A very irritating hand was soon shaking my shoulder and I looked up into the gloating face of Sally Westin. She said, “It’s about time that you got into the swing of things.”
“You ratted me out.”
“Yes, I did. For your own good.”
We exchanged brief stares of mutual animosity, then I said, “These two guys, Sam and Bill, end up seated side by side on a plane, and Bill can’t help noticing that Sam has a black eye. So Bill says to Sam, ‘Hey what happened to your eye?’ Sam says, ‘Well, I had a slight verbal accident, ’ and Bill curiously asks, ‘How’s that?’Sam says, ‘I was having breakfast with my wife, and I was trying to say, “Hey honey, could you please pour me a bowl of those delicious-looking Frosties.” Only it came out, “You ruined my life you fatassed, evil, self-centered bitch.” ’”
She stared for a moment, then remarked, “That’s not funny.” She crossed her arms and contemplated me. “You don’t like it here, do you?”
“What gave away my secret?”
“What didn’t?” She asked, “Why?”
“You don’t want to hear it.”
“Play your cards right and you could get an offer to join the firm. I hear Morrow got an offer. Most lawyers would love to be in your shoes.”
“You mean, isn’t it the ambition of all public-sector lawyers to join big firms?”
“I didn’t put it like that.” But it was certainly what she meant. The third-year scramble at law schools is all about a certain pecking order, starting with prestigious big firms, then smaller, less prestigious ones, then your mother’s brother with that small real estate titles business.
The lucky few who make it to prestigious big firms assume that we who don’t are envious swine who’d do anything to escape our dreary jobs and Lilliputian paychecks. There is a modicum of truth in that, somewhere; I, however, count myself as an exception. Near-poverty suits me fine. It relieves me of so many burdens, temptations, and difficult choices.
I threw my legs off the couch and the momentum brought me to my feet. But regarding her point, I said, “Law isn’t all about making money or prestigious titles.”
Whoops-I looked around to be sure the walls were still standing. But it appeared the building’s pilings were sunk deep enough in the muck of greed and avarice to keep it upright.
“Why do you practice law?” I asked Sally.
“What does that mean?”
“This firm, twenty-hour days, overbearing partners, the race to bill… why?” Note how cleverly I sidestepped her father and grandfather.
“I love law.”
“ What do you love about law?”
“I… I haven’t really thought about it.”
“Think now, Sally.” She looked away, and I added, “You don’t look like you’re having fun.”
“Really?”
“You look overworked, miserable, and empty.”
Her nostrils flared. “Thank you.” Anytime, Sally.
I stretched and yawned. I had arrived the night before dressed comfortably in jeans and a sweatshirt, so I slipped out of my sweat-shirt and reached for one of my new oxford button-downs. She pointed at three or four round scars on my torso and asked, “How did you get those?”
“Poor timing, bad luck… the usual way.”
“Is Army law that dangerous?”
“Before my life turned to crap, I was an infantryman.”
“You sound like you enjoyed that.”
“Yes… well.” I rubbed my forehead and confessed, “Infantrymen kill people. You know, people piss you off, and… Look, I know this sounds sick… you’d be surprised how gratifying… not that I think about it all the time…”
She edged away from me. “You’re serious?”
“My… well, my counselor… I mean, surely you’ve heard of post-traumatic stress… I’m making swell progress, she says. As long as… you know, nothing exacerbates my condition. Please, don’t mention it to anyone. It’s kind of embarrassing.”
She was staring at a blank wall, and I suggested, “Perhaps you can leave, so I can change.”
“Yes… of course.” She left and returned a few minutes later, placed the exam on my blotter, and said with newfound courtesy, “Incidentally, we have a flight at nine.”
“Who has a flight?”
“The protest team. You’ll want to shave and clean up. Jason Morris is sending his private jet. I… I know this is hard for you, but a good impression is important.”
“Just don’t tell him about… well, my condition, okay?”
She gave me a long stare before she left me to ponder this new possibility. Of course, it was only a matter of time before the whole firm learned the Army had sent a homicidal idiot into its midst.
Still, it certainly couldn’t hurt to piss on the shoe of the firm’s biggest rainmaker.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Cy, Barry, Sally, and I congregated at the private-plane terminal at Dulles International and were promptly ushered aboard a twin-engine Learjet. The plane’s interior was specially outfitted for the rich and pampered, with four plush leather chairs collected around a conference table, and a pert young stewardess named Jenny who sported a fab tan, great legs, a rock-hard fanny, and the perky, upbeat manners of an aerobics instructor. “Come on, everybody, let’s get those seatbelts buckled now.” Big smile, clapped hands, the works. Save me, please.
But the lovely Miss Jenny jibed with something else I had heard and read about her employer. Mr. Jason Morris was reputedly a cocksman of renown, rumored to have balled half the eye candy in Hollywood and assorted other famous ladies. If those tabloids with splashy headlines about who’s been sneaking in and out of whose boudoir were to be believed, Mr. Morris was quite the little sneak.
But exactly how poor Jason managed to scrape together all that moolah, between dashing off to Bimini with this bimbo this week, and the Hamptons with that hottie the next, was, you can bet, a question I’d like to know the answer to. There was even, reportedly, a mile-high club among his formers. I idly wondered how the striking Miss Jenny occupied herself while her boss screwed his lovely guests into the fine leather of my seat. The onboard breakfast: eggs benedict, side orders of kippers and bacon, brioches, and orange juice with a hefty jolt of gin. Was this the life, or what?
And in fact, Cy and Barry were stuffing their greedy faces, knocking back loaded juices, and mumbling joyfully between themselves as Sally and I played ambitious junior associates and perused the same legal packets that had been stacked on her desk the day before. The documents were wordy and composed in that murderous syntax lawyers employ to confuse their clients and justify high fees, but the matter at hand was fairly simple. It boiled down to this:
The DARPA original request for bid was built around three essential requirements. One-the network, or pipeline, in techie lexicon, had to be capable of transmitting streaming video on sixteen channels simultaneously, so the scientists of DARPA could work collaboratively. This is something like cramming sixteen different television stations across one wire and onto one TV screen. Two- the network had to be completely secure, impervious to jamming, eavesdropping, hackage, or leakage. Three-the personnel administering the network had to possess Top Secret clearances.
I browsed swiftly through the technical malarkey regarding gigabits, frequencies, routers, switches, and so forth, then dozens of spreadsheets, business plans, and financial estimates, the sum of which made it clear that Jason’s boys had creamed the contenders. The next best bid was 25 percent above Morris’s. Ticket prices rose steadily from there.
On November 15, the Department of Defense had publicly declared Morris Networks the victor. A day later, an attorney representing AT amp;T visited the Pentagon Contracts office and posed a number of due diligence queries. He learned that a baffling exception had been granted to Morris Networks. The requirement for employees with Top Secret clearances had been waived.