“His bonus is less than yours.” Greg won’t look at me.
“I brought just under two and a half million dollars in billables last quarter and over a million in October alone. He hasn’t had any billables in more than twelve weeks. What is his bonus?”
“It isn’t the same. Lance has a family to support—”
“If I were married and had kids, you’d call them a distraction. Such a double standard. I’ll ask again, how big is Lance’s quarterly bonus?”
“Two hundred and fifty thousand.”
My blood pressure goes through the roof. I’m the only female partner, and the guys are all part of some little clique. I stand, reeling in the anger that threatens to burst out of every pore. “I suggest you rethink the distribution and the message it sends to the fifteen female associates in our firm.”
I walk out without looking back. I was expecting somewhere between a half million and three-quarters of a million. Three-hundred-thousand dollars is half of what I’m owed.
I need to leave the office. I might hurt someone. They need me so much more than I need them. Granted, some of my work comes from them, but I’ve made headway with several venture capitalists and a group of billionaires. You’d think they’d treat me better.
I pack up my belongings. I have thousands of things to get done, but I’m too upset to work late. I need a glass, or maybe a bottle, of wine to make me feel better.
It’s too late to call my best friend from law school. It’s after nine where she lives on the East Coast, and she has young kids. My closest friends here are my sisters in law, and they won’t understand why I’m not happy with three-hundred-thousand dollars for three months of work when that’s more than three times what my brothers make all year as firemen.
I stew all the way home in my rideshare. I can’t believe they did this. Then I spend my evening sitting in my condo in the Marina. I can’t motivate myself to do much of anything beyond finishing the open bottle of wine I found when I got home.
Now I’m debating opening a second bottle and watching the nighttime strollers as they walk along the path by the water. I need to talk to a few of my clients and see if they’d come with me if I break out on my own. It’s so easy for the winds to shift, and when you’re part of a firm, if you have a bad week or month, there’s always money in the bank. But I can’t take any more of this.
I open the second bottle of the crisp white wine. I need to be politically conscious of what happens when you leave a major firm like mine. The non-compete can be dicey, and I’d be walking away from payments from Elena and a few others. Greg is well connected in the business, and he could very well make it difficult.
I go to bed and figure I’ll talk to Walker tomorrow during our lunch. I may hate his guts, but he’s pretty savvy when it comes to issues like this, and many of his friends are my clients, so he’ll likely know if they’d follow me to my own firm.
Then I’ll need to figure out who I’d take with me. There are some fantastic associates at White Baker Cousins, and I know I’d want Raven and probably Cindy Porter, my legal secretary. I think they’d both be willing to join me.
I toss and turn, getting more and more agitated as I remember slight after slight from my firm. I watch the clock turn to three, and I’ve still not fallen asleep. I turn the television on and listen with my back toward old episodes of Murder She Wrote. I finally drift off.
It’s after nine when I drag myself into the office, and everything’s all abuzz. I’m usually the person turning the lights on.
“What’s going on?” I look around, and everyone is running crazy.
“We think someone is being let go,” Cindy, my secretary, confides.
Usually I know these things. I put my stuff down in my office and begin the process of starting up my computer. I enter my password, but it doesn’t work. That’s strange. Slow down. Maybe I entered it wrong.
I type it in again, and it’s rejected. My palms begin to sweat. This isn’t good.
Greg walks in with a security guard. “I’m sorry. We wanted to do this before everyone arrived this morning, but you’re late.”
I stand and look outside my office to see everyone watching. Most of the partners’ offices are still dark.
“Marci, I took the ultimatum you gave me last night to the partners, and we’re invoking the terms of your contract and dismissing you.”
What? “Under what terms?” I ask, trying to keep my voice level. “That I’m asking for more of the money I billed and earned for this firm?”
“There seems to be some improprieties with your billing.” Greg looks out to the staff, who are all watching and listening to him.
I cross my arms in front of me, trying hard to keep my anger in check. “What do you mean, exactly?”
“It seems you’re overcharging your clients.”
I shake my head. “No way. I easily work two hours for every hour I bill.”
“You will need to vacate the premises immediately. Other attorneys will cover your clients, and under terms of the contract, you’re not to speak to any clients you’ve worked with in the past five years.”
I try to control my breathing, because what I want to do is have a meltdown. “And the final buyout?”
“Here’s a check for one-hundred-thousand dollars. We figure we’ll be refunding hours you billed, and if you fight this, we’ll take it to the California Bar Association and report your malfeasance.”
This is classic gaslighting. Reporting me to the bar is a threat to my license and ability to practice law. I’m not sure what to do or who I should call.
I gather my belongings. The guard holds his hands up. “I’m sorry, I can’t permit you to remove your computer.”
“Given it is not a company laptop, you have no say.” I stare up at the large man, and I’m ready to make a massive scene if they try to take my personal computer.
Greg shakes his head. “It’s fine.”
I stand, garnering all my pride, take a deep breath, and walk out the door.
Greg races after me. “I’m really sorry it came to this.”
I stop and look at him. “Collectively, I billed more than all the partners. You can go through my numbers, but you know that already. This is a trumped-up crock of shit because I’m a woman,” I whisper-yell. “Be prepared. My attorney will be in touch and will be expecting a detailed accounting of any errors you believe you’ve found. And if you mention this to any client and sully my reputation in any way, I’ll own you and every partner in this firm.”
He blanches, and I know Greg was only the messenger. Fucking law firms. They can be a solid boys club. Goddamn it. I worked hard and made them a lot of money. When I took this crap last quarter, I considered leaving, and now they’ve forced my hand. I’ll bury them.
I walk outside, and I don’t know what to do. I have a lot of anger, but I’m not sure how to channel it. I look around, and people are all bustling along to work. Suddenly, I don’t have anywhere to go, no one to call, and no place to cry.
I pull my phone from my purse. I can think of one woman who can probably help me. She will make those asswipes’ balls shrivel. I look up the address for Fiona McPhee. She’s a lawyer but also a fixer. Men are scared of her. Rumor has it she’s also a dominatrix, probably because she’s always wearing leather. But even if she isn’t, she readily doles out pain to her clients’ adversaries. The only problem is I’ve also heard she rarely takes on new clients. I’m hoping she’ll make an exception.