She wears the uniform of a corporate American soldier, her hair pulled tightly into a bun, skirt just the right length and just enough makeup to make her seem not too butch, but not so much to make her look like she worked her way up the ranks by being good at opening her legs rather than being good at opening statements. The letters Sullivan & Cromwell, LLP, emblazoned on the standard issue canvas bag propped up between slender legs are the only identifiers of what regiment she belongs to.
Sullivan & Cromwell, one of the elite of the elite law firms, with an army of litigators just like her, ready to do battle with whatever counsel is unwise enough to go to war with her charge.. If there’s anything I’ve learned in court so far, it’s that these little guys never stand a chance. These armies are too well prepared, too well coordinated, too rich, too well stocked with Harvard or Yale trained assassins. The difference between even a mid-size firm and a solo practitioner is as stark as a black belt beating up on a blue belt, and a large firm (like what McDonalds would hire) and a pro se plaintiff would be a very one sided massacre.
She practically melts into the hard plastic of the subway seat, her fingers running rapidly across her Blackberry providing her sole distraction. Maybe not even, if it’s her work phone. And for all I know, even though it’s 9:30 at night, she could be returning to headquarters to discuss strategy before her today starts again tomorrow. But for a couple minutes, she put her phone away, ignored the pile of papers in her bag, stopped adjusting her bun, and just gazed into the windowpane in front of her. As she got off the train, our eyes met, and she hurried off.