In Your Corner
Page 1
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Chapter 1
RAH, RAH! GO, TEAM, GO!
Hell.
In the five seconds it takes James P. Farnsworth III, managing partner of Farnsworth & Tillman, LLP, to step into my office, my life goes from happy to hell in a heartbeat.
“Good afternoon, sir. Is that a new suit? I’m guessing Armani, new label. And your tie, Italian silk, maybe Salvatore Ferragamo?”
I can do obsequious with the best of them.
Unfortunately, Farnsworth isn’t in a mood to be fawned over today. With a frown, he tosses a file folder on my desk and folds his arms, his biceps straining against the fine wool of his black suit jacket.
Farnsworth isn’t like most other law firm managing partners I know. No jowls or reddened cheeks from excess drinking at client functions. Not an ounce of fat around his tall, toned frame. His silvery-gray hair is impeccably styled, his skin overly tanned, and his jaw impossibly square. On the outside, he is undeniably handsome in a George Clooney kind of way.
“I hope you don’t have any plans for the next few months, Amanda.” His dark eyes gleam with the power of being able to ruin a junior associate’s life with a mere seven words. “I have a new case for you.”
“I live to serve, sir.” The firm motto slides off my tongue like a corked Merlot.
His thin lips twitch. “That’s what I like to hear.”
I’m guessing what he doesn’t want to hear is that I already have twenty-six cases on the go, as well as ten secret pro bono files for the community legal aid clinic I just can’t give up. If not for the twenty-four-hour cafeteria and coffin-like sleeping pods Farnsworth & Tillman graciously provides for its associates, I wouldn’t be able to manage.
Farnsworth rakes his eyes over my body, and it isn’t difficult to tell what he’s thinking. From the day I started at the firm almost three years ago, he has made no effort to hide his interest. I suspect if he weren’t my father’s best friend, I might have suffered more of his attentions. Rumor has it he has a fondness for young, blond, blue-eyed associates.
“Tight suit.”
“Yes, sir.” What else can I say? It isn’t so much tight as it is tailored. Not that I would ever dream of contradicting Farnsworth. Cold, hard, ruthless, and fiercely intelligent, Farnsworth suffers no fools, and associates have been dismissed for less than asking a question. Clients love him. Opposing counsel hate him. In the California Bay Area courts, he’s known as the Barracuda. Relentless. Merciless. The ultimate predator. Feared by all. Defeated by none.
“The client is a privately held real estate development company based here in San Francisco,” he says to my br**sts. “They have a new, very young and inexperienced chairman, the son of the founder, and they’ve just been hit with a multimillion-dollar lawsuit from a company called Duel Properties. You will have an opportunity to showcase your skills under my guidance. Your performance on this case will help us decide whether you are partnership material.”
Folding my arms over the objects of Farnsworth’s interest, I flash my most sycophantic smile. “Wonderful, sir. I relish the opportunity for a new challenge. And you won’t be disappointed.”
He studies me for a long moment. “We’ll see.”
We’ll see? If ever two words struck fear into the heart of a desperate and ambitious junior associate, those would be the words. We’ll see means he isn’t confident I’ll make it through to partnership. We’ll see means he knows something I don’t know. We’ll see means I might not receive the sleeping-pod sized, Farnsworth & Tillman duck-down duvet my department head presents to every associate who becomes partner.
We’ll see means I’d better kick ass on this new case, or my father will disown me.
“The client will be here in fifteen minutes, and I’m double-booked with a pressing engagement, so I’m letting you handle the initial interview. Make an appointment with my secretary to debrief this evening.” He pauses and then his forehead creases. “And, Amanda…”
“Sir?”
“Although our new client isn’t a big company, their opponent, Duel Properties, is a target client of the firm. We want to hit Duel Properties hard. We want them to hate us, so the next time they need a law firm, we’re the ones they call because they know we’ll make their opponent suffer the way we made them suffer. I’m taking a chance by giving you the file instead of handing it over to a senior associate. Don’t f**k it up.”
“Of course not, sir.”
He turns and breezes out my door as if he hadn’t just given me the warning to end all warnings and dropped a bombshell that could mean the end of my career at Farnsworth & Tillman.
We’ll see.
“Penny!” I race out of my office and call for my secretary slash personal assistant slash willing slave. “New client. Fifteen minutes.”
“I’ll meet you in the restroom.” Her slick, brown ponytail swings violently as she leaps from her chair, her perfect English-rose complexion paling when she stumbles over her spare pair of kitten heels.
Penny is from England. Although she’s only in her mid-twenties like me, she dresses the way I always imagined English women dressed when they had tea in the garden in the 1950s, all floaty florals, pearls, and pastels. She has the most delicious accent, an offbeat sense of humor, and, except when she is bossing me around, a gentle manner. She once told me the English described her as a Scouser. Sounded dirty to me. I suggested it wasn’t information she needed to share in America.
RAH, RAH! GO, TEAM, GO!
Hell.
In the five seconds it takes James P. Farnsworth III, managing partner of Farnsworth & Tillman, LLP, to step into my office, my life goes from happy to hell in a heartbeat.
“Good afternoon, sir. Is that a new suit? I’m guessing Armani, new label. And your tie, Italian silk, maybe Salvatore Ferragamo?”
I can do obsequious with the best of them.
Unfortunately, Farnsworth isn’t in a mood to be fawned over today. With a frown, he tosses a file folder on my desk and folds his arms, his biceps straining against the fine wool of his black suit jacket.
Farnsworth isn’t like most other law firm managing partners I know. No jowls or reddened cheeks from excess drinking at client functions. Not an ounce of fat around his tall, toned frame. His silvery-gray hair is impeccably styled, his skin overly tanned, and his jaw impossibly square. On the outside, he is undeniably handsome in a George Clooney kind of way.
“I hope you don’t have any plans for the next few months, Amanda.” His dark eyes gleam with the power of being able to ruin a junior associate’s life with a mere seven words. “I have a new case for you.”
“I live to serve, sir.” The firm motto slides off my tongue like a corked Merlot.
His thin lips twitch. “That’s what I like to hear.”
I’m guessing what he doesn’t want to hear is that I already have twenty-six cases on the go, as well as ten secret pro bono files for the community legal aid clinic I just can’t give up. If not for the twenty-four-hour cafeteria and coffin-like sleeping pods Farnsworth & Tillman graciously provides for its associates, I wouldn’t be able to manage.
Farnsworth rakes his eyes over my body, and it isn’t difficult to tell what he’s thinking. From the day I started at the firm almost three years ago, he has made no effort to hide his interest. I suspect if he weren’t my father’s best friend, I might have suffered more of his attentions. Rumor has it he has a fondness for young, blond, blue-eyed associates.
“Tight suit.”
“Yes, sir.” What else can I say? It isn’t so much tight as it is tailored. Not that I would ever dream of contradicting Farnsworth. Cold, hard, ruthless, and fiercely intelligent, Farnsworth suffers no fools, and associates have been dismissed for less than asking a question. Clients love him. Opposing counsel hate him. In the California Bay Area courts, he’s known as the Barracuda. Relentless. Merciless. The ultimate predator. Feared by all. Defeated by none.
“The client is a privately held real estate development company based here in San Francisco,” he says to my br**sts. “They have a new, very young and inexperienced chairman, the son of the founder, and they’ve just been hit with a multimillion-dollar lawsuit from a company called Duel Properties. You will have an opportunity to showcase your skills under my guidance. Your performance on this case will help us decide whether you are partnership material.”
Folding my arms over the objects of Farnsworth’s interest, I flash my most sycophantic smile. “Wonderful, sir. I relish the opportunity for a new challenge. And you won’t be disappointed.”
He studies me for a long moment. “We’ll see.”
We’ll see? If ever two words struck fear into the heart of a desperate and ambitious junior associate, those would be the words. We’ll see means he isn’t confident I’ll make it through to partnership. We’ll see means he knows something I don’t know. We’ll see means I might not receive the sleeping-pod sized, Farnsworth & Tillman duck-down duvet my department head presents to every associate who becomes partner.
We’ll see means I’d better kick ass on this new case, or my father will disown me.
“The client will be here in fifteen minutes, and I’m double-booked with a pressing engagement, so I’m letting you handle the initial interview. Make an appointment with my secretary to debrief this evening.” He pauses and then his forehead creases. “And, Amanda…”
“Sir?”
“Although our new client isn’t a big company, their opponent, Duel Properties, is a target client of the firm. We want to hit Duel Properties hard. We want them to hate us, so the next time they need a law firm, we’re the ones they call because they know we’ll make their opponent suffer the way we made them suffer. I’m taking a chance by giving you the file instead of handing it over to a senior associate. Don’t f**k it up.”
“Of course not, sir.”
He turns and breezes out my door as if he hadn’t just given me the warning to end all warnings and dropped a bombshell that could mean the end of my career at Farnsworth & Tillman.
We’ll see.
“Penny!” I race out of my office and call for my secretary slash personal assistant slash willing slave. “New client. Fifteen minutes.”
“I’ll meet you in the restroom.” Her slick, brown ponytail swings violently as she leaps from her chair, her perfect English-rose complexion paling when she stumbles over her spare pair of kitten heels.
Penny is from England. Although she’s only in her mid-twenties like me, she dresses the way I always imagined English women dressed when they had tea in the garden in the 1950s, all floaty florals, pearls, and pastels. She has the most delicious accent, an offbeat sense of humor, and, except when she is bossing me around, a gentle manner. She once told me the English described her as a Scouser. Sounded dirty to me. I suggested it wasn’t information she needed to share in America.
