Moot court

Logan Reynolds looked across the lawyers gathered on the thirty-second floor of his office building in Boston. Red-faced, his colleagues from the other offices - New York, Philadelphia, DC - were shouting to be heard over the noise in the foyer. 

There was no obvious place for Logan to slip in. The associates were sticking to their local office packs; each office gathered in a tight circle. Only the older partners were moving from group to group.

Other than Logan, the Boston office had only one associate, Cristina. She was now locked in conversation with a partner from New York but, with no alternative, Logan approached. The partner was sharing an anecdote about his last Boston visit. 

Logan considered himself to be a superior lawyer to Cristina, technically. He was chagrined to watch her bound from peak to peak at Sweeney Mulch while he wallowed in the pits. Certainly this event - the inter-office mixer - was Cristina’s wheelhouse. Even now, it was obvious that this partner was under Cristina’s spell. He carried on and on with his impressions of Boston, more and more eager, one idea leading to the next. Cristina egged him on. 

Logan listened for a while. It felt rude to interrupt but, after a while, it also felt rude to just be standing there. Finally, the partner finished his Boston story. Logan interjected with a “Yeah, Boston’s not for everybody.” The partner gave a hesitant look, waiting for Logan to expand. Cristina widened her eyes, alarmed by Logan’s clumsiness. 

In theory, Logan should have been the most comfortable lawyer in the room. After all, the other lawyers were visiting him, here in Boston, at his office on his turf. But, in reality, the host role didn’t suit Logan. 

Among other gaffes and travesties, Logan alone among 48 lawyers was wearing a suit and tie. Last night he had been in a state of agitation: khakis and tie, suit without tie, khakis and shirt. Eventually, he decided on formality. He was, after all, a lawyer at a big law firm, and he would be making a formal presentation to his superior colleagues. If ever there was a moment for a suit and tie, this was it. In any case, he imagined, all the lawyers must be in the same agony. Presumably some lawyers would decide on casual and others on formal or vice versa.

But no. Everyone else was casual in khakis or chic wool trousers. An astonishing result. Of course, all the other lawyers had office friends they could consult. It must have been a pack decision, made yesterday over lunch in the canteens or else text messages this morning. 

Alone, in misery, Logan looked for another group to slip into. Bill Byers was also alone but Bill was not a friendly face, or else was no longer a friendly face.  Logan had been working with Bill on the GreenGate case but had suddenly been dropped. Bill had ceased forwarding assignments and Logan was no longer copied in the emails. No explanation, not a word. Logan was still stunned and confused.

Logan panned across the foyer again. Hosting the meeting here in Boston provided one unmistakable advantage. Logan slunk off to hide in his office.

He turned down the hall into his small room with the view across to the neighboring skyscraper, just a few feet away but five hundred feet down. He closed the door. Through the plaster wall, Logan could hear the staff preparing meeting room 1 for the moot court. Logan and the other associates would make their presentations, argue their motions. The litigation partners would give feedback and ultimately judge the associates. A lighthearted training that everyone was supposed to enjoy - but, like everything at Sweeney, there would be winners and losers and everyone would know which was which. 

Logan took out his file for the moot court. A month ago, in the same meeting room, Boston’s hiring partner Vanessa Wood had explained her predicament to Logan. Logan's hours were not good enough. The Boston office was small, they could not support him alone. Vanessa had alluded to this very event as a chance to pitch for outside work to boost his hours. It was his chance to make a good impression. 

Logan felt a pang in his stomach, anxiety and the microwaved burritos he was living off of these days. He looked at the door. It was unlikely that anyone would overhear him. Someone could potentially walk in though? Probably not. Why would anyone seek him out now? He hunched over in discomfort. He couldn’t bear to walk back through the party to the bathroom. 

He gently eased out of his chair and let the gas silently release. As his scent reached his nose, he listened carefully and looked at the doorknob, praying for it not to turn. 

He looked down at his file with satisfaction. It was like law school where, from time to time, Logan had shown some merit. The theme today was “Liability of Directors in a Bankrupt Company.” Logan had read the exercise carefully and prepared his brief. He had recited three times in the mirror, just like in law school. His preparation was competent, his notes solid. Now he just needed a little luck and confidence in the performance.  

He was also rested. Over the past few weeks, Logan had begun this habit of sitting in the basement of his house, listening to metal music, and drinking a finger of cough medication from a tumbler. This ritual had begun at a time when he was genuinely sick but then, when he was a little less sick, the ritual continued. Then he quit altogether. Then he started up again. The ritual was very calming and it helped him cross the threshold into sleep.

He listened through the wall again. The “judges” - the senior litigation partners - had now entered the meeting room. They were discussing the space and organization. It was a big crowd for the small meeting room in Boston. He blew the air out through puffed cheeks. Ready or not, here I come. 

—————

The moot court complete, Logan returned to his little office. Like many things at work, this exercise had been awkward and unpleasant but basically successful. He had been given the worst slot: the end, by which time attention had drifted and the arguments staled. But there was no need to beat himself up. His performance was okay. It had not been a disaster. Now on to the really challenging part of the evening: drinking a beer with his colleagues. He fell heavily into his erg chair.

It was quiet. He was able to hear the judges again through the plaster wall. They were discussing the performance in order to choose a winner.

“So,” Vanessa said. “What do you think of our associate cadre?”

Bill Byers' voice. “In my opinion, all the associates were strong and capable - except Logan Reynolds.”

The other partners moved on quickly, singing the praises of the group of associates. They didn’t pick up on Bill’s criticism. They didn’t contradict him.

Logan watched as Cristina hustled down the corridor past his office on her way to meet up with the other lawyers. He ambled over to the window. Up this high, the windows didn’t open properly. They just cracked a couple inches. You could feel a slight breeze if you stuck your finger in but you couldn’t hurl yourself out. Besides, you’d never do that here, you’d just go to the roof. 

Logan stuffed his tie into his computer bag. He would sit through the beers or at least one beer. It would look weird if he skipped altogether. But he’d get out fast as he could, back to his basement.