Derek’s eyes roved across his desk and came to rest on a brown piece of linen paper Ben knew must be his résumé. “B.A. in music theory, something every lawyer needs to know, minor in English literature, a year in the Peace Corps, a year as a Goodwill Ambassador for Rotary International. Oh, God. Let me guess. You probably went to law school because”—he exhaled a cloud of smoke and curled his lip—“you wanted to help people.” He smiled broadly.
“Well,” Ben said quietly, “as a matter of fact …”
Derek chuckled. “That’s so sweet. Well, what’s the point of being young if you can’t believe in fairy tales?” Derek stretched, grimaced, and rubbed his back in the alleged sore spot. “Of course, if you really wanted to help people, I suppose you would have gone to work at the public defenders’ office or a legal aid agency, instead of working at the biggest, richest corporate law firm in the state, right?” Derek grinned, obviously impressed with his own penetrating insight.
“I used to work for the D.A. in Oklahoma City,” Ben said.
“Right,” Derek said, nodding. “I see that in your résumé. You worked there a year and a half. Just long enough to make yourself marketable.”
“It wasn’t really like that—”
“Stop.” Derek interrupted Ben with a wave of his hand and a demeanor that told Ben he was about to convey some great nugget of wisdom. “Don’t bother denying it. I’m not criticizing you. I’m complimenting you.” He leaned forward across the desk. “You know what’s really important in the legal world today?”
Ben took a pen from his end of the desk and twirled it between his fingers. “No, sir. What?”
“Marketing. That’s what.”
“Marketing, sir?”
“Yes, marketing. How are you at marketing, Kincaid?”
“Wha—I … I don’t know, sir. They don’t really cover that in law school.”
“Hmmm.” Derek pursed his lips and drew on his cigarette as if he were bringing the smoke in from another county. “I suppose not. They didn’t teach it at Harvard, either. Of course, they don’t really need to teach marketing at Harvard. One’s mere presence at Harvard is generally sufficient.”
Derek tapped the Harvard Law School diploma hanging over his desk, just beneath a stuffed and mounted bobcat, poised forever in mid-spring. Funny, Ben thought, Derek doesn’t really seem the hunter type. Looks more like a bridge player.
“Of course,” Derek continued, “that stuff they teach you in law school is of some value, too. But if you aren’t adept at marketing, you don’t have clients, and if you don’t have clients, what good is knowing the law?”
Ben raised the pen to his mouth and began to chew on the lid, then caught himself. He returned the pen to the desk and sat on his hands. “I suppose I never thought about it like that.”
“Well, that’s the reality, kid, so it’s just as well you come to grips with it now. How old are you, Kincaid?”
“I’m twenty-nine, sir.”
“Hmmm. Well, you may be old enough for this. Just one more tip, Kincaid, and I hope you’re not too young to appreciate it. All that business in law school—you know, about stare decisis, and how the law is the sacrosanct wisdom of the ages, passed down from time immemorial and applied evenly to different fact situations throughout time?”
“Yes?”
“It’s a crock. A con job by a musty crusty crowd of academics. You know what the law really is?”
Ben didn’t think this was an appropriate time to guess. “What?”
“It’s mirrors and bubble gum. The only thing that’s sacrosanct is your client. Your client needs help, and the odds are there won’t be any law precisely on point to help him, so you, the lawyer, must take what law there is and perform a little magic. Create the illusion of precedent with mirrors and bubble gum, and make the law say what it needs to say. That’s what being a lawyer is all about.”
Ben knitted his eyebrows and tried to appear as if he was absorbing all the erudition.
“That’s what Joseph Sanguine liked about me from day one,” Derek continued. “I told him the law was a tool, just like a hammer or a monkey wrench, and I could put the tool in his tool box.” Derek leaned back in his chair. “And I’ve had all his legal business ever since. He’s one of the firm’s biggest clients. And he’s a close personal friend, too.”
For some reason, Ben had difficulty imagining that Derek had any close personal friends.
“Am I making any impression on you, Kincaid?”
“Ahh—yes, sir. Yes, you are.”
“Not much of a talker, are you, Kincaid?” He smiled faintly. “Perhaps in time.” He blew another cloud of smoke into the air. “Well, I hope you’ll take what I’ve said to heart. I have a case I want you to work on, Kincaid. An important case for the aforementioned Joseph Sanguine. President of Sanguine Enterprises. Their principal subsidiary is Eggs ‘N’ Stuff, Inc., the franchisor for those cute little breakfast joints you see all over the country. Their national headquarters is right here in Tulsa, you know. They’ve got a problem I think will make an excellent starter case for you.”
Ben beamed. “Really, sir?”
Derek grinned. “Now don’t get too excited, kid. It’s a domestic matter. You took family law in school, didn’t you?”
Ben nodded, considerably subdued.
“It’s an adoption proceeding. For one of Sanguine’s executives. You’re meeting him in about an hour.”
Ben hesitated. “I didn’t think Raven, Tucker & Tubb handled domestic matters, sir.”
Derek shifted positions again and groaned, still rubbing his back. “Well, normally we don’t, but for Joseph Sanguine, we do. I suppose we’d take the garbage out for Joseph Sanguine, if he wanted us to.”
Ben tried not to look disappointed.
“It may not exactly be a blue-chip case,” Derek continued, “but it’s perfectly adequate for a baby lawyer’s first time out.” He peered at Ben across the desk. “I suppose you think you’re too good to do an adoption case? Too much of a waste of your young upwardly mobile talents?”
“Not at all, sir.”
“Well, good. Joseph Sanguine is one of our most important clients. His companies provided Raven, Tucker & Tubb with over three million dollars in gross revenues last year. He likes to think he can depend on us. We don’t want to disappoint him.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Good. If you have any questions about the library or office supplies or anything, just ask Maggie. Maggie is my secretary. We’ll share her, at least for a while, until you’re settled.”
Ben started to rise to his feet.
“Just one last thing, Kincaid.”
“Yes, sir?” Ben wasn’t sure whether to remain standing or to sit back down. He hovered in between for a few moments, then decided to remain standing, then changed his mind and sat down.
“Did you get a good look at the incoming class of associates?”
“I—I think so, sir.”
“Excellent. Let me tell you something about them, Kincaid. For the next three years, they’re all going to be working hard, just like you, putting in overtime, trying to be seen by the boss at the office late at night, carrying mounds of work home with them—even if they don’t plan to work on it. Basically, they’ll be doing the same chores as you. Some cases will be interesting bits of complex litigation; some will be dogs like this adoption business. Except, when the associates receive their evaluations at the end of the first three-year period, half of them will be told that they are on track for partnership, and the other half will be told that they are not. At the end of six years, assuming they are all still here, which is unlikely, perhaps one-fourth of them will be promoted to senior associate positions, and the rest will not. At the end of eight years, assuming there have been no lateral hires, which is unlikely, one, perhaps two, of the associates in your class will be made partners in the richest law firm in the state of Oklahoma, while the rest will either be offered nonprofit-sharing permanent associateships or just sent packing.”