Through a Different Lens

Through a Different Lens

I rifled through the nanny backpack, muttering. “Diapers, check. Blankets, check. Onesies, check. Wipes, check . . .” Then I peeked in my work satchel. “Lunch, breast pump, bottles, flash drives, extra blouse. . . “ I’d been on maternity leave for three months. There is a special place in hell for whichever misogynist decided that ninety days was sufficient time to recover from giving birth. The second time around was even harder, with a four year old underfoot as well as the colicy baby. I had been leaning against another; the first pregnancy not been planned. I worried about balancing career and family. But Jack wanted Jack Jr. to have a sibling. And as usual, he made his case until I relented.

Twenty seven minutes later I parked and took the elevator to the top floor of the Brinkman building, where all the attorneys worked. Four years ago Brinkman, a large software and technology company, hired me as their Head of Litigation. I spotted my boss, Tyler, the General Counsel, already in his office waiting for me.

“Abby! Welcome back! We gotta lot to catch up on. Take notes.” He plopped down in his chair and tossed a pen and notebook on the desk between us. “New lawsuit came in last week. Plaintiff is Precious Lewis. ‘Precious.’ It’s like her parents wanted her to be sexually harassed.” I cringed. There is a reason we don’t allow Alexas anywhere near this floor.

I responded, “Which, of course, she wasn’t. The employment lawyers think we’ll get summary judgment, and if we don’t, we will crush her at trial. She has no credibility. Is Anderson Walker up to speed?” They were the outside law firm we used to handle most discrimination lawsuits. My job was, in part, to handle them: to review their work, make sure they met deadlines, and sit in on depositions, mediations, and, if it came to that, try the case with them. I was a litigation expert but not as familiar with the niche area of employment law.

Tyler shook his head. “This was in the memo. Didn’t you read it? We fired them. They went way over budget last year. We retained Moore & Steven. You know them?”

I thought for a moment. “I think I know someone there . . .or who was going there. . . but it’s escaping me. “ Tyler frowned. I pictured the words “baby brain” in the thought bubble over his head.

“Doesn’t matter, just wondered, the contract is signed.We’re having lunch with two of them today. Bonnie’s at noon. Read the memo this morning and let me know if you have questions. Ok, next case . . . .”

As Tyler filled me in on other new developments, my brain wandered. Moore & Steven. Was that – no. Couldn’t be. No, not Moore & Steven – Moore & Swann. Too many damn law firms in this town. Deep breath. All good.

Just before noon, Tyler and I walked the three blocks to Bonnie’s, known for power lunches and enormous salads. Tyler waved to a man in a navy suit, and we walked to his table. Then a woman approached, and Tyler shook her hand. No, no. Not my first day back. This hell could not be any fresher.

Pamela looked great. Highlighted, botoxed, and thinner, sporting a slim fitting pantsuit. Equally shocked for the slightest moment, but she recovered well; you would not have noticed unless you were looking. They didn’t call her Poker face Pamela for nothing.

Tyler made the introductions. “Abby, this is John Moore and Pamela Salter. After Randy Steven’s untimely passing – so sorry, John-John brought Pam in as co-managing partner. He runs the business side of things. Pam is the employment expert.”

My husband’s ex-wife extended her hand to me and said, “It’s Pamela. Never Pam.” She winked at me. Like we were in the girls’ club, mocking these silly men with their silly nicknames. Like she had never set eyes on me. In fairness, she probably wished she hadn’t. Well, I could play too.

“Pamela, so nice to meet you. I’m afraid I’m not quite up to date, I just got back from maternity leave.” Snap. You remember me now? “But I look forward to working with you!” Big smile.

I walked back from lunch with Tyler and awaited my Oscar. Pamela deserved one, too. That afternoon I contemplated the meeting. It made sense that she pretended we had no history: she was new at the firm and not in a position to refuse paying work on the grounds that her ex-husband’s mistress-slash-second wife was the client. How petty it would look. And what was I to do? Tell Tyler we had to retain new counsel because - oops- we hired my husband’s ex wife? As a lawyer, I was well area that the law prevents retaliation for taking maternity leave. As a realist, trust me, new mommies cannot afford this kind of drama.

I know how this looks. But Jack and Pamela were separated when I started sleeping with him five years ago. I didn’t know why at the time, but he later told me that she didn’t want children and he did. You can’t have half a baby. The divorce was inevitable. But still, Jack was my direct supervisor, ten years my senior. I was an associate attorney, then a few years out of law school. Pamela was also a partner at the firm, Jack’s age. It was embarrassing and cliche. To this day, when asked, I vaguely tell people I “met my husband through work.”

As a result of one of those embarrassing and cliché late night trysts where we threw protection to the wind, I got pregnant. Jack was thrilled. I quit the firm, had the baby, and got the job at Brinkman. Pamela left the firm around the same time I did, and apparently ended up as my client. Jack stayed and got promoted. I never thought that either one of us would have to see Pamela again.

I weighed my options and determined I had to make this work. Or at least, I would not be the one to blink. After several days passed, I figured Pamela must be thinking the same thing. So I called her to set a meeting to review the case and strategize.

She came to my office a week after the lunch, and we met in a conference room at four. I set the meeting late so that the office would soon be empty, if things went awry. She strode in wearing another slick pantsuit. I sat across from her and slid a copy of the Plaintiff’s complaint in front of her.

I began with authority. “Precious Lewis claims that her boss, Mark, sexually harassed her. Our HR team investigated this thoroughly and determined there was insufficient evidence. What she alleges he said does not constitute harassment, per our prior employment counsel, and he denies even saying it. We’ll need to interview everyone again, but I feel our case is strong.”

We proceeded to discuss the witnesses, facts, and evidence. Two hours in, she pointed at me. “Abby, you’re leaking.” I looked down at my blouse and blushed. Classy, Abby. “Excuse me, I’ll be right back. Um – you can keep reading the file.” I grabbed my satchel and raced to the office and shut the door. After pumping, I placed the bottles in my office fridge and returned to the conference room.

“Everything OK there? Feel free to take more time if you need it. I don’t have personal experience of course but I’ve heard this can be difficult.” She smiled.

I weighed her words and tone. Snarky? Yes.That smile – sharky? Yes. She, Pamela, would never interrupt a meeting to go pump breast milk.

I returned her fake smile. “Breastfeeding is best for the baby. And when you make the decision to have children, you also must make sacrifices.” Did I just say that? Like I was the first person to make this brilliant observation. I wanted to slap myself.

Instead I put my hand over my face. I could not keep this up. “I can’t believe I said that. Sorry. Yes, it actually hurts like hell and I wish the damn baby wouldn’t latch so I’d have an excuse to stop.”

I looked up at her, and she started laughing. And I started laughing. I said, through convulsion, “What are we even doing? This is so weird.”

She nodded. “SO. WEIRD.”

I gestured at my office, two doors away. “Next to the breast milk I keep a bottle of wine. Want a glass?”

She said, “I’ve never wanted one more.”

I poured us two glasses of wine. She said, “I’m not billing you from here on out, not when I’m drinking. But let’s talk about the case a bit more. Tell me why you think we get summary judgment.”

I was relieved; a safe topic. We could get back on track. “Precious claims that Perry, her boss, made a few comments to her over the course of a year. It started out about work, the compliments. Like, you’re brilliant at your job. I couldn’t do this without you. All cool, right? But then it became, you look great in that suit. I bet your boyfriend loves that dress. I wish my wife” – I winced - “dressed like that. You’re such a great listener.” I took a gulp of wine. “And he did invite her out for drinks a couple times.”

Pamela frowned.

“I know, I know, it’s cringey. Not acceptable. We reprimanded him, and he stopped doing it. But it does not rise to the level of sexual harassment. Right?”

She took a sip of wine and shrugged. “Is that what your prior counsel told you? I think it’s a closer call. If there are enough comments like that over a long period of time, that could constitute a hostile work environment. And what if we don’t get summary judgment and it goes to trial? What would a jury do?”

I thought about it. “It doesn’t look great. We could lose.”

She stared at me. “Yeah, a supervisor with significant power over a much younger subordinate, making comments like that . . . it put her in an awkward position.”

I blushed. Furiously. “It wasn’t . . . it wasn’t like that.”

She raised an immaculately groomed eyebrow, took another sip of wine. “What are we talking about here?”

“I don’t – Jack? It wasn’t like that with Jack. He respected me. I mean, yes, he complimented me, but . . .”

Flashbacks, late nights in the office. Sometimes weekends. Eye contact. The occasional touching. The compliments.

Pamela didn’t say anything. She just kept staring at me, so I kept babbling.

“I had a choice! I mean, Jack was my boss, but. I liked him! I was single. I liked my job. I didn’t want to cause – I mean, maybe at first, it was weird, but. It was my choice. It worked out.”

She said, “It worked out, so it doesn’t matter?”

“Yes! Exactly. I love him. I don’t know what conversations you had with Jack about it at the time, but I can tell you that everything was consensual.”

She shook her head. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I wasn’t there. We didn’t talk about it much because it wasn’t my business anymore. But it did make it awkward for the firm, him dating his younger associate.You know it all came out after you and I left – I still talk to people there. They’re my friends.”

Jack had mentioned that to me, years ago. It was hardly surprising that Jack’s colleagues figured it out, or that they frowned upon it. Again: embarrassing and cliché.

Pamela patted the folder in front of her. “I’m sorry, Abby. I shouldn’t have gone there. Let’s get back to the case.”

We proceeded to go over upcoming deadlines, billing procedures, innocuous topics. No landmines.

At around seven, I told her I had to go. The nannywould be annoyed, so would Jack. “We can pick this up next week.” My gaze shifted to the screensaver on my phone, a picture of the baby and Jack Jr. She looked, too. “Cute. They look like you.”

“Thanks. Pumping aside, it has been worth it. I mean, I know it’s not your thing. Babies, ew!” I mock grimaced.

She blanched. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, that you didn’t want kids. So it’s probably annoying. Talking about any kids. Pumping breaks. Especially, you know. . . “ I drifted off. Pamela’s poker face was no more. She looked . . . pissed.

She spoke slowly and loudly, as if talking to a small, partially deaf child. “What are you talking about? I couldn’t HAVE kids. I wanted them. Desperately. By the time Jack finally agreed to start trying, it was too late, I was 42.”

I shook my head. That made no sense. “But then why did you and Jack split up?”

“Jack left me because I couldn’t have kids. Not even with three rounds of invitro”

“What – no. Jack said you didn’t want kids. He never mentioned in vitro. Why should I believe you? You agreed to separate. It was mutual.”

Pamela looked at me with pity. “Yes, I ‘agreed’ to separate when he told me he wanted to leave. Why would I lie about this? Do you want me to show you the bills from my obgyn? I’m still paying them off. Jack left me to find someone he could have kids with.”

“But. . . you’d been together for fifteen years. Jack wouldn’t just leave you . . ..”

“Abby. I’m sorry you didn’t know this. It doesn’t matter. I remarried, to a widower. I’m a stepmom to twin ten year old boys, and I love it.”

I sat down. The man I married left his wife because she couldn’t bear children. And I was right there, in the office next to him. Ten years his junior, his subordinate. Wearing pretty dresses and being “such a good listener.”

Harsh realities and wine don’t mix. I retched in the trashbasket.