207 West End Avenue by Randie K. Berman: Excerpt
207 WEST END AVENUE
207 West End Avenue” follows the journey of a young female attorney, Samantha Ross, as she navigates the highest highs and lowest lows of being made the youngest woman to ever make partner at Epstein and Littleton, a prestigious, male-dominated Park Avenue law firm. The reader experiences Sam’s legal brilliance and human frailties that lead her to promotions and the brink of career suicide. We witness the turmoil she endures with family, friends, and lovers as she attempts to recapture her reputation and sought-after place in the legal world. It is a captivating story of one woman’s self-discovery.
EXCERPT
Within ninety minutes, the meeting was wrapping up. We had addressed most of the primary issues, and I had enough information to send my initial demand letter, which I usually did before hitting my adversary with a lawsuit. Although litigation was my bread and butter and my first love, I still believed it should have been a last resort. I liked to think of myself as a litigator with a conscience.
When I returned to my office, my hand was still stinging from Michael’s forceful goodbye handshake, which had pressed my ring painfully against the side of my middle finger, making it all I could do not to scream. I didn’t want to embarrass my new client or, worse yet, show what could be perceived as “female weakness”—especially when he was hiring me for my reputation as a pit bull.
As I rubbed the blue marks where the baguettes of my ring had dug in, I chastised myself for not fixing the ring. It caught on everything and ruined several sweaters with pulls in visible spots. I hesitated to touch that ring. It was my mother’s, and I had worn it daily since she’d passed last June. I wanted to slip my finger into it without washing it—to feel her skin again. She’d loved that ring, and I remembered when she’d gotten it. My father had given it to her to “make up” for something he had done. Although I’d asked several times, I’d never gotten the real story. It had diamond baguettes all around, so perfectly colored that their sparkle could light up a room. She’d picked it out herself and worn it like a crown.
Six months had passed since the day I’d walked into her house and saw her watching television with her back to me. When I called, “Ma? Ma? I’m here,” and got no answer, I walked around to the front of the couch and saw her face. I called 911 immediately. It took them eleven minutes to get there. She was gone that night. The world changed for me that night, and it would never be the same. I felt numb. I couldn’t cry. Not one tear would come out.
All my life, my mother had been my best friend. What I felt for her was so much more than the word “love” could describe. How could the same word be used for how one felt about a movie, a song, or a favorite celebrity, and also be capable of fully describing what I felt for her? There was nothing she couldn’t do or didn’t know. What she lacked in “book learning,” she made up for in common sense—to me, a far more valuable asset and one that couldn’t be taught. Her face was classically beautiful and had a Roman statue–esque quality. In fact, she was often pegged as Italian, although both her parents were Ashkenazi Jews from Eastern Europe. She commanded attention without saying a word. Growing up, I was in awe of her.
I was the middle child and took after Dad’s side. My younger brother, Jamie (a midlife surprise to Mom and Dad), was in his last year of college when Mom passed away, and Billie, my older sister, was in England on a modeling shoot. We supported one another during the seven days of shiva, but once it was over, I was left alone to deal with the emotional fallout. Jamie had to return to school or risk losing his scholarship at U Penn, where he was completing his studies to become a veterinarian, and Billie could only handle stress for so long before she became overwhelmed and hard to be around. She was at her best when immersed in her own world—jetting around the globe, strutting down runways, and occasionally taking a happy pill to help her get through the day.
Dad had been gone for seven years when we lost Mom. Although he’d suffered from advanced diabetes, he still enjoyed his chocolate and often managed to sneak candy bars, which we found stuffed between the cushions of the car seat after every solo trip he took. He’d been only fifty-seven when he died. Mom was left to handle the family’s financial responsibilities. They owned a little local business—a stationery dry goods shop in Union, New Jersey, which Dad had manned seven days a week from 7:00 a.m. to 9:00 p.m. It was a sole proprietorship with no pension, and his life insurance wasn’t enough to cover us. Mom took over running the store, quickly learning the do’s and don’ts as she went along. We helped when and how we could, but she basically carried the load on her shoulders. It was that time of my life that set the goals for my future—I wasn’t going to let her blood, sweat, and tears be for nothing. I was going to make her proud.
Here I was, the youngest partner at a prestigious law firm on Park Avenue in New York, located just a few blocks north of Grand Central Station. I hoped she was looking down, beaming with pride for her daughter, the first in the family to graduate from college, sitting in a corner office, earning well over six figures, and still using the briefcase she’d bought me for my law school graduation.
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BUY HERE
Randie K. Berman was born, raised, and went to college in New Jersey. After practicing law for several years in both the private and corporate sectors, she decided to turn in her briefcase to pursue her love of writing and never looked back. Randie and her husband currently reside in the peaceful hills of Somerset County, New Jersey, where they spend their days appreciating life’s greatest gifts.
https://www.facebook.com/randie.berman
Category: On Writing
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