“Good morning. You must be Ms. Williams.”
Her voice is syrup, but the smile is pure shark.
“I am. Reporting for duty,” I say, trying for the right blend of perky and competent. I don’t know what I expect to feel, but my face is burning anyway. “First day.”
She taps a manicured finger on the tablet in front of her and glances over my shoulder, like maybe I brought backup. “Have a seat, Ms. Williams. Our office manager will be right with you.”
I don’t dare try the expensive couches with their leather-grain upholstery, so I hover by the aquarium and try to look like I’m pondering the existential mystery of the pufferfish. In reality, I’m taking inventory of my outfit for the fifth time. Navy sheath dress, conservative enough to pacify the ghosts of dead judges, but short enough to show knee. Clean white cardigan, sleeves pushed up so I don’t look like I’m about to challenge someone’s will. Tights: black, no runs. Blonde hair: up in a neat bun that reads “eager paralegal” instead of “four hours of Netflix and dry shampoo.” My one concession to personality is a pair of cherry red earrings, a detail I will later regret when I catch myself in the bathroom mirror and realize they look like warning lights.
The office manager arrives on silent soles, appearing from a frosted-glass corridor. She’s the sort of woman whose age is impossible to guess because everything about her—skin,posture, smile—is lacquered into immobility. She has a narrow, regal face and a bun so perfect it could survive nuclear fallout. She wears navy, too, but hers is the shade of bruises, cut into a jacket with lapels sharp enough to fillet fish.
“Ms. Williams?” She pronounces my name like she’s taste-testing it.
I leap to attention. “That’s me.”
“Welcome to Gibson Grant. I’m Barbara Jenkins, the office manager at the firm. Come with me, please.”
I smile but the older woman’s already turned, presenting her back to me. Okay, fine. The middle-aged lady’s not exactly the most friendly person, but I’m not here to make friends.I’m here for information.
With brisk steps, we walk through the office, which is decorated in what I must imagine to be the latest in corporate design. We pass through a narrow corridor, which isn’t much more than a gauntlet of glass offices and tasteful art: landscapes, abstracts, one alarming metal sculpture that looks like the aftermath of a car crash. Even worse, every office we pass is full of busy, harried people hunched over screens or pacing with cellphones pressed to their skulls. No one so much as glances up. I feel like a kid at the grown-up table, clutching an invisible resume for emotional support.
Ms. Jenkins stops at the kitchenette. If the lobby is a cathedral, then this is its crypt: low lighting, brushed stainless countertop, a fridge the size of my first apartment. She gestures at the coffee station, which offers more options than the last Starbucks I visited.
“Coffee,” she says in a clipped voice. “Providedgratisby the firm.”
“Great,” I murmur. “Because I’m a caffeine addict.”
Jenkins nods, unblinking and leads the way again, beginning a steady narration.
“As you may know, Gibson Grant has maintained its position in the top three litigation firms statewide for over two decades. Our partners have built an impressive reputation, and our counsel is sought by clients far and wide on a number of matters, both civil and criminal.”
She gestures at a glass-walled conference room. “This is where the partners conduct their morning strategy sessions. Of course, you’re not expected to attend, at least not in a substantive manner. But occasionally, paralegals are called in for note-taking.”
I nod, biting my lip. Two silhouettes, backs to the glass, deep in concentration over something on a whiteboard. One man is built like a heavyweight—broad shoulders, square head, dark hair cropped close. The other is a shade taller, and slightly thinner, but just as athletic and imposing. I can’t see their faces, but a wave of intensity hits me, even though their backs are turned. Goodness, this place is packed with alpha males!
Meanwhile, Jenkins continues down the hall, past a row of paralegal cubicles. “You’ll want to make friends here. They know everything.” She shoots me a side-eye that could tan leather. “And everyone talks.”
Noted.
My office isn’t exactly what I’d call an “office.” It’s a desk in a glass fishbowl, flanked by two other desks occupied by women who might, in a parallel universe, be fashion models. One looks up briefly when I arrive, registers me, and returns to hammering out an email at lightspeed. The other doesn’t even acknowledge my existence.
“Ms. Williams, this is your station,” Jenkins intones. “There’s a phone and a laptop for you. Password instructions are in the envelope. Any questions?”
I hesitate for a moment.
“Um, yes. Where do I find the restroom?”
That bloodless smile again. “Past the elevator bank, left at the water fountain.”
When she departs, I collapse into my chair. It’s one of those fancy ergonomic ones, and it makes a pneumatic sigh, like we’re both already exhausted. The view from my fishbowl is floor-to-ceiling windows and a slice of the river, cut with traffic and the darting shapes of water taxis.
My hands shake as I unpack the envelope. There’s a schedule, a map of the office, a lanyard badge with the worst photo ever taken of me, and a list of passwords that look randomly generated with loads of lower case letters, uppercase letters, numbers, and symbols. I spend the next half hour poking at the laptop, afraid to click the wrong thing, and trying not to eavesdrop on the blur of office conversation around me.
Eventually, curiosity wins. I stand, pretending to need the printer, and take the scenic route past a cluster of wall-mounted newspaper clippings. The headlines are a testament to the firm’s bloodlust: “City’s Top Attorneys Score Unprecedented Verdict.”“Gibson & Grant Dismantle Prosecutor’s Case.” “Legal Dream Team Shocks Supreme Court.”
The next one makes my pulse spike: “Defense Attorneys Challenge State’s Lethal Injection Protocol: The Stanley Williams Case.”
And there it is: a photo under the glass of my dad, wild-eyed and thin, two days before sentencing. I feel a tremor start at the backs of my knees and climb. The byline is old and yellowed, but the wound is fresh. My heart races as a sweat breaks out on my brow. This is what I’m here for, even if no one knows it: exonerating my father’s name. Stanley died when I was only a child, executed by the state for crimes he didn’t commit. He couldn’t have. I don’t believe it. As a result, I’m here now, and a full-grown adult. I mean to clear his name, even if it takes everything in my power, and every cent in my bank account.
