Linda Sands - Simple Intent

NO longer the City of Brotherly Love, Philadelphia had become the City of Bitch, Moan and Sue. The more the public wanted their revenge, their justice, their duethe more wealthy attorneys became. The men at Montgomery, Deluca, Banning and Scott were no exception. They sat in calfskin chairs that smelled like well-worn currency, sipped Peruvian coffee from Limoges china and displayed framed photographs of themselves cruising to the property in Belize on the firms yacht, the Dont Say Anything.

Fourteen of the top two hundred and fifty law firms in the United States made Philadelphia their home. Montgomery, Deluca, Banning and Scott was number five.

Paris Kendrick had been with the firm from the beginning, when there was just Ted Montgomery and a metal desk. But that was more years ago than shed ever admit, and thanks to a few cosmetic surgeries, shed never have to.

As the firm grew, law schools from all over the world sent the best and brightest to vie for intern positions. The wooing came from both ends. MDB&S spent a small fortune in symphony and theater tickets, golf outings, Atlantic City weekends, and the best box seats in three stadiums. This years potential rainmakers hadnt been difficult to recruit, law schools were bursting at the seams in the new millennium. It seemed everyone had a dream.

Paris Kendrick had heard it all. These new attorneys said they werent in it for the money, they said they wanted to help people that needed help. They said they wanted to make a change in the system, make a difference. She noticed they had no problem cashing their checks every payday, and thought the only difference they were making was from mainstream to Mainline, from lemon to Lexus.

Today was Day One for the interns. Today, they would learn the first rule: To see anyone, to get anything, to be anyone at Montgomery, DeLuca, Banning and Scott, you had to go through Paris.

In the lobby, Richard Early loitered by the marquee of business names. He watched the arrivals and tried to guess which floor theyd pick. So far, hed been right sixty-two percent of the time. When a gorgeous brunette in a conservative suit entered, he figured her for floor three, Stanton Talent Agency. She had the exotic looks of a mixed parentage, the height and shoulders of an athletic father, the obvious benefits of a well-proportioned mother. He imagined her on the pages of his favorite lingerie catalog wearing red lace and leather. The young woman ran her eyes down the names on the marquee and stopped at Montgomery, Deluca, Banning and Scott. For once, Early was glad to be wrong. He followed her into the elevator.

Kenneth Reilly ran through the lobby, slid across the newly-waxed floor and jammed his hand between the closing elevator doors. Hold it, he said, squeezing in. He glanced at the lit floor button, then at his companions.

Looks like were all headed to the same place. He held out his hand. Ken Reilly. Most people call me Reilly.

Early shook his hand. Richard Early, pleased to meet you.

The woman smiled, resigned to social niceties. Sailor Beaumont.

Reilly shook her hand. The pleasures all mine.

They rode in silence, Sailor calming herself with a silent chant, Reilly bouncing in his shoes, and Early inhaling the perfumed air.

The first thing they saw when the elevator doors opened was Paris posed behind the platform reception desk. She knew that first impressions meant everything.

Reilly sidestepped out of the elevator before the doors had fully opened. Good morning, were the

Interns, she finished. Yes, I know. Paris Kendrick. Her perfect breasts strained beneath Coco Chanels vision of corporate America as she extended a manicured hand to Reilly. Paris thought hed clean up good under her tutelage. He already had that certain something. He was charming, intriguing even. If only she were youngeror he were richer. She dropped his hand, stepped down and greeted the other two, remembering Sailor Beaumont from the interviews. Even if she hadnt come to them from such a socially respected family, this beauty would be hard to forget. Unlike the dumpy man behind her.

A stocky dark-haired girl wearing a headset approached. She stepped behind the desk, plugged herself into the phone board and began routing calls. Paris introduced her with a nod of her head. Thats Missy. She can answer any of your questions if Im indisposed. Now, if youll follow me.

The interns followed the swaying hips of Paris Kendrick past offices with gold nameplates, rows of blue cubicles and a brightly lit break room. At Conference Room A, they filed in and selected their seats with care. This was a business where everything mattered.

As subtle as her perfume, Paris disappeared, clicking the door shut behind her.

Pure class. Montgomery, Deluca, Banning and Scott expected nothing less. Seated in soft leather chairs in climate-controlled comfort, the interns arranged themselves. Reilly unbuttoned his jacket, leaned back in his chair, and threw one leg casually over the other. Sailor sat facing the door, her signature handbag propped on the seat beside her, a worn leather satchel at her feet. Richard Early rocked in his chair, cleaning his wire-framed glasses with a handkerchief. Not long for this world of corporate lunches and client shmoozing, hed be shipped downstairs to work at a hand-me-down desk, tread on second-grade carpet and fetch his own water from the tap. Shackled to his desk by numbers and papers and thickly bound ledgers, he would slave away in a tiny, dark cubicle and be assisted by a secretary hired for her competence not her breasts. Richard Early would become a forgotten gear in the machine.

Reilly thought it was a waste. All those years of school. For what? If you were going to be a lawyer, you should be visible. People should know who you are. Like Edward J. Deluca and Len Banning. That was what Reilly wanted. Fame. And money.

There was a knock at the door, and then it opened slowly.

A beefy man in a checked shirt and paisley tie entered dabbing his sweaty forehead with a pink handkerchief and breathing through his mouth. Murphy, taxes. I need Early. Right now.

Sailor fought the urge to plug her nose. Murphy smelled like old sneakers and pond scum.

Early noticed. He made a face, then followed the man from a safe distance. At the door, he said, It was nice to meet you, both.

Sailor and Reilly waved as Early shuffled out.

Sailor leaned back and crossed her long, brown legs. Reilly appreciated the view. Well-groomed, impeccably dressed, she was charm and grace, like a darker Princess Di. She was nothing like the Irish girls from his neighborhood. She was old money, the kind of girl whod never clip coupons or notice the price of cheese at the deli. If she wanted it, she got it.

Do you hear music? Sailor asked.

Ken Reilly smiled, recognizing the baritone of Henry James Scott. Just wait, he told her.

The door opened and a stunning blonde straight from the beauty pageant circuit sauntered in. Behind her, the singing grew louder as the man burst through the door, singing and stomping and shaking hair that didnt budge. If I was a rich man, daidle, deedle, daidle, digguh, digguh, deedle, daidle, dum... Harry James Scott finished the song, holding the final note in perfect pitch. Miss Sweden applauded and motioned that Sailor and Reilly should, too.

Thank you. Thank you. I am Harry James Scott. And this is Victoria. The blonde curtsied in the doorway, drawing her golden skirt behind her. Harry walked around the table then stopped behind Reilly. He boomed, Come with me, my boy!

Reilly jumped. His knee hit the underside of the table with a solid thud, launching a mini tsunami in the crystal water pitcher. Sailor tried not to laugh.

Reilly snatched up his things, limped after the odd couple, and then paused at the door to give Sailor the thumbs up. Good luck.