2 Office Premonitions

Jacques was steady at my side, as always. Not in court today, but at the esteemed law firm of Plantag, Hartley, Saxe & Associates. (Or PHS&A, as our tongues rolled from time to time, trying to abbreviate the blasted moniker.) My colleague's stature boomed of a man who wished to escape his heritage of the romantic nation across the channel for the pragmatism of the British Isles: his hands always entrenched themselves in his trouser pockets, not willing to wave out into the open air of the world. He arched his body at a perfectly vertical angle, making sure that even when he walked, he stood completely still amidst the wayward arches of London streets. Even his mustache was trimmed to roost precisely above his tightly-wound mouth, as his character tried to affect an aura of grimness. Yet the blues of his eyes always reminded me of the pleasant skyline of Paris, with the French sun limning the reds and yellows and sapphire hues of the buildings Jacques once frequented. No matter how hard he tried to root himself in the undergrowth of British stoicism, I felt that the young lad would always hold a yearning for the Parisian sunshine.

I gave him an affable smile, trying to mollify his desire for a more...traditional work style.

"Oh, it's the last day, Jacques, settle down. I've essentially finished up everything, anyway. I'm sure the principals won't mind."

But that's when I heard the familiar clack of four boots marching in from outside the office. The eight other lawyers stationed at their desks slammed down their pencils in unison and stood up from their chairs—as did I, following along with my lawyerly regiment. I looked to Jacques' stiffening expression as we beheld the incoming senior partners.

Richard Plantag and Jonathan Saxe were two men who carried an innately sobering profile, their grey breeches tailored to the rubber soles of their shoes, their waistcoats pleated against their torsos—so suffocating as to surprise observers to the fact that the two weren't gaping for oxygen. The only color on their ensembles was the dim orange of the office gaslamps seeping off their top hats, as if to brighten their spirits a tad. Soon enough, though, I realized I was staring far too long, and instead took up my post boring my eyes into the sorry linings of a wall.

"Evening inspection: let's hope you gents have your marbles in order," Plantag gave his usual, drear preamble.

Plantag and Saxe strutted down the desks, giving my other colleagues cursory nods of approval at their hard work. After all, it had been a toiling 365 days up to this point, and at the crown of December there was some closure to be had for an annual job well done. The principals gave a nod of approval towards Jacques' immaculate deskside, before engaging in a perfunctory sigh as they reached my own. I ladled my arms at my back, hoping that they'd overlook the spit-stain on my papers and the frazzled situation of my hair. The two of them were granite statues for a time, poring through the meanders of words that galloped along the pages. Beneath their gazes, I could make out the figment of an amused smile. Better than a scowl, I thought, twiddling my fingers.

". . .What's this?"

Saxe's glance sank to the open drawer below my desk's surface, where the gleam of a notebook cover could be faintly seen. He took the notebook into his grasp. The protests in my mouth died before they could discharge, and Saxe flipped through salmon-tinted reams of paper, tutting away along with Plantag before slamming the book shut before my face.

"Doodling short stories on office hours, Mr. Battersby?"

He shook his head.

"You'll get these tales published in the Sunday Times before long, I'm sure. Seeing your literary success will be a much-needed comfort on the unemployment line."

He clamped the book back onto my desk. My head flagged.

"You're lucky Hartley favors you. If that quixote didn't get his way. . ."

My hands swerved in to take hold of the notebook and hurl it against my chest, my heartbeats fastening against the penned intonations of my worlds.

Societies where wealth didn't come from paycheck forms and the Machiavellian decision-making of managers, but the strength of humanity through the bitterness of life. Intrepid sailors taking the reins of steamships to straddle the waves of freedom on the high seas. Cavalry regiments of the Royal Army halting their offensives against Indian rebels to join the resistance against the wretches of imperialist doctrine.

There were even stories about jurists refusing lucrative offers from business magnates to defend the forgotten of society. When I wrote, this allotment of words from the English language became stirring paintings that came alive within my chestnut eyes, as vivid as Monet's watercolors.

But my cheeks paled, as I coughed up a response to Saxe and Plantag:

"I'm sorry, sirs. It won't happen again."

The two glared at my pitiful expression before nodding back. Lawyers began to pack their implements and belongings alike in burly cloth bags, leaving the office in a tide of beleaguered footsteps. Saxe and Plantag stood back for a moment to straighten their hats and shudder the lamps, but as they reached for the bulbs, another man entered the room with a stride in his step.

"Richard, Jonathan! I'm sure you haven't forgotten?"

The roaring voice of Terrance Hartley soared through the dusty chamber of the firm's workspace, a lighthouse amid the dull furnishings of the place. His green suit brimmed with the vigor of a soul twenty years his junior, and so too did the snowy folds of his undershirt emit a certain luminosity. Though his cheeks sagged and the lines beneath his eyes creased downward with age, a firmness took hold in his smile.

"Jacques, Leopold! I'm glad you're still here. We won't keep you long."

Mr. Hartley sidled himself in between Plantag and Saxe like he was trying to recreate our illustrious firm's name. He patted their backs like usual, and even the grimaces of the firm's partners softened somewhat.

"To celebrate your diligence, I thought it prudent to take you along with the three of us to a recreational event in McMichael Park. A beautiful place, truly, and away from all the usual ruckus of the New Year's festivities."

He clapped his gloved hands together like a giddy boy, and sure enough he overcame me with a similar sense of exuberance. After all, this was the man who first gave stock to my character, as a dreamy-eyed boy fresh off miraculous graduation at Oxford Law. I may not have had the high contacts nor the anchorage to ancient legal tradition, but he saw in me what I wished to see in myself. Someone who could ride the wave of change that embodied the past century of the world. Whose analysis of the human mind and its spellbinding interactions with others could award himself a spot in this cutthroat landscape. On the inside, perhaps I still pined for the post of the Dickenses and the Hawthornes, but if a livable wage was in my future, maybe my talent could simmer forth a little. If only so my stomach wouldn't urk for sustenance as much as my heart ached for literature.

"Ahem. We'd like to remind you two that the case against Mr. Southwell must still be conducted."

Saxe punctured my reverie as my thoughts turned back to the firm's task at hand, and my mind drew a picture of what our little gang of lawmen stood for. Of course, challenges present and future must be viewed from the perspective of all the heart and battle that has come before, as we must view the prelude to the current predicament.

Before Hartley arrived, PS&A was just another one of London's patrician law firms. With an empire increasingly mechanized and peppered with an assortment of enterprising tycoons, and Parliament slow to adjust to public concerns for a more reined-in economy, the British world was an arena for the trusts that commanded the nation's mills like barons lording over fiefdoms. Firms stepped in to capitalize on both these new corporate conflicts and the surging payrolls of company balance sheets, battling against each other for the next big case. While shipping corporations and steel magnates dueled in courtrooms over choice words in wills or patent violations—all while being represented by the best names in the field—few times were the workers that produced their riches given a spot on the dais. Even as they banded together to defend themselves against industrial malice in the new unions of our time, few firms fought for the redress of their grievances.

But then Mr. Hartley strode through the oaken doors of Plantag and Saxe. A former heir to the fortune of meat-packing industrialist Arthur Callow, he saw the gruesome conditions of Callow Brothers LLC's packing site, located in the decrepit East End of London. There, laborers sniffed in the feces of rats at every corner and waded their hands through lice-infested cattle cadavers on the production line. While for decades he tolerated the new-age hell of machinery as a mere fait accompli, pursuing a plush legal career of his own amid the carnage, at some point he could not let the steam of London's mills blind his eyes from these atrocities. When a friend of his died of bacterial infection working at a Callow Brothers beef mill, Hartley sued for fatal corporate negligence, and became the first lawyer in the country to win a case of such gravity.

Even disinheritance and disownment could not disarm Mr. Hartley's courage, and our firm began representing workers against their industrial tyrants. Plantag and Saxe were hesitant at first, and indeed there is only so much a single man can do with the law when its governing legislature refuses to act in turn. But Hartley's confidence in justice from the ground up never wavered.

Oh, we'd gotten vicious threats in the past. Hired goons banged down our doors multiple times, demanding a cease and desist of our suits. Massive sums of the British pound hurdled into the atrium of the office, offered with the easy condition of ending all litigation. Funnily enough, bobbies from the local precinct were not rare visitors to PHS&A's guest room, with detectives pressing in against our firm's boldness.

But each time, Saxe and Plantag stood at Hartley's side, unmoving. Maybe they were amazed at the man's tenacity, astonished at his righteous zeal. Maybe they simply thought workers and unions were an as-of-yet untapped pool of clients to profit from. Perhaps the former cause was a front they put on to take pride in their efforts, while the latter stood as the real motivation, the influx of capital driving the hearts of men to action as always.

Whatever the impetus, we continued our efforts against London's titans, Jacques and I toiling in the background while the three of them masterminded win after win.

Mr. Hartley gave meaning to the law, this extraneous institution, with all its intricacies and loopholes. Yes, it wasn't exactly a painless operation: the work taxed our minds to the breaking point, our bones buckling from casework like some of the laborers we represented. Yet all someone could ask for was a line of service that paid the bills while providing some modicum of place in this world, of duty amongst the fodder of life. And now we could ease our brains for a night, wipe the hardy sweat from our brows and join in on the national pride. So much as can be prided about in the British Empire.

At least, I hoped there was some pride to be found by the end of the night.