Page 104 of Letters From A Stalker

Work is already moving at full speed when I arrive. Daniel has beaten me in again, although he is currently trapped near reception on the phone, waving a folder at one of the junior associates with the particular level of aggression that means somebody has created a problem he is now expected to solve. I catch his eye as I pass, he points toward the kitchen instead of producing coffee. I put one hand over my heart in theatrical disappointment. His mouth forms something I’m relatively certain would violate at least two HR policies. Normal. I appreciate normal more than usual today.

For most of the morning, the office manages to occupy enough of my attention that my Ghost remains exactly where he belongs, which is nowhere near contracts, deadlines and people asking me questions that actually have identifiable answers. And yes, on my way to work, somewhere in between two red lights that gave me way too much free thinking time, I decided to change his sign off name to Ghost. Seems only appropriate since I can’t see him and he’s haunting my every remaining functioning brain cell.

Shortly before lunch, I hear someone apologizing. It isn’t unusual in an office. People apologize for interrupting, for sending the wrong attachment, for missing something buried beneath an email chain long enough to qualify as archaeological material. This apology is different, though. It’s too quiet, too repetitive and it makes me look up from my own task at hand. One of the newer paralegals is standing beside a senior associate’s desk with a file pressed against her chest. She’s young, somewhere in her mid-twenties, but usually confident enough that I’ve watched her politely correct attorneys with twenty more years of experience without visibly losing her nerve. Right now, her shoulders have curled inward.

“I’m sorry,” she says again. “I thought I was supposed to send the version you approved yesterday.”

“You were supposed to wait for the revision.” The associate isn’t shouting and that almost makes it worse. He’s using that carefully controlled tone people adopt when they want everyone nearby to understand they are being exceptionally patient with someone who has disappointed them.

The paralegal frowns. “I didn’t get another revision.”

“I sent instructions.”

Something in her expression shifts, not into guilt but confusion, and I recognize it immediately.

The frantic internal search for the missing mistake. The assumption that if somebody sounds certain enough that you failed, you probably did. I push my chair back. This has nothing to do with me. Apparently I decide that it does.

I walk over and stop beside her. “What happened?”

The associate glances toward me with obvious irritation. “It’s handled.”

Judging by the relief that crosses the paralegal’s face when she sees me, it very clearly isn’t.

“He says I sent the wrong draft to opposing counsel,” she explains. “I sent the one he approved yesterday. He says there was another revision, but I never got it.”

The associate exhales. “I emailed her.”

I hold his gaze. “Forward me the email.”

His expression changes slightly. “Why?”

“Because if there was a revised instruction, we’ll find it and fix what happened.”

There is a pause just long enough to tell me I’m probably going to enjoy whatever arrives in my inbox. He turns back to his monitor and I go back to my desk to check on it. A minute later, the message appears. There is no new attachment, no revised instructions, only a message sent late yesterday asking her to hold the document until he had time to review another section.

I read it twice before turning the screen slightly toward him. “This doesn’t tell her there’s another version.”

“I told her to hold it.”

“You also approved the earlier draft, and nothing here tells her that approval was withdrawn.”

“She should have asked.”

The paralegal takes a breath and I can almost hear the apology forming again.

“No.” The word comes out before she gets the chance.

Both of them look at me.

I walk back up toward her. “You don’t need to apologize for instructions you were never given.”

The silence that follows is surprisingly satisfying. The associate’s jaw tightens, but the email is right there and he knows it.

“We’ll send the corrected version and explain there was an internal update,” I tell him. “It isn’t a crisis. But she isn’t taking responsibility for something that wasn’t hers.”

He mutters that he’ll handle it and disappears down the hallway.

The paralegal remains beside me for another moment, and when I look at her, some of the tension has already left her shoulders.