I pushed through the glass doors to Penn’s law school and confronted my latest guard. This one was a civilian; short, spectacled, and seated behind a wooden dais studying corporation law. A law student, in his second year if he was taking what we fondly called “corpse.” He looked up, blinking through thick hornrims as I approached. He wouldn’t be the best-looking security guard, but I was guessing he’d be the smartest. Shit. I’d have to find his pressure point. A second-year student? In this economy? Piece of cake.
“I have a problem and so do you,” I said, leaning on the dais with a weariness that came easily.
“I have a problem?”
“I’m a partner at Grun amp; Chase. You know the firm.”
“Sure, I know the firm.” He swallowed visibly and closed the thick red casebook, squishing his index finger in the middle to mark his place. If it hurt, he didn’t show it. No feelings? He’d make a fine suit. “Everybody knows Grun amp; Chase,” he said.
“Of course they do. As I was saying, I interviewed here the other day and, unfortunately, left my résumés and my entire file in the law clinic. You have a key to let me in, I assume.”
“Sure.”
“Good. Let’s do it.”
“Uh, I didn’t know they held interviews in the clinic.”
“Well, they do. They’re for clinic students.”
“Weird.” He cocked his head. His dark brown hair had been buzzed into an old-fashioned cut, from when the styles had names. I was guessing his was The Geek.
“What’s weird?” I asked.
“It’s summer. I didn’t know they did on-campus interviewing in the summer.”
Think fast, stupid. “It’s not the normal interviewing. It’s of select second-year students. Clinic students. I didn’t interview you, did I?” I flashed him an arrogant, Grun-patented should-I-know-you squint.
“No. I, uh, didn’t know about the interviews.”
“They’re very hush-hush. We like it that way.”
“I don’t take clinic either.”
“Too bad.”
“And I’m not veryselect, anyway, I guess.” He looked away, his thin shoulders sloping dejectedly in their Nine Inch Nails T-shirt He reminded me a little of Wingate. I felt momentarily sympathetic.
“Did you interview with Grun?”
“Yes, during the year. But I didn’t get a call back.”
“How are your grades?”
“Not Law Review.”
“Okay, but are they good?”
“Well, they’re not terrible.” He bit his lip.
“Not terrible?” If this kid didn’t learn to present himself better, they’d eat him alive. “You mean they’re improving.”
“Improving, right.” He punched his glasses up at the bridge.
“Do you have some sort of experience? Grun likes that, all firms do. Practical experience, you know.”
“I worked at my father’s office first year summer and I got a lot of practical experience. Also, I’m a very practical person. I approach problems in apractical -”
“I get it. Do you have a job lined up for after you graduate?”
“No,” he said. His face reddened as if it were a source of deep shame, which in the law school culture, it was.
“Where are you working now, this summer?”
“Uh, here.”
“Even during the day?”
He swallowed. “I couldn’t get a law job.”
I looked at him and he looked at me. We both knew what this meant. He was about to graduate at least a hundred grand in the hole, with no hope of paying it back. This kid needed help. I almost found myself believing my own scam. “What happened with your grades?” I asked. “Didn’t you study?”
“I did, I studied really hard. But when the tests came, I just kind of… froze.” He shook his head, biting his lower lip again. “Maybe I’m just not good enough to be a lawyer. Maybe I’m not cut out for it.”
“Maybe you just don’t think well on your feet.”
“I don’t. That’s what my dad says.”
“All that means is that you can’t be a trial lawyer. But there are other kinds of lawyers.”
“But litigation is the coolest-”
“Forget what’s cool. What’s your favorite course?”
“Corporate tax.”
“Tax?” It was almost inconceivable. What was it with this younger generation? Tax, instead of constitutional law? “You actuallylike tax?”
“It’s like a puzzle, a big puzzle, and you can put it together and it all makes sense.” He smiled for the first time, lost in the beauty and wonder of the Internal Revenue Code.
“How did you do in tax?”
“I got an E, an excellent. It was my only one.” He grinned with pride, and I, with relief.
“So why don’t you apply for a tax program, like at NYU? Get your master’s in tax. You’ll do well, then you can slip right into any firm. You’ll get forbearance on your school loans and another year to find a job.”
“You think I can do it?”
“Of course you can.”
“Maybe it’s not too late to apply?”
“Not if you do it now.”
He beamed. “Then I will!”
“There you go,” I said, buoyed until I watched his expression change from ebullience to confusion.
“Wait. Why are you telling me this?”
It caught me up short. “Because I like you.”
He eased back in his chair, frowning behind his hornrims. “You don’t work at Grun, do you? You can’t, you’re too nice.”
I paused. The lobby fell deathly silent. No one was around. I felt exhausted, suddenly. I’d had twenty minutes’ sleep in three days. Maybe, just for a change, I’d go with the truth. I wanted to kick out the jambs, and the kid had a face I trusted, like Wingate’s.
“You want the truth?” I said. “I’m not a hiring partner or a hookeror a murderer.”
“O-kay. What are you then?”
“I’m a lawyer and I really, really, really need to get into that clinic.”
“Why?”
“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you on the way.”
He paused, considering it. Then he opened the middle drawer. Maybe he didn’t think so badly on his feet after all.
37
We walked down the glistening white corridor of the law school. Everything was stark and modern, except for the gold-framed oil portraits on the walls, one dead lawyer after another. I trailed behind the law student, whose name turned out to be Glenn Milestone, as he led me through the halls and down the basement to the legal clinic. He unlocked the door when we reached it, and it swung open onto a new office that cost more than its indigent clients would make in a lifetime.
“You swear you won’t steal anything?” Glenn said for the fiftieth time.
“Swear to God. And you’re not going to tell the cops, right?”
“I swear. I’m going, I don’t want to see this.” He slipped the keys into the pocket of his baggy shorts and turned away.
“Thanks.” I watched him go, then looked around to make sure nobody was watching. The place was deserted, so I went inside and closed the door behind me.
The clinic was set up for the kids to play office in, and I half expected to see toy cash registers with Monopoly money in white, pink, and the coveted yellow. There was a small reception area and I went past it to the hall. Off the hall was a lineup of offices. Each one was the same, with steel desks against the wall and padded chairs in front, but I was looking for the file room. I found it at the end of the hall and flicked on the light.
The files were alphabetical. I went to the J’s and yanked out the drawer. The files were neatly kept by the lawyers-to-be, and I thumbed through the Jacksons, Jameses, Jimenezes, and Joneses. No Jennings. I stopped, stumped for a moment.
Renee graduated from law school three years ago, so any client file of hers had probably been put away. Where did the law babies keep the dead files? I glanced around but there were no cardboard file boxes or archives in sight. Maybe they were in the file cabinets, unlabeled. I opened the drawers, one after another, each one sliding out with a smooth sound. No dice. They were all current files, applications for credits and evaluation forms, form complaints, answers, and other pleadings. Damn.