He hangs up before I can respond.
“Jesse,” I hiss at the phone as I slam it down. The bastard couldn’t even get my office name correct.
It does nothing to sweeten my mood.
I look at the time and see it’s still early. There’s no way Doug is in yet, but I know he’ll want something in the way of an injunction by this afternoon when the good congressman calls him up to blast his ear off.
It does little to take my mind off this news about Honey.
But at least it’s a distraction.
I sigh and get to work on it.
By noon, I have enough to present to Doug. I call him up to see if he’s free. It rings, but I hear the tell-tale noise that tells me he’s on the other line.
At least he’s in. I can just walk it up and wait for him to end the call. Being proactive will let him know I’m on the ball. Something too add even more goodwill than that which Honey created during the gala.
How much goodwill will there be now that David knows about her and this burlesque show of hers?
If I was worried about my image before, this will do nothing to help it.
The bigger question is, how much do I care?
I haven’t been stupid enough to google her on my computer again. Thus, my phone is nearly half-dead from my constant searching and scrolling her image and information about this show of hers. It was all more of the same, Honey in the spotlight playing peek-a-boo from behind a prop.
I pinch my forehead to ward away the headache that threatens to come. I can’t afford to think about this now.
Frankly, having not stepped foot out of my office all morning, I could use the walk to Doug’s office. When I get there, his door is closed and his personal assistant is out, I assume at lunch.
I think about knocking but lean in first to see if he’s still on the phone.
“I’ve got this kid Jesse working on it, you met him Saturday night, the one with the black date?”
My ears perk up, realizing he’s talking to someone about me. I lean in closer to listen, despite knowing how bad it will look if I’m caught.
“Him? I just found out something interesting about that date of his today.”
I recognize David on speakerphone.
“Todd tells me that girl was a stripper. Can you believe it?”
My entire body goes tense with rage.
“You’re kidding,” Doug says with a laugh.
“Don’t let the congressman find out. I mean, what the hell Doug, are these the kind of people we’re hiring these days?”
“Not my call,” Doug says in a tone that rapidly works to cover his ass. “You know his real name is Giuseppe? Giuseppe…Casti—something Italian and complicated. Like something straight out of The Godfather.”
I’m seeing red now, my fists curled into a ball.
“Good grief,” David says. “No way is that one going on the wall of partners.”
“Agreed. He’s a decent attorney, but it’s obvious that he’ll contribute nothing in the way of business to the firm.”
I pull away, having heard enough.
The deck was always stacked against me, even as I played Doug’s pet dog on this idiotic Bowen case.
Suddenly, I just don’t give a shit.
I decide to take the stairwell back down to my floor.
When I get back to my office, I pull up all the work I put in for this injunction.
At least the hours were billable.
Not that it matters anymore.
Partnership is officially off the table, if it was ever there to begin with.
The anger rushes back in like a tidal wave. Doug was just using me. Hell, he probably picked me because he knew how easy it would be to manipulate me, knowing I “contribute nothing to the firm.” This is a case that doesn’t do a damn thing for anyone’s career, other than have a congressman “in one’s pocket.”
I work my jaw to the side in thought, then go ahead and pick up the damn phone.
I get through to Congressman Bowen’s office, talking to one of his staff.
“Hi, this is Jesse from Abbott, Bradford & Carmichael, I need to speak with the congressman about an urgent matter.”
“I, um, of course,” she says with alarm. Normally, I’d be amused at how easily just the mention of a legal matter is enough to get someone to hop-to, but I’m too bitter and angry right now to care.
“Jesse?” Bowen says when he gets on the phone. “Have you finished—?”
“You need to drop this case. Now,” I interrupt.
“What? What do you mean drop—”
“The only thing pursuing this does is make you look like a fool.”
“I beg your pardon!”
“Beg away, just do yourself a favor and forget about it.” I note how close I am to saying “fugetaboutit” and I grin. This feels so damn good.
“Perhaps I should be talking to Doug about—”
“Hustler Magazine, Inc. v. Falwell.”
There’s a silence on the other end.
“I see you’re familiar with the case. I am too. Do you want to know how old I was when that case went down? As they say, I wasn’t even a gleam in my old man’s eye at the time. But I damn sure know the case, and not just because I went to law school. You want your name to forever be associated with those cartoons? You want to be the featured First Amendment law case in every Con Law casebook in every law school in America? And that’s after you lose, because, let’s face it Hustler Magazine already wrote the standing opinion on this matter, and let me tell you, You. Will. Lose. And right up until Election Day, pundits will be discussing those images and this case, probably having a good laugh over it. You think what you found on your car at church was bad? Just think what will happen if you go through with this. Suck it up and drop it.”
I hang up
