You came here for the platform. For the resources. For the institutional clients that never leave (because even conscience has a retainer). You came for the lateral bump. The corner office. The kind of prestige that arrives with a firm-issued Paul, Weiss briefcase (you know the one). Thick. Understated. Monogrammed. Logo discreetly embossed, but always facing outward.
You carry it to court. You carry it to Midtown lunches. You carry it into your building’s elevator knowing someone else in BigLaw will see it and feel… something. Respect, maybe. Or pity.
On your first Friday, you see the headline.
“Four Top Partners Leave Paul, Weiss Over Trump Deal”
You refresh. A second article.
“Departures Continue at Paul, Weiss After Controversial Representation”
Then a third.
“Dunn, Isaacson, Rhee Form Boutique After Leaving Paul, Weiss”
You close Law360. But it’s too late. The briefcase feels heavier.
At orientation, Brad, , Karp gives you his Welcome Talk. He doesn’t speak so much as punctuate. Long, unbroken strings of commas; pausing after each one like he’s giving the sentence a chance to recover. “This firm, is principled, and independent, and client‑first, and neutral, and enduring.”
You look around the room. No one blinks. They’ve heard it before. You smile. You nod. You say thank you. But something catches in your throat.
The litigation department is hollowed out. They don’t say it. But the calendar does. More meetings marked “transition.” Fewer chairs filled at team lunch. No more Karen. No more Jeannie. Just the echoes of their names, followed by another comma.
You sign an amicus brief. You bill time to a client whose name makes you wince. You revise the same section of a memo for the third time this week because a partner “just wants it to feel… less exposed.”
One night you yell at a junior associate (loud enough that Facilities pokes their head in) because the redlines they circulated used 1.15 line spacing instead of single. You say it’s about formatting standards. But you feel it too. The need to feel control over something.
At 8:00 pm, you open the firm’s DEI page. You read the words. You try to believe them. You check your own biography. It still lists Yale. That part you like. You carry the briefcase past the security guard again, logo out, hoping the logo will speak louder than the headlines.
You ignore a recruiter’s voicemail suggesting you talk to “a boutique out of DC… Dunn something?” You delete the message. But later that night, when you grab your leftover Sweetgreen from today’s lunch with one of the many faceless summer associates, you feel a flicker of regret. Just a flicker.
Your wife asks if you’re happy (second wife, obviously (for now)). You say “Of course.” You say “We’re well positioned for growth.” You say “The clients are sticky.”
You look in the mirror. You try not to picture Brad, , Karp’s Reddit post about managing partners “looking the part.” You remember he mentioned himself. Twice. You remember because the comments mentioned the firm’s (alleged) PPEP.
You think about writing your own departure email. You don’t. You think about walking out without one. You won’t.
You stay.
The briefcase stays.
Logo facing outward.
Two spaces between every sentence.