Kyle was enjoying a glass of champagne with Dale and a few others when the conversation shifted to their less fortunate colleagues. “Does anybody see Garwood?” And they began searching the party for Garwood, who was unaccounted for and soon presumed to be on the other list.

Tim Reynolds approached them with a nasty smile, a drink in one hand and a printout in the other. “Tabor flunked,” he announced proudly. “Can you believe it? A Harvard casualty.” Kyle wasn’t as pleased. Sure, Tabor was obnoxious and opportunistic, but he was their cube mate, and flunking the bar would kill him. He wasn’t a bad guy.

Word spread; the body count rose. In all, there were 8 failures out of 103, a pass rate of 92 percent, an excellent number for any class at any firm. Once again it was clear that they were the brightest stars and were now destined for even greater things.

They got as drunk as possible, then rode home in private sedans arranged by the firm. Kyle had only two drinks and walked to Chelsea. Along the way, he called his father with the wonderful news.

His appointment at noon Friday with Doug Peckham was described as a working lunch to review some discovery, but when Kyle arrived ten minutes early, the partner said, “Let’s celebrate.” They left the building and crawled into the back of a Lincoln sedan, one of the innumerable “black cars” that roam the city and keep the professionals out of the yellow cabs. The firm had a fleet of black cars on call.

“Been to Eleven Madison Park?” Doug asked.

“No. I don’t get out much these days, Doug, because I’m a first-year associate and I’m either usually too tired to eat, or I don’t have time, or I simply forget.”

“Whining, are we?”

“Of course not.”

“Congrats on passing the bar.”

“Thank you.”

“You’ll like this place. Great food, beautiful dining room. Let’s have a long lunch, with some wine. I know just the client we can stick it to.”

Kyle nodded. Two months in, and he was still uncomfortable with the notion of sticking it to clients. Padding the file. Overbilling. Racking up expenses. He wanted to ask what, exactly, the client was about to get stuck for. Just the lunch, which was a certainty, or would the client also get billed for two hours of his time and two hours of Peckham’s? But he didn’t ask.

The restaurant was in the lobby of the old Metropolitan Life Building, with views of Madison Square Park. The decor was contemporary, with high ceilings and wide windows. Doug, of course, claimed to know the chef and the mattre d’ and the sommelier, and Kyle was not surprised when they were seated at a choice table looking at the park.

“Let’s get your evaluation out of the way,” Doug said, snapping a bread stick and sending crumbs across the pristine white tablecloth.

“Evaluation?”

“Yes, it’s my job as your supervising partner to evaluate you after the bar results. Obviously, if you’d flunked, we wouldn’t be here, and I wouldn’t have nice things to say. We’d probably be stopping by one of those carts pushed by a street vendor, selecting a greasy kielbasa, taking a walk, and having a bad conversation. But you passed, so I’m going to be nice.”

“Thank you.”

The waiter presented menus while the water was poured. Doug chomped on a bread stick, more crumbs flying across the table. “Your billing is above average; in fact, it’s very impressive.”

“Thanks.” No surprise that any evaluation at Scully & Pershing would begin with how much money one was raking in.

“I’ve had nothing but positive comments from other partners and senior associates.”

“Drinks? Something to start with?” the waiter asked.

“We’ll order some wine with lunch,” Doug said, almost rudely, and the waiter disappeared.

“At times, though, you seem to lack commitment, as if you’re not fully on board. Fair?”

Kyle shook his head and thought about a response. Doug was a no-nonsense type, so why not level with him? “I live, eat, and sleep at the firm, like every other first-year associate, because that’s the business model some guy came up with years ago. The same way medical residents go twenty hours a day to prove their mettle. Thank God we’re not treating sick people. I don’t know what else I can do to prove my commitment.”

“Good point,” Doug said, suddenly much more concerned with the menu. The waiter hovered, waiting.

“You ready?” Doug said. “I’m starving.”

Kyle had yet to look at the menu and was still stinging from the criticism of his commitment. “Sure,” he said. Everything looked delicious. They ordered, the waiter approved, and the sommelier appeared. At some point during the serious wine discussion that followed, Doug mentioned a “first bottle” and a “second bottle.”

The first was a white burgundy. “You’ll love it,” Doug said. “One of my favorites.”

“I’m sure.”

“Any problems, complaints?” Doug asked, as if he were clicking off the items on the evaluation checklist.

With perfect timing, Kyle’s FirmFone vibrated. “Funny you should mention it,” he said as he pulled it from his coat pocket and looked at the e-mail. “It’s Karleen Sanborn, looking for a few hours of light lifting in the Placid Mortgage mess. What shall I tell her?”

“You’re having lunch with me.”

Kyle typed the e-mail, sent it, then asked, “Can I turn this off?”

“Of course.” The wine was being presented. Doug sampled it and rolled his eyes, and two glasses were poured.

Kyle pressed on. “My complaint is this damned phone. It has become my life.

When you were an associate fifteen years ago, they didn’t have cell phones and smartphones and FirmFones, and so—”

“We worked just as hard,” Doug interrupted with a wave of dismissal. Stop complaining. Get tough. With his other hand he was raising his wineglass to inspect its contents. He finally took a sip, then nodded his approval.

“Well, my complaint is this phone.”

“Okay, anything else?” Another check mark in another box.

“No, just the usual complaints of associate abuse. You’ve heard them before, and you don’t want to hear them now.”

“You’re right, Kyle, I don’t want to hear it. Look, as partners we know what’s going on. We’re not oblivious. We survived it, and now we reap the rewards. It’s a bad business model because everybody’s miserable. You think I want to push myself out of bed at five every morning so I can spend twelve crazy hours at the office so, at the end of the year, we can divide the spoils and be at the top of the rankings? Last year APE’s partners averaged $1.4 million. We were at $1.3 million, and everybody panicked. We gotta cut costs! We gotta bill more! We gotta hire more associates and grind them into the concrete because we’re the biggest! It’s crazy. No one ever stops and says, “Hey, you know, I can live on a million bucks a year and spend more time with my kids, or more time at the beach.” No sir. We gotta be No. 1.”

“I’ll take a million bucks a year.”

“You’ll get there. Evaluation’s over.”

“One quick question.”

“Shoot.”

“There’s a cute first-year associate, and I’m growing rather fond of her. How big a deal is it?”

“Strict prohibition. How cute?”

“Getting cuter by the day.”

“Name?”

“Sorry.”

“You gonna do it at the office?”

“Haven’t got that far yet. There are plenty of sleeping bags.”

Doug took a breath and leaned forward on his elbows. “There’s a lot of sex around the place. Come on, it’s an office. You put five thousand men and women together and it happens. The unwritten rule is this: Don’t screw around with the employees. Secretaries, paralegals, support staff, clerks, those who are considered somewhat below us. We call them the nonlawyers. As for your fellow associates, or partners for that matter, no one really cares as long as you don’t get caught.”