The Firm Page 0,28

grade it next week. It's very important to practice these questions each week."

"This could be worse than law school."

"It's much more important than law school. We take it very seriously. We have a committee to monitor your progress from now until you sit for the exam. We'll be watching very closely."

"Who's on the committee?"

"Myself, Avery Tolar, Royce McKnight, Randall Dunbar and Kendall Mahan. We'll meet each Friday to assess your progress."

Wally produced a smaller, letter-sized notebook and laid it on the desk. "This is your daily log. You are to record the hours spent studying for the exam and the subjects studied. I'll pick it up every Friday morning before the committee meets. Any questions?"

"I can't think of any," Mitch said as he laid the notebook on top of the Capps file.

"Good. See you next Wednesday at three."

Less than ten seconds after he left, Randall Dunbar walked in with a thick notebook remarkably similar to the one left behind by Wally. In fact, it was identical, but not quite as thick. Dunbar was head of real estate and had handled the purchase and sale of the McDeere home in May. He handed Mitch the notebook, labeled Real Estate Law, and explained how his specialty was the most critical part of the exam. Everything goes back to property, he said. He had carefully prepared the materials himself over the past ten years and confessed that he had often thought of publishing them as an authoritative work on property rights and land financing. He would need at least one hour a week, preferably on Tuesday afternoon. He talked for an hour about how different the exam was thirty years ago when he took it.

Kendall Mahan added a new twist. He wanted to meet on Saturday mornings. Early, say seven-thirty.

"No problem," Mitch said as he took the notebook and placed it next to the others. This one was for constitutional law, a favorite of Kendall's, although he seldom got to use it, he said. It was the most important section of the exam, or at least it had been when he took it five years ago. He had published an article on First Amendment rights in the Columbia Law Review in his senior year there. A copy of it was in the notebook, in case Mitch wanted to read it. He promised to do so almost immediately.

The procession continued throughout the afternoon until half of The Firm had stopped by with notebooks, assignments of homework and requests for weekly meetings. No fewer than six reminded him that no member of The Firm had ever failed the bar exam.

When his secretary said goodbye at five, the small desk was covered with enough bar review materials to choke a ten-man firm. Unable to speak, he simply smiled at her and returned to Wally's version of contract law. Food crossed his mind an hour later. Then, for the first time in twelve hours, he thought of Abby. He called her.

"I won't be home for a while," he said.

"But I'm cooking dinner."

"Leave it on the stove," he said, somewhat shortly.

There was a pause. "When will you be home?" she asked with slow, precise words.

"In a few hours."

"A few hours. You've already been there half the day."

"That's right, and I've got much more to do."

"But it's your first day."

"You wouldn't believe it if I told you."

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. I'll be home later."

* * *

The starting engine awakened Dutch Hendrix, and he jumped to his feet. The gate opened and he waited by it as the last car left the lot. It stopped next to him.

"Evenin', Dutch," Mitch said.

"You just now leaving?"

"Yeah, busy day."

Dutch flashed his light at his wrist and checked the time. Eleven-thirty.

"Well, be careful," Dutch said.

"Yeah. See you in a few hours."

The BMW turned onto Front Street and raced away into the night. A few hours, thought Dutch. The rookies were indeed amazing. Eighteen, twenty hours a day, six days a week. Sometimes seven. They all planned to be the world's greatest lawyer and make a million dollars overnight. Sometimes they worked around the clock, slept at their desks. He had seen it all. But they couldn't last. The human body was not meant for such abuse. After about six months they lost steam. They would cut back to fifteen hours a day, six days a week. Then five and a half. Then twelve hours a day.

No one could work a hundred hours a week for more than six months.
Chapter 7

One secretary dug through