I frowned. “Upstairs?”
He gave me a stern look. “Upstairs,” he said significantly.
Right. The firm’s elevators went from the second up to the twelfth
floor; the set used by the rest of the building started at fourteen and
went through twenty-six.
Which begged the question. “How do I get up there?”
“Just believe the floor is there, and it will appear.”
I couldn’t resist. “You mean, imagine it.”
“Precisely.” Thorpe hefted his jacket over his arm. “Not many
associates get this opportunity. Likely because the proportion of
imagination in lawyers compared to the rest of the population tends
to lower over time, as they assume that logic and rationality come
only at the expense of using that portion of the brain. Though,” he
mused, “it could also be due to the trolls. Rumor has it they’ve found
a way into the dark corners of some of our law schools.”
He nodded crisply and disappeared down the hallway. Turning
into my own office at the other end of the hall, I thought about his
offer while waiting for my computer to boot up.
How senior did one really have to be, to get invited for a sidebar?
I pulled up the Word document that started it all, the first of the
twelve rhymes and stories I’d written about life as a junior associate,
concocted between the revolving door of the legal memoranda that
were my life:
A first-year associate’s life is no joke!
They give all of the fun stuff to some other bloke.
So you sigh deep inside and you try to invoke,
The aura of competent, confident folk.
Of all the events that morning, the fact that someone had monitored my computer surprised me the least. The Puntriot Act at work.
I shuddered at the idea of six months sorting documents in solitude,
and forced my finger down to the keyboard: DELETE.
I did the same with the rest of my twelve infractions. Then, waiting for the inevitable document review to hit my inbox, I leafed
through the paper copy of ARIZONA ATTORNEY in my inbox. A full-page ad caught my attention.
I tried, I really did, to avoid it. But there it was, plain as day: a
Creative Arts competition. For lawyers.
Talk about entrapment. How many unsuspecting entrants would
get pulled into the Court of Uncommon Pleas?
Not me, I thought. Truth was stranger than fiction, after all—not
to mention outside the domain of the Puntriot Act. Calling up a new
document, I began to type the truth, the whole truth, and nothing
My thirteenth story. It began with the following words:
There is a thirteenth floor in the six-story federal district courthouse. AZ AT
Wendy K. Akbar
N41 MAY 2015 ARIZONA ATTORNEY www.azbar.org/AZAttorney
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