the airport the night beforeand checked them into the Peabody—“the South’s Grand Hotel.”
“Good morning, Mitch! How was your night?” They shook hands like lost friends.
“Very nice. It’s a great hotel.”
“We knew you’d like it. Everybody likes the Peabody.”
They stepped into the front foyer, where a small billboard greeted Mr. Mitchell Y. McDeere, the guest of the day. A well-dressed but unattractive receptionist smiled warmly and said her name was Sylvia and if he needed anything while he was in Memphis just let her know. He thanked her. Lamar led him to a long hallway where he began the guided tour. He explained the layout of the building and introduced Mitch to various secretaries and paralegals as they walked. In the main library on the second floor a crowd of lawyers circled the mammoth conference table and consumed pastries and coffee. They became silent when the guest entered.
Oliver Lambert greeted Mitch and introduced him to the gang. There were about twenty in all, most of the associates in the firm, and most barely older than the guest. The partners were too busy, Lamar had explained, and would meet him later at a private lunch. He stood at the end of the table as Mr. Lambert called for quiet.
“Gentlemen, this is Mitchell McDeere. You’ve all heard about him, and here he is. He is our number one choice this year, our number one draft pick, so to speak. He is being romanced by the big boys in New York and Chicago and who knows where else, so we have to sell him on our little firm here in Memphis.” They smiled and nodded their approval. The guest was embarrassed.
“He will finish at Harvard in two months and will graduate with honors. He’s an associate editor of the
Harvard Law Review
.” This made an impression, Mitch could tell. “He did his undergraduate work at Western Kentucky, where he graduated summa cum laude.” This was not quite as impressive. “He also played football for four years, starting as quarterback his junior year.” Now they were really impressed. A few appeared to be in awe, as if staring at Joe Namath.
The senior partner continued his monologue while Mitch stood awkwardly beside him. He droned on about how selective they had always been and how well Mitch would fit in. Mitch stuffed his hands in his pockets and quit listening. He studied the group. They were young, successful and affluent. The dress code appeared to be strict, but no different than New York or Chicago. Dark gray or navy wool suits, white or blue cotton button-downs, medium starch, and silk ties. Nothing bold or nonconforming. Maybe a couple of bow ties, but nothing more daring. Neatness was mandatory. No beards, mustaches or hair over the ears. There were a couple of wimps, but good looks dominated.
Mr. Lambert was winding down. “Lamar will give Mitch a tour of our offices, so you’ll have a chance to chat with him later. Let’s make him welcome. Tonight he and his lovely, and I do mean lovely, wife, Abby, will eat ribs at the Rendezvous, and of course tomorrow night is the firm dinner at my place. I’ll ask you to be on your best behavior.” He smiled and looked at the guest. “Mitch, if you get tired of Lamar, let me know and we’ll get someone more qualified.”
He shook hands with each one of them again as they left, and tried to remember as many names as possible.
“Let’s start the tour,” Lamar said when the room cleared. “This, of course, is a library, and we have identical ones on each of the first four floors. We also use them for large meetings. The books vary from floor to floor, so you never know where your research will lead you. We have two full-time librarians, and we use microfilm and microfiche extensively. As a rule, we don’t do any research outside the building. There are over a hundred thousand volumes, including every conceivable tax reporting service. That’s more than some law schools. If you need a book we don’t have, just tell a