Free The Associate by John Grisham Page B

and ponder the interior design schemes. A gorgeous little receptionist in stiletto heels took his name and asked him to please wait. Kyle turned his back on everything and became entranced in a work of art so bizarre he had no idea what he was looking at. After a few minutes of mindless gazing, he heard the receptionist call, “Mr. Peckham is waiting. Two floors up.” Kyle took the stairs.
    Like many Manhattan law firms, Scully & Pershing spent money on the elevators, reception areas, and conference rooms—the places clients and other visitors might actually see—but back in the bowels of the firm where the grunts worked, efficiency ruled. The halls were lined with file cabinets. The secretaries and typists—all women—worked in tight cubicles within reach of each other. The copyboys and other gofers worked on their feet; New York real estate was simply too expensive to provide them a spot or a nook of any significance. The senior associates and junior partners were awarded small offices on the outer walls, with a view of similar buildings.
    The rookie associates were stuffed in tight windowless spaces; three or four of them wedged together in cramped cubicles, nicknamed “cubes.” These “offices” were tucked away and kept out of sight. Lousy accommodations, brutal hours, sadistic bosses, unbearable pressure—it was all part of the blue-chip law firm experience, and Kyle had heard the horror tales before he finished his first year at Yale. Scully & Pershing was no better and certainly no worse than the other mega-firms that threw money at the brightest students, then burned them up.
    At the corners of each floor, in the largest offices, the real partners anchored things and had some say in the decor. One was Doug Peckham, a forty-one-year-old litigation partner, a Yale man who had supervised Kyle during his internship. They had become somewhat friendly.
    Kyle was shown into Peckham’s office a few minutes after 10:00 a.m., just as a pair of associates were leaving. Whatever the meeting was, it had not gonewell. The associates looked rattled, and Peckham was trying to calm down.
    They exchanged greetings and pleasantries, the usual banter about good old Yale. Kyle knew that Peckham billed $800 an hour, at least ten hours a day, and therefore the time that Kyle was now wasting was quite valuable. “I’m not sure I want to spend a couple of years doing legal aid,” Kyle said, not too deep into the meeting.
    “Don’t really blame you there, Kyle,” Peckham said in a quick, clipped voice. “You have too much potential in the real world. This is your future.” He spread his arms to take in his vast empire. It was a nice office, large by comparison, but not a kingdom.
    “I really would like to work in litigation.”
    “I see no problem there. You had a great summer here. We were all impressed. I’ll make the request myself. You know, though, that litigation is not for everyone.”
    That’s what they all said. The average career of a litigator is twenty-five years. The work is high pressure, high stress. Peckham may have been forty-one, but he could easily pass for fifty. Completely gray, dark circles, too much bulk in the jowls and around the waist. Probably hadn’t exercised in years.
    “My deadline has passed,” Kyle said.
    “When?”
    “A week ago.”
    “No problem. Come on, Kyle, editor in chief of the
Yale Law Journal
. We’ll be happy to cut you some slack. I’ll talk to Woody in personnel and clear it. Our recruiting has gone very well. You’re joining the best freshman class in years.”
    The same was said about every freshman class at every major firm.
    “Thanks. And I’d love to work in the litigation practice group.”
    “Got it, Kyle. Consider it done.” And with that Peckham glanced at his watch—meeting over. His phone was ringing, there were hushed voices just outside his door. As Kyle shook his hand and said goodbye, he decided he did not want to become another Doug Peckham. He