The Runup to the Rundown, Part 2

Strangely, L.M. was, is, only five minutes from N.C.I. I arrived oh-so-early, sat and waited, but I.S. decided to start the meeting half an hour early since I was there. While I was waiting, I watched people entering the office proper, and noticed the receptionist standing before a plate on the wall and having her retinas scanned. Yes, there is a retinal scanner for the front door, and according to everyone in the office, it is a piece of donkey dump. I have yet to get signed up for it, two months later.

We went to the Dugout conference room, so named because there’s some wag baseball fan responsible for naming the conference rooms. I.S. looks at my resume and starts off, “I guess the first question is.” Then he stops and smiles. I stare back at him, his dark hair combed to either side, a smile on his face. I should know this, but I’m so tired that the obvious isn’t coming up. What is it? I’m wracking my brain for several awkward seconds before he finally asks, “Why don’t you want to be a lawyer?” Right, right. I give him automatic answer number four, the tedium and the hours did not appeal to me.

We start talking about my background, before he launches into a series of questions about databases and applications. Some of his questions, I answer intelligently. Some I do not. Some I just have to admit I do not know the answer to. At some point, J.T. joined in, having been told that the meeting was at half past ten, but not being informed we had started early. Most of the questions are just blanks to me, but I do remember the oddest one: If you owned a candy machine, how would you test it to make sure it was working properly? Seeing as how I’ve abused candy machines in the past, I just listed everything I’ve ever done to a candy machine to bend it to my will. Nearly hit every single answer they had.

Thereafter, I met M.M., the head of the department. I did not realize who he was at the time. We talked for another half hour, bringing the total interrogation time up to ninety minutes. Soon after, I met E.B., and we went out to lunch. I was not confident, but he was, as most interviewees did not meet M.M., unless something good was going to happen.

We went to Chili’s, which E.B. despises for the horrid food. I can barely taste mine, it’s like ashes in my mouth. About forty minutes in, I get another phone call from “No Number.” It’s I.S. He wants to offer me a position with X salary. I’m so dumbfounded, I accept on the spot. Really, I should have tried to negotiate, but this meant an out, an actual out, for me from the golden shackles of the legal profession. I had to jump on it. It was a liferaft.

Twenty-three hours had elapsed from talking to E.B. to getting the job.