Damages

I am the last one here tonight. Everyone else has gone home. It's not because I'm particularly diligent. Or methodical. Actually, I'm kind of slow. Or maybe I just prefer to savor the extremely fulfilling and enriching work entrusted to me. Pro bono work, no less. Pro bono work inherited from The New Girl, no less less.

(Just between you and me: I don't see the upside of pro bono. But then again, I don't have a charitable bone in my body. People often ask me: "But didn't you go into the law to help people?" I always answer: "Of course. Rich people." And yet here I am, irony fully appreciated, working for one of the world's foremost plaintiffs' attorneys. There is a God, and he is a vengeful one.)

The reason why I've had The New Girl's workload dropped in my lap is because The New Girl appears to have punched her timecard for the very last time. I was in the elevator bank, chatting up Bridget the Paralegal, when the Queen Bee went all Harvey Weinstein on her the other morning. The New Girl emerged from the Queen Bee's den, dropped a file on the desk at reception, and walked straight out the door. To her credit, she didn't look like she'd been through a blood-letting at all, as most of the Q.B.'s tongue-lashing victims do, all ashen and trembling and on the brink of mental disintegration. The New Girl looked tough. In all honesty, it was kind of arousing.

Also aroused, however, was my curiosity. About what was in that file. I may be slow, but I ain't dumb, and my Spider Sense told me that whatever was contained therein had something (or everything) to do with The New Girl's quick release.

I bid adieu to the fair Bridget and hovered around reception, pretending to bang out a few e-mails on my BlackBerry. Susan, the woman who works the desk, is notorious for never abandoning her post; she's the living embodiment of sedentary. I would have to play this just right. I walked up to her, perfectly casual, and asked a perfectly unnecessary question: "Has the mail come in yet?" As she wet her lips to answer, I leaned my elbow atop the divider between us and expertly knocked a bowl of mints from its perch. Down they went, spilling in a multicolored clatter onto the floor. She looked at me like the idiot she already thought I was, and bent down to gather them up. "Let me help you," says I, maneuvering around the desk and kneeling beside her. I picked up a couple token mints, and then crept my hand up to tilt open the front of The New Girl's file. I was only able to get a quick look at the top of its contents before Susan huffed out an irritable "I can manage this on my own, thankyouverymuch." I stood and slyly tipped the file closed, mumbled my apology and beat my retreat.

I saw something, though. A photograph. Of a pudgy, grey-haired gentleman. And a few key words: Florida, S.E.C., Moore. Watkins.

Incriminating? Or another dead end? If The New Girl was fired over it, we may have to assume the latter. But you know what they say about what happens when you assume things, don't you?

Well, don't you?

For today's blog entry, I'd planned something whimsical, something snoopy and harmless. You see, as I mentioned last time, I've been staying late at the office, finishing work, sometimes even sleeping head-on-desk for a few hours before the sun comes up. My girlfriend's been haranguing me about how little time I've been able to spend with her. Oh. Wait. That's right. I don't have a girlfriend.

So, the other night, when I was here at the home office all by my lonesome, I did a little walk-through of the Queen Bee's workspace (we have an open-portal policy here at work, meaning our cubicles/compartments/corners have no locks on their doors). I snapped a few shots, for your pleasure and edification.

Here's the general overview of her well-appointed-yet-tastefully-spare space, and please note the time on the desk clock (11:17pm):

Here, a closer look at the desktop, including the unladylike sludge remaining in Her Morning Chalice and the ominous, dagger-like letter-opener:

Someone, please explain this to me. I know it's "art," but it makes my head feel like a splitting cube. Points to anyone who can properly identify its provenance, because I surely can't:

Then, to properly complement the impeccable, measured, angularity of the office and its contents, the Queen Bee brings a little nature into her environment. But, being the Queen Bee, she must obviously bend nature to her will. Hence, the bonsai:

See? Whimsical, lighthearted, lovely. But then again, there's this:

That is what happened last night. While I was in my compartment, door unlocked, presence unknown. I heard it happen. I'd been working, peeked out as I noticed the Vampire come in. Their voices were low, pleasant, and I barely paid attention. Then there was an explosion. I froze, didn't move, couldn't move. I knew I couldn't say anything. She couldn't know I was there.

I waited, silent, and listened as she made a phone call. To whom, I couldn't make out. A half-hour or so later, The New Girl showed up. A few minutes later, she left again. Why wasn't the Queen Bee calling the police?

I heard her walk toward the ladies'. I crept up the hallway, into her office, and saw the blood spatter. I don't know why, but I snapped that picture. It was terrifying. And I had no idea what had happened. Did she kill him? Did he kill himself? I wasn't going to stick around to ask. I took off down the stairs before she came out of the bathroom.

I went home, showered, watched a little New York 1, and came back to work. By this time the police were everywhere. And me, I kept my mouth shut. For the time being, at least...

After the, shall we say, explosive incident on the premises the other night, said premises were shut down for what seems to be an indeterminate period of time. We were briefed by the valorous #2, who informed us that the Queen Bee had skipped town to collect her thoughts and that we'd be suffering a month's continuance on the Big Case, as the Vampire's grieving cohorts get their departed colleague's house in order.

So, a little vacation. What's a senior associate to do? An impulsive jaunt down to Turks n' Caicos for some sun and perhaps a glimpse of Bruce Willis' latest underage consort? Maybe a quick joyride in the Beemer up I-95 to hand over my hard-earned salary to the Mashantucket Pequot tribe at their reparative Foxwoods compound? A yoga retreat? Methinks not.

Ever curious, I've been doing a bit of pro bono surveillance on our very own New Girl. I can't say I'm proud of my semi-stalkery tactics, but hey, if they're good enough for the United States Gov't., they're good enough for me. (Why cling to a right to privacy anyway, when the open arms of Big Brother are right there, wide open, waiting to envelop you in a smothering embrace?)

After surreptitiously monitoring her arrival and speedy departure the night of the Vampire's self-sacrifice, I wondered what other kind of shared secrets existed between the New Girl and her secret patron. I mean, after all, hadn't she been fired only days before? I know the Queen Bee's methods have always been comparable with black-ops espionage, but this liaison seemed even shadier than usual.

I spent the next day tracking the New Girl's movements. Leaving her charming upper west side apartment building in the afternoon, making various errandy stops, returning to the apartment and leaving once again in what seemed like a state of discomfiture. Walking quickly, agitated, emotional. I followed her downtown, to the Home Office, and waited outside. When she emerged, she was carrying a blue gym bag (I'm calling it a "gym bag," though it could easily quality as a small duffel.)

From there, it was back uptown…to the Queen Bee's digs. Again, I waited outside. An hour or so later, the New Girl reappeared, led by the Queen Bee, who handed her a set of keys and departed the scene in her sleek black Caddy, most likely en route to thought-collecting. A few minutes later the New Girl took a lap around the block with the house mutt, and then she was in for the evening.

Around midnight, the Queen Bee's bratty kid made a quick trip in and out with a backpack. After that, it was quiet for quite a while. I nodded off for a bit, but woke up in time to see the doorman (creepy) let in a dark-haired man, well-dressed (also creepy), in the early morning light. Fifteen minutes later, the New Girl comes running out, in that same green overcoat, covered in blood.

(And I also remember this: right before the New Girl ran out, another car pulled up with two men in it. One, tall with a mustache, got out and started toward the lobby door. That was when the New Girl made her sanguinary dash. The 'Stache beat a retreat to the car and it peeled away. A surfeit of sinister-looking visitors at the Queen Bee's pad.)

I thought of following the New Girl, but I stayed put. Watched as the creepy doorman made a call. Watched as ten minutes later a few workmen showed up and were escorted inside. Watched as they came back down a couple hours later with a rolled-up carpet.

What was inside?

To paraphrase the Bard of Avon: some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them by founding partners of high-powered law firms.

You guessed it. The New Girl is back, and better than ever. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Much has happened. Events have been veritably piling up, conclusions and paydays arrived at, and the more things change...the more they stay the same.

Yes, despite the talk of the month's continuance, our Big Case has reached its terminus, with bonanza results for the Home Firm. No one on the floor-with the possible exception of the faithful #2 and the impenetrable New Girl-knows exactly how this best-case-scenario settlement got laid like a platinum platter on the dinner table. That said, we're working like dogs to get all the paperwork in order so nothing can interfere with that big-ass check getting cashed and disseminated.

Two billion dollars. Let me rephrase that. TWO BILLION DOLLARS. Let me put it in numerical notation, so you can get a gander at all them zeroes: $2,000,000,000.00. (I agree, adding those final two goose eggs after the decimal point is gilding the lily, but aren't winners allowed a bit of time to gloat?)

Not being in the contracts department, I'm not sure of the figure, but I believe the Home Firm is entitled to a healthy 30% cut of the proceeds for our diligent and occasionally shady legal maneuverings on behalf of the happy, and now substantially wealthier, plaintiffs. Assuming your mathematical skills are on the rusty side, let me do the tabulation for you. Thirty percent of the aforementioned sum...let's see...cross out the hundredths...that leaves us with...oh, yes...

Six hundred millions dollars. Ie. $600,000,000.00. That'll buy a whole hell of a lot of yellow legal pads.

So, anyway. Spirits have been high, even though the word is that for some reason the defendant forking over the 2 billion has been incommunicado and unreachable for the last few days. Like Keyser Soze, poof, he seems to have disappeared. Probably just taking his beloved cash out for one last spin in the Gulfstream before signing it over to the Quee Bee.

Speaking of the Queen Bee, she seems far more sedate than I'd expect, given her recent victory. After these big wins she tends to be even more unbearably supercilious, but this week she's been downright docile. Quite abnormal. Perhaps the lingering trauma of observing the Vampire's brains being blown out onto her office wall has temporarily deactivated her Inner Bitch. We shall see.

We-meaning me-shall also see what happens with the New Girl, now that she's reassumed her place in the little corner cube. My own cube remains right next to hers, so you can be sure I'll be keeping my ears open and my eyes peeled. I know there's something un-kosher going on between her and the Q.B. To quote another fine dramatist: "Attention must be paid."

(Yeah, I took a Theatre History survey course in college. I'm all sorts of well-rounded.)

And so, until next time, I pledge to remain ever vigilant, ever alert, ever watching...your trusty, reliable man on the inside.

Yours, THE SENIOR ASSOCIATE