The Last Good Paradise Read Online Free PDF Page A

the wall—a grove of arthritic eucalyptus trees that looked as if they had a bad case of infectious skin disease.
    “So before we start, since we are fellow artists, how do you like my new plein air piece?”
    Ann nodded appreciatively, searching the canvas for something non-career-threatening to say. She was furious her artistic aspirations had somehow leaked out, and especially to a senior partner, who might use it to deny her the partnership that she didn’t want. “It’s like … I can actually smell the trees.”
    Of course. There had been a stupid morale-booster seminar months ago in a downtown hotel ballroom. Each of them had to stand up and tell what his or her hobby was, which was essentially a joke because, except for the senior partners, no one had time to sleep, much less have hobbies. “I’m a painter,” Ann had said. “I mean, I’d like to be. Paint on weekends, that is. Someday. When I’m not working.” She had kept on standing there, qualifying, like a punctured tire slowly leaking air.
    When Flask got off the phone, she outlined the basic parameters of her “friend’s” situation: the account had been frozen due to pending legal action, which could take years to resolve. Flask frowned. “What kind of friend are you?” He laughed, so Ann immediately backpedaled and tried to minimize the situation’s severity. He informed her the creditors could indeed freeze the account if it was opened as a legal partnership. Of course she knew this, but she was looking for some kind of insanity loophole, covering the possibility of your partner losing it and proceeding to ruin your life.
    “It’s unfair,” she said.
    “That’s the law, honey.”
    Now literally she was in the client’s Italian-designed seat, and the view was very different. She knew only too well how she could be messed with, the agony and lack of ecstasy of interminable litigation, a long, slow bleed that won by attrition. Was this one of those karmic retribution things like in the movies? She felt deep remorse for causing Mrs. Peters’s victory the day before. She reddened at the memory of the OxyContin gambit. Shame, shame on her.
    Outside the senior partner’s heavy, closed mahogany door, with its raised gold lettering that spelled out his name, Ann stood, realizing with a sense of premonition that she would never be behind such a door with letters spelling out her name; that the plush gray Berber carpet, the paneled walls, the tastefully spotlit artwork that had given her such a sense of permanence and security working there were not actually there for her at all. They were to instill awe and respect among clients, who were billed astronomically, by the hour, as they sat on those deep, ergonomically designed sofas in the waiting room, or enjoyed the espresso-pod coffee brought over by the discreetly sexy receptionist; the intention of the furniture, the offices, the fine accoutrements of lawyering was to lull, to make believe that the law had some weight to it, that the clients weren’t at the mercy of chance, that their fates weren’t left to the vagaries of interpretation. These partners, who were so tastefully and expensively dressed, whose whole presentation shouted success, were not saviors or even guides of the legal system; they were enablers. Like in Las Vegas, the house always won, and the Flask, Flask, Gardiner, Bulkington, Bartleby, and Peleg partners—mostly male, quickly walking, making adjustments midstride to go around the marooned and stationary Ann in the hallway—were sharks who kept moving, kept litigating, or died. Ann had made a terrible, terrible mistake, thinking herself a shark, spending all those years in law school honing a bloodlust she had no appetite for. Now, after a decade practicing law, she had to admit she didn’t understand the first thing about the law; it was beyond right or wrong or justice; it was about hours billed and petty vendettas, and the lawyers were paid mercenaries sent out to