Damages

There is such a thing as graciousness. I have heard it exists. Along with civility, appreciation, gratitude. But to this I testify:

There is no graciousness in the Queen Bee's workplace.

I had some swell Labor Day plans. I was going to take the Jitney out to a friend-of-a-friend's Goldman Sachs Sugar Daddy's spread in Sagaponack, dip my toes in the chilly Atlantic, enjoy the summer's last fleeting breezes and maybe try to hit on a Glamour staffer or two. (Alyssa Shelasky, if you're reading this: call me.)

Those plans, however-like an ill-fated schooner skating the rocky shoals of the Long Island Sound-were scuttled. The Q.B., as is her prerogative, pre-empted the holiday and kept her insect minions droning on at their desks.

Disappointed as I was, it did seem there was good cause for the laboring on Labor Day. Turns out the New Girl's prevaricating future sister-in-law actually provided some legitimate case momentum. From the ashes of her useless testimony, a phoenix has risen. A phoenix with Italianate nomenclature.

The dish is that Sis-in-Law blew her deposition with misinformation spoon-fed by this Italian Stallion, who she'd been in the habit of riding (I know, I know. I just transmogrified "phoenix" into "stallion." Bear with me…no pun intended.) Wherefore the misinformation? Well, well: therein lies the rub. The Queen Bee wants to know who put the Stallion up to Subornation of Perjury, which according to Federal Sentencing Guidelines is not exactly what we'd call un-felonious. Under 18 U.S.C.A. § 1622, a person convicted of said offense may be fined $2,000 and sentenced to up to five years in prison. Two grand is chump change, of course, but hopefully the thought of a half-decade in the clink will inspire the Stallion to sign up for Team Q.B. If not, no doubt we'll subpoena him as a hostile.

So anyway, progress.

And in other news, the fair Greta Van Susteren has asked our fearless leader to make another appearance on her fine program On The Record, with the Vampire as her formidable foil this time. It's always a kick to see the boss lady on the tube-
neverminding the fact that she's on Fox, a media conglom whose political bent I overlook because of their deep commitment to The Simpsons-even though she devolves into a raging bitch the week prior to taping. Or, I should say, an even bigger raging bitch.

(And is it me, or is there something undeniably fetching about G.V.S.? I would've hit that way back in the O.J. era, long before the facelift and blepharoplasty. Mmmmm, Greta.)

I brought my SONY DSC-N2 (that's 10.1 mega-pixels for you tech fetishists) with me to work today. Allow me to clarify. I didn't bring it to work on purpose; I had it on my person so as to document for insurance the tragic body damage done to my beloved 2007 BMW Z4 Coupe 3.0si (starting at $40,400, god knows how many mega-pixels). Maybe I'm not tipping those idiots at the garage well enough, but they've got to be more solicitous in their care of my baby. That car is all I've got. Which is sad, but true.

So anyway, having the camera on the premises, I thought I'd do a little candid photo-blogging and present you faithful readers with a few snapshots of essential Home Firm personnel. Here, then, are some of the Queen Bee's loyal drones...



This is Wes Toobin. Don't be fooled by the mild-mannered appearance: Wes Toobin is a shark. His jaws can crush you, he relishes the scent of blood, and his mastery of civil tort law is unparalleled in the legal world. Toobin reminds me of Tim Robbins, who also has a "bin" in his surname. Aside from the Great and Underappreciated #2, Toobs has been with the Queen Bee the longest. Like his brother Jeffrey ( who's on staff at The New Yorker), Toobin is a Harvard Law man and was an editor of the Review there. My only criticism: lose the ovals. Toobs could use some power frames.



The doyenne of the secretarial pool, Kathleen O'Connor could very well be my favorite Home Firm employee. She's talking here to Frank C. Williams, my fellow senior associate. Kathleen wears green the entire week in which St. Patrick's Day falls. She has four sons, she's been married for 35 years, and to the best of my knowledge has no perceptible flaws. Which makes me think she's hiding something. Some ignominious past. Maybe she's a Sinn Fein operative, a former trained assassin for the I.R.A. who had to go underground in America. But I could care less as long as she keeps bringing me soda bread on Fridays.



The aforementioned Frank C. Williams. I don't know what the "C." stands for. Probably nothing, because the man himself doesn't stand for much either. Frank's one of the most opportunistic bastards I've ever known. But, in all fairness, maybe that's just sour grapes. Maybe I'm a little jealous. Frank and I were the same class at law school (not Harvard), were hired at the same time by the Queen Bee, and he's got a better office than I do. He's also got his own secretary, whereas I have to share one with The New Girl. Note: Frank has the most overpowering handshake I've ever experienced, which he deploys alpha-dog style whenever he feels like making someone feel like an emasculated bitch.



There are about eight paralegals on the floor. Five of them are women. I've asked out four of them; been shot down four times. Here are the excuses: "I have a boyfriend," (Carla) "I don't date the office," (Melinda) "I'm on medication that prevents me from going out at night," (Kiko) "I have a boyfriend" (Lauren). Bridget, pictured above, is the fifth and most recent paralegal hiree. I haven't asked her out yet, but as you can tell from the photograph, it's clear she finds me charming. Behind that look of irritation and borderline disgust on her face lies a deep reservoir of affection and incipient longing for yours truly. I have an instinct for these things. Bridget and I: we are star cross'd. Eat your heart out, New Girl. And Carla and Melinda and Kiko and Lauren.

That's all the time we have today, boys and girls. Got to help prepare the A-Team for the Stallion's deposition...

There have always been a lot of stories about Uncle Pete.

Few outside the Home Firm are aware of Uncle Pete's existence. He's an older gentleman who "works" here, but in what full and particular capacity, no one's really sure. I know he's on the payroll, but his job description defies any easy exegesis. He remains an enigma, albeit a deceptively good-natured one. (My first week here he left one of those miniature Hershey's bars on my desk every day. Hershey's, Hershey's Special Dark, Mr. Goodbar, and Krackel. I've always been a Special Dark man myself, and you may read into that whatever you like.)

Everyone's got a notion about Uncle Pete, but no one thus far has come up with any concrete evidence to support his or her conjectures. First of all, there's been no confirmation as to whose uncle he is. The obvious guess would be that he's related to the Queen Bee herself, but nobody's ever come up with the documentation or oral testimony to prove it. It could be that the "Uncle" derives solely from his aforementioned good-natured and avuncular disposition. Personally, I think it's an ironic sobriquet. Because I believe that the sunny surface could very well belie a dark and quite possibly sociopathic secret heart.

Here's why: the rumor about Uncle Pete to which I give the most credence is the following. Back in 1944, when he must've been in his teens, Pete—not an Uncle at this point—drops out of high school and tries to join the war effort. He's nearsighted and he's got flat feet, though, so he gets 4F-ed by his Military Entrance Processing Station. Pete's crushed, but he knows a guy who knows a guy who shines the shoes of William "Wild Bill" Donovan, grand poobah of the O.S.S. (direct antecedent of our beloved Central Intelligence Agency). Someone at intake takes pity on poor Pete, they sign the boy up, and send him off to China to help train the resistance fighters trying to stanch the red flow of Mao's godless army. While in China, he immerses himself in The Way of the Southern Fist, mastering a variety of martial arts, including Wing Chun, Nine Temple, Eighteen Kicks, White Eyebrow, White Crane, and Wudang Shaolin. Remaining on dispatch in the Orient after the war, he becomes expert in the usage of traditional Chinese weapons, such as the double-sword, double straight-sword, double hook-sword, nine-section whip, rope-dart, and chained hammer. When he finally returns to the States, he's retained by the C.I.A. as a world-class assassin, renowned for his ability to kill a man without leaving any superficial wounds. Tell me, does this man look like a cold-blooded state-sponsored murderer to you?


Yeah. I think so too.

Forty-five years later, after countless slaughters, Pete hangs up his double hook-sword, and leaves the assassination biz. Or does he? He goes to work on a freelance basis for the Queen Bee, who's just hanging out her shingle at the time. BUT WHAT DOES HE DO FOR HER? I asked him once: "What is it that you do around here, exactly?" He smiled that enigmatic smile, the same one you see in the photograph above, and he said:

"Ah...you know, kid. I clean up the occasional mess."

Indeed.