“We’re going to trial next week, Mr. Bishop.”
“I’m aware. And I apologize for the unfortunate timing. But this is an emergency.”
“Has there been a death in your immediate family?” he asks, making it clear that attending the funeral of, say, a grandparent or cousin would not be an acceptable excuse.
“Nobody has died,” I say.
“Are you on your own deathbed?” he asks.
“I am not.”
“Then no,” he says. “You can’t go.”
I shift my weight from one foot to the other but maintain eye contact. “Well, Martin, I wasn’t asking for permission.”
He stares back at me, his red face turning redder than it usually is.
“Well, Mr. Bishop, let me put it to you this way: If you’re not in the office this weekend, then you’re off this case.”
I nod and tell him I understand.
“Good. So you decide which matter is of greater importance to you.”
He gives me a smug look, confident that he’s just laid down a trump card.
“Will do,” I say with a curt nod. “Thank you, Martin.”
“What are you thanking me for?” he grumbles.
“For framing the issue so clearly,” I say, then turn on my heel, determined to have the last word.
—
“So, what are you going to do?” Nicole, my girlfriend of nearly a year, asks after I give her the update. We are sitting at the bar in a little bistro in Georgetown, waiting for a table to open.
“I’m going to Atlanta.”
“Seriously?” she says, making a sharp ninety-degree turn on her stool.
I nod and take a sip of my beer.
“But you’re up for partner—”
“Not anymore,” I say with a laugh.
“Tyson. It’s not funny. Martin doesn’t play,” Nicole says, looking aghast. A fellow lawyer at another big firm in town, she would know all about Martin even if she weren’t dating me. “He might even fire you.”
“I can’t get fired,” I say. “I already wrote my letter of resignation.”
“What?” she says. “You quit your job?”
“Not yet,” I say. “But the email is drafted and ready to go.”
“You’re going to throw everything away? Over this? You don’t even like Hannah’s fiancé!”
Her “this” instantly grates on me, as I say, “It’s not about me, Nic. It’s about Hannah. She feels like her life is imploding.”
“O-kay. But I still can’t believe she’s asking you to do this.”
“She didn’t ask me to do anything. She doesn’t even know I’m coming.”
Nicole shakes her head but says nothing. She doesn’t have to. I know how she feels about Hannah and Lainey and close male-female friendships in general. She doesn’t believe they can work over the long haul. In her mind, if both parties are straight, someone always wants to sleep with the other. The classic When Harry Met Sally premise.
“I really want you to be okay with this, Nic,” I say, doing my best to avoid an argument.
“And why is that?” she asks, crossing her arms.
It’s clearly a test, and I answer carefully. “Because your feelings matter to me.”
“Well, let me ask you this,” she says, unfazed. “If I told you I’m not okay with it, would you go anyway?”
I stare back at her, thinking this is the problem with dating a fellow lawyer, especially one as smart as Nicole. I always have the feeling she’s about to outmaneuver me. She often does.
“It might not change my ultimate decision,” I say. “But the way you feel matters to me.”
“Okay, Tyson,” she says, taking a deep breath. “Aside from the fact that this is a disastrous career move, it just feels so…excessive.”
“How so?” I ask.
