Law And More

The Assistant

SHORT SHORT FICTION by Jane Genova

A Uriah Heep type player she excelled in the role of subordinate to the powerful.  And, to the powerful she displayed great deference.  When feeling excessively insecure she was even heard to say, "I know my place."  Where she assessed she could get away with it, particularly if there were no witnesses, she bullied, mercilessly. Had the brass assigned her that task of keeping the rank and file in the law firm  brow-beaten?  Any student of office games would vote "no."  This was something she intuited could enhance her performance, at least in the eyes of the equity partners. 

For years, she was right on that one.  It helped that she wasn't attractive, not even in that brittle Manhattan way.  No one would impute her success to sex.  Shrewdly, she married in her late 30s and quickly had two children.  That encapsulated her aura as The Assistant, nothing more.  No equity partner, no client, no prospect was going to be seduced by her or her by them. 

When the firm's fortunes went into reversal in the fall of 2008, The Assistant wasn't in angst, like many others in the office.  In addition to keep running things smoothly, she knew way too much.   The blow came from left field.  Those associates and staff laid off filed a class action lawsuit against her and the firm as co-defendants.  She for her abusiveness resulting in great harm to their physical and mental health.  The firm for allowing it, despite, it turned out, being informed in writing multiple times about her behavior.

The plaintiffs had nothing to lose.  They went for the whole enchilada.  If she was allegedly abusive in the office, it could be equally allegedly likely she was also that way with her children.  Children's services in Connecticut conducted an investigation.

The lawsuit will probably be in limbo.  Atypical for females, she hung herself.  "There has been a growing number of suicides in the legal profession," a Manhattan tabloid observed.  It had a sidebar on statistics which broke down suicide method, gender, age, and socioeconomic class.

Double Wide

SHORT SHORT FICTION by Jane Genova

His father, himself a recovered alcoholic, had cut off contact six years ago.  He realized his son's unusual behavior was not simply an early phase of sobering up. 

Since then, through the legal grapevine, he found out that "it" kept getting worse.  Not only was the once-golden-boy living in and practicing law out of a double wide in Warwick, Rhode Island.  He was billing his legal services according to an elaborate formula of what clients could afford and what he professionally assessed as fair.  Recently, there was more. Like Alcoholics Anonymous co-founder Bill Wilson, he was taking in drunks into his own "home," that is, the double wide.  Two got into a knife fight.

At AA meetings, the son would start his story with "I never had it better."  By 2008, many other lawyers, who were unemployed and overwhelmed with debt, came to agree with him.  By 2009, there were 20,000 out there who never had it worse.  First there was grudging admiration, then awe that he landed on his feet with a successful law practice, with such little overhead. 

His father couldn't handle this either.  Maybe that's what killed him in April.   

Manhattan Bunker

SHORT SHORT FICTION by Jane Genova

They watched the conference room, especially when the equity partner called The Fuhrer entered.  The Fuhrer's administrative assistant [AA] would not allow the schedule for the conference to be public any more.  So that's the only crumb of information that dropped from the table.  The AA was erroneously called The Nazi Guard.  Actually, she was a triple agent, available to anyone who could help her twin daughters get into an Ivy League college.  Not especially cagey, she was easy to fool.  She tipped them off that there would be an urgent meeting around 7:30 A.M. the day after next.

One of them went out of the building with his disposable cell phone that had no contract.  He called Abovethelaw.com [ATL] with the tip about the urgent meeting.  Layoffs would be decided.  The only question, he confidently informed ATL, was how many associates and how many of them would be five-years and up. The deed done, he treated himself to candy from those transparent tubes.  He hit the chocolate-covered almond slot hard, again and again. Comfort food.  Article in THE NEW YORK TIMES said everyone was doing that, including paying for premium brands.

The Fuhrer had better Ivy League connections than they did.  He had planted the rumor with the AA.  Actually, it was in an off-site conference room, in the firm's accountant's office, that the cuts were decided. 

As the tipster was re-entering the building, he saw the tears.  It had happened that fast.  He hoped that he wouldn't cry.  It dawned on him that he was shrewd to disguise his identity with ATL since his information was wrong.