Coming slowly and groggily awake, Nate Sharpe realized he had a splitting headache and that he needed to piss, like, now. Rolling out of bed and stumbling into the bathroom, he fumbled around with the fly of his boxers until he was able to let flow and begin to relax. Problem one taken care of. The automatic function on his coffeemaker should get him going on problem two.
Moments later, joe in hand, Nate stood at the counter and sipped weakly at the too-hot beverage.
What happened last night? he wondered. Try as he might, he couldn't remember anything. He knew he'd gone to a party at his co-worker's house and that there had been a couple of kegs to keep things fun. Apparently, he'd maybe had a little too much.
He thought about calling in sick, but decided in the end that it was better to buck up and go into the office and save his sick days. So he got cleaned up and dressed for work, poured another cup of coffee into a travel mug and headed out the door.
The morning air was crisp and cool, and Nate was glad to have only a brief walk to the station and for the heat of the subway car. Getting off when his stop was called, he walked another couple blocks to the mid-rise office building Stanton and Chambers occupied floors eight through twelve of. Mumbling a quick hello to the schlub at the security desk, Nate swiped his card and took the elevator up to eleven and ducked into his office as quickly as possible. He hoped nobody would notice his arrival and that he might have some peace behind the wooden door for at least a while.
Unfortunately for Nate, that was not to be. Not two minutes after he sank into the leather chair behind his desk, Patrick Stanton came charging in. Patrick, one of the founding partners of the firm, was a wiry and intense man. What he lacked in imposing size he more than made up for in sheer force of personality and a whole array of withering stares. His cold, green eyes bored into Nate's bloodshot brown ones. Hardly a shrinking violet even on his worst days, Nate could nevertheless be thoroughly cowed by his boss even on his best days. And this was hardly one of those.
"Where's the Gunderson case?" Stanton demanded.
The throbbing in his head thusly intensified, Nate winced, ever so slightly, and yanked open his desk's file drawer. He removed the file in question and handed it over gingerly.
"Is it finished? All here?" the diminutive dynamo wanted to know.
"Yes, sir. All pre-trial and trial motions, all relevant briefs and case law is right there," said Nate.
"Good," said Stanton, turning on one heel and sweeping out of Nate's office, closing the door and heading down the hallway.
That could've gone worse, thought Nate. At least he didn't seem to notice anything wrong with me.
Draining the dregs from his travel mug, Nate set about trying to get into a rhythm for the day's work. He was doing relatively well when the phone on his desk started ringing. The readout indicated an intra-office call.
"Sharpe," he said curtly.
"Nate, have you seen Stanton this morning?" came the voice from the other end of the call. It was Tyler White, another lawyer with S&C and Nate's best friend.
"Yeah, he was just here," Nate answered. "Why?"
"Because he was raising hell around here an hour ago, and he was looking for you," said Tyler. "Did he say anything to you?"
Nate's blood ran cold. It sounded like Patrick was pissed at him for some reason. But he hadn't mentioned anything or even acted like anything was out of the ordinary when he came to get the file. That couldn't be a good thing.
"Nah, man," said Nate. "He probably just needed the Gunderson file and was angry I was late."
"Yeah, maybe," Tyler said dubiously. "Watch out, buddy."
Tyler hung up the phone, leaving Nate holding his receiver and wondering what the hell was going on.
Late that afternoon, Nate got a call from Darlene, Patrick's personal assistant, telling him to come up to the twelfth floor at 6 o'clock sharp. Officially rattled, Nate acknowledged the summons and then quickly dialed Tyler.
"Dude, Stanton's called me up to the top floor. Maybe you were right about me being in trouble."
"I told you it sounded serious. He would've come to your office if it were about a case. This has to be something else," said Tyler.
"Ty, what happened at Jeremy's last night?" asked Nate.
"Dude, do you really not remember?!" Tyler was incredulous. "You—"
A loud knock on Nate's door made him hang up reflexively.
"Uh...come in!" he said lamely.
In walked Annette, a relatively new paralegal. Nate's heart rate started heading back in the direction of normal. She was a nice girl, working her way through law school in the evenings. She worked hard and was very conscientious. Most importantly to Nate at the moment, there was no way she could be here to punish him or get him in any trouble.
"Hi Nate!" she said. "I just wanted to see if there was any more I could do for you before I head to class."
Now that he thought about it, Nate wondered if Annette might have a bit of a crush on him.
That's just because she doesn't know you very well yet, his subconscious provided, unbidden.
"No, thanks, Annette. I hope lectures aren't too boring tonight," Nate said by way of dismissal and hopefully some minor encouragement.
"OK, thanks, Mr. Sharpe! Have a good night!"
That seems unlikely, but she's just being nice.
After she left, Nate slumped back in his chair and tried to figure out how he'd gotten here. He had graduated with honors from NYU and had somehow been lucky enough to get into Columbia Law. After three years there, he graduated in the top five percent of his class and moved out west and got a job as an associate here, at S&C. That was five years ago.
In those five years, Nate had worked hard. He had put in eighty-hour weeks, schmoozed as many of the junior partners as he could and done his absolute best to make sure his case work was perfect. For all that, he had two things to show. First, he managed to survive last month's associate cuts. The firm was trimming some fat in order to maintain high levels of service and still maximize profits. More than a dozen associates, most of them senior to Nate, had been canned.
Second, he had developed what he wasn’t willing to admit was a pretty severe drinking problem. As far as he was concerned, he was just doing his best to cope with the stress, the long hours, the grueling research and writing, the office politics and the distinct lack of a life outside the office.
Five years felt like a long time to have been doing the same kind of work. Nate, unlike many lawyers, had never had dreams of big courtroom brawl type cases. In fact, he didn't really like criminal law at all, and he was often frustrated by the scumbags he ended up having to defend. Of course he believed that everyone's rights needed to be protected and that everyone should have the best defense possible, but he also felt slimy spending his time looking for loopholes to keep these scuzzbuckets out of jail.
What Nate had always really wanted was to specialize in environmental law. As much as boatloads of money working for corporate clients might be nice (and it really would be), Nate had been drawn to helping non-profit environmental concerns since his undergraduate days. But his aunt was good friends with one of the senior partners at S&C and had gotten him the hook up. He took it, thinking that there are no second chances in life. And what S&C wanted him doing was criminal law, so criminal law was what he did.
It was quarter to six, and there was no way Nate was even going to chance being late to meet the boss. He left his office and headed down the hall to the elevator. He made it to Stanton's suite still fully ten minutes early. Darlene let Stanton know of his arrival, and Nate stood rigidly near the corner of the foyer space.
At six o'clock on the dot, Darlene ushered him back into Mr. Stanton's private office. Nate had actually never been in here before, and, despite dreading what was to come, he couldn't help being momentarily overwhelmed and awed by the spaciousness and understated grandeur of the room. It was well-appointed but not gaudy.
It was, in a word, classy.
"Thank you for coming, Mr. Sharpe," said Stanton, rather formally, Nate thought.
Sure. As if this were somehow optional. Just get it over with, man!
"Please, have a seat. Would you like anything to drink? Perhaps some water. Darlene, two ice waters, please."
What is happening?
"Are you happy here, Mr. Sharpe?" asked Stanton, apropos of nothing.
"Uh... Well... What?" stammered Nate.
"I asked you whether you're happy working here. Do you enjoy what you're doing? Please be honest."
"Um...to be perfectly honest, sir, I can't think straight at all right now. Are you going to fire me?" said Nate. Honest, if not actually an answer to the question.
"No, Nate, I'm not going to fire you," said Stanton. It was the first time he'd ever used Nate's first name. Somehow, that simple shift put Nate much more at ease. And, of course, it was a relief that he wasn't about to be fired.
Darlene arrived with their waters and handed a glass to each man before discreetly leaving them alone.
"Nate, it's come to my attention that you had a bit of an...incident at Mr. Hammond's party last night. Are you aware of what I am referring to?"
Oh, God. No. I have no idea what you're referring to.
"No, sir. Unfortunately, my memory of last night is somewhat hazy."
"I thought as much," said Stanton with the barest hint of a wry smile. "It seems you were enjoying the party, along with a number of our other associates, when you apparently developed some deeply amorous feelings for Mr. Hammond's full-size model of the robot C-3PO from Star Wars."
Oh my God.
"Evidently, frustrated that the robot was not returning your affections, you broke off its arm and threw it out a—fortuitously open—window. You proceeded to urinate into the pot of a false plant in Mr. Hammond's living room before ultimately passing out half naked on the bed in his guest room."
Oh. My. God.
"Mr. White had the presence of mind to get your pants back on you and take you home, where he apparently put you to bed and left you. None of this rings any bells?" Stanton asked innocently.
"Um. N-no, sir. I—I don't know what to say," was the only response Nate could muster.
"I thought not. Since Mr. Hammond came to me early this morning, I have been conducting a little research. It seems you've been going a bit heavy on the drink for a while now. Is that a fair assessment?"
It could hardly be denied, and Stanton obviously knew that.
"Yes, sir, I suppose that is fair to say," said Nate, filled with ever-deepening shame.
"Is it also fair to say that you do not particularly enjoy practicing criminal law?" Stanton asked.
That seemed like an abrupt change of subject, and Nate had no idea where the man was going.
"Honesty is key, here," Stanton pressed.
"Yes, sir, it's true that criminal law is not exactly what I want to be doing with my career," said Nate.
"Fair enough. I spend a few minutes on the phone this afternoon with one of your law professors at Columbia. He was the one who wrote your original letter of recommendation when you submitted your resume five years ago," said Stanton.
What does that have to do with anything?
"He told me that you were a very promising student and had a passion and talent for environmental law. Every one of your annual evaluations contains similarly glowing language. Yet here you are, not even 30, drinking your life away in a career you despise.
"What I would like to do is offer you an alternative. This firm will pay for you to attend a rehabilitation facility. I will serve as your AA sponsor. I will personally cover the damages to Mr. Hammond's property, and he has agreed to not press charges of any kind. If you can stick with the program, you will keep your associateship. We have recently acquired a small environmental law firm, and you will be transferred to that division within S&C."
Nate was stunned. He was speechless.
"Well, Nate? What do you say?" prodded Stanton.
"Sir...why would you do all that?" Nate asked.
"Because, Nate, young hotshot lawyers are a dime a dozen. But principled, dedicated and humble ones are rare and precious things indeed. You've gone a bit sideways in the past couple of years, but I do not for a moment believe you cannot be brought back from the brink. And if your professor, your supervising partner, that Gunderson file you handed me earlier and your friend Mr. White are to be believed, you have a brilliant mind and great potential that has been wasted on criminal law.
"This is not charity, Nate. It's an investment. Someday, I believe you will be a partner in my firm. You will make the environmental division cutting edge and profitable. All you need is a little nudge. Well, I'm nudging you, Nate. I know the associates fear me, and that's generally to my advantage, but truth be told, this firm is my life's work, and I care that the people working for me are taken care of so that that work may thrive and make a difference long after I'm gone."
Wow.
"Thank you sir," Nate managed. "I'll try not to let you down."
"You won't," said Stanton. "Just do your best; that's all I ask. You'll be all right."
Maybe sometimes there are second chances after all.
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