Excerpt of Dust to Dust by Tami Hoag

Welcoming remarks to new attorneys.

For the last twenty years or so, being a partner in a big
corporate law firm has been like having a license to print
money. At my firm, Simpson and Gates, we've had a license
to print a lot of money.

At six-fifteen in the evening of Tuesday, December 30, the
printing press is running at full speed forty-eight floors
above California Street in downtown San Francisco in what
our executive committee modestly likes to call our world
headquarters. Our 320 attorneys are housed in opulent
offices on eight floors at the top of the Bank of America
Building, a fifty-two-story bronze edifice that takes up
almost an entire city block and is the tallest and ugliest
testimonial to unimaginative architecture in the city
skyline.

Our two-story rosewood-paneled reception area is about the
size of a basketball court. A reception desk that is
longer than a city bus sits at the south end of the forty-
eighth floor, and I can see the Golden Gate Bridge,
Alcatraz Island and Sausalito through the glass-enclosed
conference room on the north wall. The gray carpet,
overstuffed leather chairs andantique coffee tables create
the ambiance of a classic men's club, which is entirely
appropriate since most of our attorneys and clients are
white, male and Republican.

Even in the evening of the customarily quiet week between
Christmas and New Year's, our reception area is buzzing
with a higher level of activity than most businesses see
in the middle of the day. Then again, most businesses
aren't the largest and most profitable law firm on the
West Coast.

Tomorrow is my last day with the firm and I am trying to
shove my way through three hundred attorneys, clients,
politicians and other hangers-on who have gathered for one
of our insufferable cocktail parties. I hate this stuff. I
guess it's appropriate I have to walk the gauntlet one
last time.

In the spirit of the holiday season, everybody is dressed
in festive dark gray business suits, starched monogrammed
white shirts and red power ties. A string quartet plays
classical music in front of the blinking lights of our
tired-looking twenty-foot Christmas tree. The suits have
gathered to drink chardonnay, eat hors d'oeuvres and pay
tribute to my soon-to-be ex-partner, Prentice Marshall
Gates III, the son of our late founding partner Prentice
Marshall Gates II. Prentice III, one of many lawyers in
our firm with roman numerals behind his name, is known as
Skipper. He is also sailing out of the firm tomorrow. The
circumstances of our respective departures are, shall I
say, somewhat different.

After my five years as an underproductive partner in our
white-collar criminal defense department, our executive
committee asked me to leave. I was, in short, fired.
Although the request was polite, I was told that if I
didn't leave voluntarily, they would invoke Article Seven
of our partnership agreement, which states, and I quote,
that “a Partner of the Firm may be terminated by the Firm
upon the affirmative vote of two-thirds (2/3) of the
Partners of the Firm, at a duly called and held meeting of
the Partners of the Firm.” In the last three years,
fourteen of my partners have been Article Sevened. I have
graciously agreed to resign. On Monday, I'll open the law
offices of Michael J. Daley, criminal defense attorney, in
a subleased office in a walk-up building in the not-so-
trendy part of San Francisco's South of Market area.
Welcome to the modern practice of law.

Skipper's story is a little different. After thirty years
as an underproductive partner in our real estate
department, he spent three million dollars of the money he
inherited from his father to win a mean-spirited race for
district attorney of San Francisco, even though he hasn't
set foot in a courtroom in over twenty years. My partners
are thrilled. They have never complained about his
arrogance, sloppy work and condescending attitude. Hell,
the same could be said about most of my partners. What
they can't live with is his four-hundred-thousand-dollar
draw. He has been living off his father's reputation for
years. That's why all the power partners are here. They
want to give him a big send-off. More importantly, they
want to be sure he doesn't change his mind.

The temperature is about ninety degrees and it smells more
like a locker room than a law firm. I nod to the mayor,
shake hands with two of my former colleagues from the San
Francisco Public Defender's Office and carefully avoid eye
contact with Skipper, who is working the room. I overhear
him say the DA's office is his first step toward becoming
attorney general and, ultimately, governor.

In your dreams, Skipper.

I'm trying to get to our reception desk to pick up a
settlement agreement. Ordinarily, such a document would be
brought to me by one of our many in-house messengers.
Tonight, I'm on my own because the kids who work in our
mailroom aren't allowed to come to the front desk when the
VIPs are around. I sample skewered shrimp provided by a
tuxedoed waiter and elbow my way to the desk, where four
evening-shift receptionists operate telephone consoles
that have more buttons than a 747. I lean over the
polished counter and politely ask Cindi Harris if she has
an envelope for me.

“Let me look, Mr. Daley,” she replies. She's a twenty-two-
year-old part-time art student from Modesto with long
black hair, a prim nose and a radiant smile. She has
confided to me that she would like to become an artist, a
stock-car driver or the wife of a rich attorney. I have it
on good authority that a couple of my partners have
already taken her out for a test drive.

A few years ago, our executive committee hired a
consultant to spruce up our image. It's hard to believe,
but many people seem to perceive our firm as stuffy. For a
hundred thousand dollars, our consultant expressed concern
that our middle-aged receptionists did not look “perky”
enough to convey the appropriate image of a law firm of
our stature. In addition, he was mortified that we had two
receptionists who were members of the male gender.

At a meeting that everyone adamantly denies ever took
place, our executive committee concluded that our clients –
the white, middle-aged men who run the banks, insurance
companies, defense contractors and conglomerates that we
represent – would be more comfortable if our receptionists
were younger, female, attractive and, above all, perkier.
As a result, our middle-aged female and male receptionists
were reassigned to less-visible duties. We hired Cindi
because she fit the profile recommended by our consultant.
Although she's incapable of taking a phone message, she
looks like a model for Victoria's Secret. S&G isn't known
as a hotbed of progressive thinking.

Don't get me wrong. As a divorced forty-five-year-old, I
have nothing against attractive young women. I do have a
problem when a firm adopts a policy of reassigning older
women and men to less-visible positions just because they
aren't attractive enough. For one thing, it's illegal. For
another thing, it's wrong. That's another reason I got
fired. Getting a reputation as the “house liberal” at S&G
isn't great for your career.

Cindi's search turns up empty. “I'm sorry, Mr. Daley,” she
says, batting her eyes. She flashes an uncomfortable smile
and looks like she's afraid I may yell at her. While such
wariness is generally advisable at S&G, it shows she
doesn't know me very well. Jimmy Carter was in the White
House the last time I yelled at anybody. “Let me look
again,” she says.

I spy a manila envelope with my name on it sitting in
front of her. “I think that may be it.”

Big smile. “Oh, good,” she says.

Success. I take the envelope. “By the way, have you seen
my secretary?”

Deer in the headlights. “What's her name again?”

“Doris.”

“Ah, yes.” Long pause. “Dooooris.” Longer pause. “What
does she look like?”

I opt for the path of least resistance. “It's okay, Cindi.
I'll find her.”

I start to walk away. She grabs my arm. I turn and look
into her perplexed eyes. “Mr. Daley,” she says, “are you
really leaving? I mean, well, you're one of the nice guys.
I mean, for a lawyer. I thought partners never leave.”

Cindi, I'm leaving because I have more in common with the
kids who push the mail carts than I do with my partners. I
was fired because my piddly book of business isn't big
enough.

I summon my best sincere face, look her right in her puppy
eyes and make believe I am pouring out my heart. “I've
been here for five years. I'm getting too old for a big
firm. I've decided to try it on my own. Besides, I want
more time for Grace.” My ex-wife has custody of our six-
year-old daughter, but we get along pretty well and Grace
stays with me every other weekend.

Her eyes get larger. “Somebody said you might go back to
the public defender's office.”

I frown. I worked as a San Francisco PD for seven years
before I joined S&G.

The State Bar Journal once proclaimed I was the best PD in
Northern California. Before I went to law school, I was a
priest for three years. “Actually, I'm going to share
office space with another attorney.” Without an ounce of
conviction, I add, “It'll be fun.” I leave out the fact
I'm subleasing from my ex-wife.

“Good luck, Mr. Daley.”

“Thanks, Cindi.” It's a little scary when you talk to
people at work in the same tone of voice you use with your
first-grade daughter. It's even scarier to think I'll
probably miss Cindi more than I'll miss any of my
partners. Then again, she didn't fire me.

I know one thing for certain. I'll sure miss the regular
paychecks.

I begin to push my way toward the conference room in
search of Doris when I'm confronted by the six-foot-six-
inch frame of Skipper Gates, who flashes the plastic three-
million-dollar smile that graces fading campaign posters
that are still nailed to power poles across the city. He
is inhaling a glass of wine.

“Michael,” he slurs, “so good to see you.”

I don't want to deal with this right now.

At fifty-eight, his tanned face is chiseled out of solid
rock, with a Roman nose, high forehead and graceful mane
of silver hair. His charcoal-gray double-breasted Brioni
suit, Egyptian-cotton white shirt and striped tie add
dignity to his rugged features. He looks like he is ready
to assume his rightful place on Mount Rushmore next to
George Washington.

As an attorney, he's careless, lazy and unimaginative. As
a human being, he's greedy, condescending and an
unapologetic philanderer. As a politician, however, he's
the real deal. Even when he's half tanked and there's a
piece of shrimp hanging from his chin, he exudes charisma,
wealth and, above all, style. It must be some sort of
birthright of those born into privilege. As one of four
children of a San Francisco cop, privilege is something I
know very little about.

He squeezes my hand and pulls me uncomfortably close. “I
can't believe you're leaving,” he says. His baritone has
the affected quality of a man who spent his youth in
boarding schools and his adulthood in country clubs. As he
shouts into my ear, his breath confirms he could launch
his forty-foot sailboat with the chardonnay he's consumed
tonight.

His speech is touching. It's also utter bullshit.
Instinctively, I begin evasive maneuvers. I pound him a
little too hard on his back and dislodge the shrimp from
his chin. “Who knows?” I say. “Maybe we'll get to work on
a case together.”

He tilts his head back and laughs too loudly. “You bet.”

I go for the quick tweak. “Skipper, you are going to try
cases, right?” District attorneys in big cities are
political, ceremonial and administrative lawyers. They
don't go to court. The assistant DAs try cases. If the ADA
wins, the DA takes credit. If the ADA loses, the DA
deflects blame. The San Francisco DA has tried only a
handful of cases since the fifties.

He turns up the voltage. Like many politicians, he can
speak and grin simultaneously. He hides behind the
protective cocoon of his favorite sound bite. “Skipper
Gates's administration is going to be different,” he
says. “The DA is supposed to be a law-enforcement officer,
not a social worker. Skipper Gates is going to try cases.
Skipper Gates is going to put the bad guys away.”

And Mike Daley thinks you sound like a pompous ass.

He sees the mayor and staggers away. I wish you smooth
sailing, Skipper. The political waters in the city tend to
be choppy, even for well-connected operators like you.
Things may be different when your daddy's name isn't on
the door.

A moment later, I find my secretary, Doris Fontaine, who
is standing just outside our power conference room,
or “PCR.” Doris is a dignified fifty-six-year-old with
serious blue eyes, carefully coiffed gray hair and the
quiet confidence of a consummate professional. If she had
been born twenty years later, she would have gone to law
school and become a partner here.

“Thanks for everything, Doris,” I say. “I'll miss you.”

“I'll never get another one like you, Mikey,” she replies.

I hate it when she calls me Mikey. She does it all the
time. She absentmindedly fingers the reading glasses that
hang from a small gold chain around her neck. She reminds
me of Sister Eunice, my kindergarten teacher at St.
Peter's. She looks at the chaos in the PCR through the
heavy glass door and shakes her head.