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Silas
“Please tell me you’re joking, Doug,” I growl.
Doug O’Shea, one of the partners in the firm where I’ve worked for more than a decade, shifts in his seat and refuses to meet my eyes. That tells me all I need to know. He’s not joking. My face grows hot, and I can feel the veins in my neck straining and throbbing. I clench my teeth so hard, I could probably break rocks. I have to force myself to relax to keep from going over the desk and strangling him with my bare hands. I unclench my fists, lay my open hands flat on my thighs, and let out a soft breath through my gritted jaw.
“Doug, you told me a year ago that if I kept my billable hours up and kept winning in court, I was a lock to make partner,” I push. “I’ve increased my billable hours and I’ve won more cases in court than any other associate here. And let’s not forget how many millions I’ve brought this firm in settlements and judgments.”
“I know that, Silas. And we’re grateful for everything you’ve brought to this firm. Don’t think we’re not. Or that we’ve overlooked your contributions to our firm’s success,” he says, his voice whiny and placating. “The situation is just… it’s gotten more complicated than it was a year ago when we last spoke.”
I glare at him, the blood pounding in my ears so hard and so loud, I’m half afraid I’m going to have to shout over it to be heard.
“How could it possibly have gotten more complicated? I was on a partner track the last time we spoke about this. I’ve done everything you’ve asked. Shit, I’ve done more than you’ve asked of me, Doug. And I’ve done it all with the expectation there would be a partnership waiting for me at the end of all this. Because that’s what you promised me,” I snarl.
“Silas, I know. And if I’d know then what I know now—”
“What’s changed?”
He grimaces and looks down at the top of his desk again. My spine stiffens and I feel my stomach clench as I watch him closely, knowing I’m not going to like the answer he’s about to give me. I have to fight to keep my hands from balling into fists again. My anger is flowing so hot and thick it’s clouding my thinking, so I force myself to take a step back, clear my head, and consider the situation.
Given how uncomfortable Doug is and how reluctant he is to tell me why I’m not being made partner, I can only assume it’s because the answer to that question is going to piss me off even more than the fact that I’m being passed over to begin with. And that’s when it hits me. As the realization of what’s going on descends over me, I look over at Doug and can tell he knows I’ve finally put the pieces together. He runs a trembling hand through his thinning brown hair and shakes his head.
“You guys are making Daniel a partner, aren’t you?” I spit.
“It’s not my call, Silas. I wish—”
“Unbelievable. Just fucking unbelievable. Nepotism at its finest.”
“Silas, it’s not—”
“Don’t, Doug. Just don’t,” I cut him off. “That obsequious fucking weasel doesn’t bill half the hours I do. And he doesn’t win in court anywhere near as often as I do. How much cash did he bring into the firm last year?”
“I can’t really say—”
“A quarter of what I did, Doug. A fucking quarter.”
Daniel Hastings is the son of August Hastings, who is the firm’s managing partner. August has final say on internal matters like these and has apparently decided that his coked-up, fuck up of a kid is more worthy of becoming a partner than I am. Doug clears his throat again and sits up straight in his chair. He puts a stern expression on his face as he tries to regain control of a situation that’s spiraled well out of control already.
“Listen, Silas,” he starts. “We can revisit this issue next—”
I get to my feet so fast, the chair I was sitting in topples over backward. It hits the ground with a hard thud that makes Doug flinch. I stand in front of his desk wanting to punch him in the throat. But I dial it back. As pissed off as I am, I know this isn’t Doug’s fault. He’s not the one who’s fucking me over. That would be August and his piece of shit son.
“I have a meeting,” I say.
“Silas, I’m sorry. And I’m going to do everything in my power to fix this. Or at least, try to make it up to you.”
“Yeah. Sure. Whatever you say.”
I turn and leave his office, slamming the door behind me. The silence as I step into the bullpen has a physical pressure to it and I can feel the weight of all the eyes on me as I stride to my office. I’m sure the paralegals and support staff are all imagining plumes of steam coming out of my ears. Ignoring it all, I grab my keys, coat, and briefcase, then head out for my meeting. And as I ride the elevator down, my heart stops pounding in my ears quite so hard and loud, but my entire body is still taut and the tension crackles across my skin.
With a primal roar of rage, I drive my fist into the metal door of the elevator.
* * *
I sitat the table in the ten-by-ten gray, cinder block room at the county jail waiting for my client. As I review the charging documents and the facts of the case, a bitter smile stretches my lips. The only reason I started taking on pro-bono work like this case is because I thought it would enhance my reputation and make me a more desirable prospect to the other partners. Knowing I’m not going to be made partner now though, I wonder what the fuck I’m even doing here. It’s not like doing good, charitable work, is enough to get what I already deserve.
Maybe it’s time for me to move on. After more than ten years with the firm, it’s starting to feel like associate is the highest rung I’m ever going to get to. Maybe I’ve run my course with the firm and it’s time to pursue other opportunities. Maybe it’s time to hang out my own shingle. I’ve got a good reputation and I’m great at what I do so I have no doubt I’ll be able to attract clients—good paying clients. And at the same time, I’ll be stripping my firm of my billable hours and the rest of the money I’ve pulled in for them through litigation, which is a pinch they would feel. And it would be a hard pinch. It’s a thought that makes me smile.
