Free Big Law by Lindsay Cameron Page B

been put on the Highlander deal.
    The past week had passed in a round-the-clock haze of work and verbal abuse. Saul didn’t like a day to pass without releasing his aggression, sort of like how some people can’t get through the day without their morning coffee. Sometimes it was a seemingly rhetorical email like “ARE YOU STUPID?” “WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU THINK THAT?” “DID YOU EVEN GRADUATE FROM LAW SCHOOL?” (He wrote his emails in all caps, which had the effect of making you feel like he was yelling at you, even when he was nowhere near you.) Other times it was contradictory, rhetorical emails like “IS THERE A REASON YOU HAVEN’T SENT ME THE SUMMARY?” followed by “WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU SENDING ME THIS?” when I sent him the summary. Those were fun.
    Then there were the phone calls. “This is not what I fucking asked for!” he’d screech so loudly I’d have to hold the receiver away from my ear until the line went dead. He clearly didn’t have the time to fill me in on what was wrong with the work I’d given him or explain what he had asked for. I was always at a loss as to how to handle those calls. Should I have called him back and politely said, “We must have got cut off, Saul. You were saying?” Or maybe spoken to him in his own language with something like, “Well, what did you fucking ask for?”
    But Saul’s all caps email tirades and phone calls didn’t compare to witnessing his terror in person. Above all, I dreaded the “come to my office” email. That meant he wanted to personally witness your reaction to his torture. He wasn’t going to be satisfied with just hearing your voice crack over the phone or picturing your face drop as you read his offensive email. No, when he demanded to see you face to face you knew there would be yelling and humiliation. It would almost certainly be enough to ruin your entire day and keep you up all night. And today he’d been out for blood.
    “You need to get your shit together,” Sarah had hissed at me as we both scurried out of Saul’s office, fleeing a particularly scathing fit over my misplaced comma. “You are making too many mistakes. Go home and go to sleep,” she’d commanded. From anyone else it would’ve sounded like thoughtful advice. From Sarah, it was a direct order. So I did as I was told.
    “Evening.” Eddie gave me a nod when I entered the lobby of my apartment building. I’d come to know Eddie Esposito better than I knew any of the other doormen. He was your typical New Yorker—a Bronx native with a mess of gelled black hair who was quick to dispense advice on where to find the best coffee, or complain about the Yankees. He worked twelve hour shifts, 8 P.M . until 8 A.M ., which meant he was the first person I said hello to in the morning and usually the last person I saw in the evening.
    “Hi, Eddie.” I gave a wan smile.
    “Another late night, Mackenzie?”
    “Uh huh,” I sighed, readjusting my messenger bag on my shoulder. I was too tired to speak in full sentences, let alone actual words.
    He blew out a large puff of air and shook his head in disbelief. “There’s gotta be an easier way. There’s just gotta be.”
    “Goodnight, Eddie,” I called out without turning around, avoiding his stare and my own reflection in the mirrored lobby on my way to the elevator.
    “’Night, Mackenzie. Get some rest,” I heard him say as I punched the button for the tenth floor.
    I closed my eyes and leaned against the elevator wall. Even in my semi-awake state I could still recall with perfect clarity the first time Iwalked through the doors of the Death Star, dressed in the interview suit I’d borrowed from Kim. The sound of my heels click-clacking in the high ceilinged lobby had made me feel like I was one of the Wall Street power players, on my way up to a conference room to say things like “My client says ‘No deal!,’” slamming my fist down on the table for effect. Click clack, click clack. “Only the best are