two. “When do you need it?”

Ben averted his eyes. “Tomorrow morning.”

“Ahhh,” she said, “a Richard Derek test. He’ll want to know about the most obscure details imaginable, everything you’re tempted to skim over because it doesn’t seem important. I’ll come in early tomorrow, and we can discuss the file. Good thing you called me in. You’d never have made it alone.”

She made a clicking noise with her tongue and walked through the door. “Of course, after I do this favor for you, you’ll owe me. Kind of a
quid pro quo
.” She smiled. “Another French phrase. Classy, huh?”

Ben hesitated. “Actually,” he said slowly, “I think that’s Latin.”

Christina raised her chin defiantly. “Well, I still like it.” She grinned and left the office.

Ben leaned back in his chair. She was right about one thing. Life at the big law firm was not what he expected.

He opened the remaining file on his desk and began to read, but he couldn’t concentrate. He kept flashing back to his brief glimpse of Jonathan Adams’s bloodied remains—and of Bertha Adams riding to the scene of the crime to identify the body.

Whether Derek liked it or not, he had to do something.

But he couldn’t figure out what.

R
AVEN, TUCKER & TUBB THREW
only two formal bashes a year, the summer cotillion and the obligatory Christmas party, so when those occasions rolled around, Raven could afford to go all out. In fact, according to Ben’s sources, the parties could actually turn a profit, not merely by boosting the self-image of the shareholders, but also by reaping benefits from selected clients who enjoyed a night of high-class revelry. Raven’s bashes had become so elaborate and costly (and well covered in the newspapers), particularly for a big-small city such as Tulsa, that an invitation had become a prestige item. And the only way for a non-Raven attorney—who wasn’t married to or sleeping with a Raven attorney—to get an invitation was to be a client. It was a surprisingly effective incentive.

The ballroom at the Excelsior was enormous. Yet, by congregating all the dining tables in one quarter of the room and reserving a spacious area for dancing, the room was made to feel more festive and intimate. There were also separate smaller rooms adjacent to the ballroom containing pool tables, card tables, and similar amusements for small groups.

The band was an exercise in acoustical compromise, intermixing big-band melodies with Muzaked versions of popular rock songs. The dance floor was almost empty this early in the evening, with never more than ten couples, mostly elder shareholders who had nothing to lose by embarrassing themselves. Shareholders, Ben observed, tended to take the floor with someone else’s wife, or some female associate normally only seen in a gray suit with a scarf bow tie.

After dinner, the plates were cleared, and approximately five hundred people began milling about, trying to shake the right hands, flirt with the right wives and flatter the right egos.

Ben was sitting at a large round table with the other new associates, including Alvin, Greg, and Marianne, all in formal dress. He had hoped the new associates would be distributed throughout the room so he could meet some new people, but instead they were all seated at the same table. As Alvin pointed out, there was no margin for the shareholders in taking the time to learn all the new names, at least not until they had a better idea of who would be staying and who would not.

The only non-new associate at the table was Tom Melton, a gregarious fifth-year associate assigned to supervise and assimilate the incoming class. Tom, Ben thought, was the sort of person who made partying and flattery seem like professional skills. His ability to tell boisterous, bawdy, often self-deprecating jokes was matched only by his ability to butter up shareholders and shamelessly bolster their sense of self-importance. Probably on the partnership track, too.

The male associates at the table were talking sports-predictions of success and failure, with reenacted instant replays. Ben was reminded of the crucial importance of a superficial knowledge of sports for male bonding and camaraderie. When Ben was interviewing, he always made a point of memorizing the day’s sports headlines so that he could drop names into the conversation at strategic points, usually in sentences that began “How ’bout them …” Tonight, he was unprepared.

And there were other problems as well.

“You and I seem to be the only ones here without dates,” Ben said to Alvin. “Of course, I just moved to Tulsa last Saturday. What’s your excuse?”

“I find it easier to function at these formal exercises in social foreplay when I don’t have to worry about whether my date has her head in the punchbowl.”

“I see. Want to shoot some pool?”

“No. I find that the bullets tend to deflect off the surface of the water.”

Oh, it’s going to be one of those conversations, is it? “Excuse me,” Ben said. “I mean, would you like to play a game of billiards?” He turned toward Marianne. “Boy, a minor imprecision, and this guy jumps all over you.”

“Actually, I never jump all over anyone,” Alvin replied.

“Really,” Ben said. “Must be hell on your sex life.”

“Actually, I don’t have a sex life. I’m celibate.”

There was a hush at the table. “Sorry to hear that,” Ben offered.

“No, no, no,” Alvin said. “It’s by choice. I swore an oath of celibacy some time ago. I prefer it this way.”

“I see. That must be … trying.”

“Not at all. I prefer it. Never had it, don’t miss it.”

“Ah.” Ben nodded his head.

Greg decided to join the fun. “Well, better stay away from Raven’s new wife, then,” he advised Alvin. “You may not have any choice.” Several of the men at the table laughed in a knowing fashion.

“Raven has a new wife?” Ben asked Alvin quietly.

“Boy, you don’t keep up at
all
, do you, Kincaid? How are you ever going to make it in the murky world of firm politics?” He shook his head with disgust. “Yes, Raven has a new wife. His sixth.”

“Have you met her?”

“Not personally. But I’ve heard about her. They say she’s considerably younger than he is.”

“She could hardly be much older.”

“Good point. They also say she’s on the prowl.”

“On the
prowl
?”

“You heard me. On the prowl. And she likes young associates.”

“Get real.”

“That’s the word on the street. I suppose a woman in her position would come to appreciate anything young, don’t you?” The men all laughed boisterously.

“Kincaid,” Greg said, “you’re single, decent-looking, as far as I know, heterosexual—and not celibate. This could be a tremendous opportunity for you.” He smiled his perfect smile, but it was more like a leer this time.

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

Greg frowned. “C’mon; Ben, it’s a career move.” He jabbed his elbow into Ben’s ribs. “Close your eyes and think of England.”

Ben half smiled. “I’ll give it some consideration.” He craned his neck around, looking for an avenue of escape from this conversation. Immediately behind him, he saw his old pal, Richard Derek.

“Good evening, Mr. Derek,” Ben said, rising to his feet. “Enjoying yourself?”