Tuesday morning, September 2, 8:00 sharp. A hundred and three nicely dressed and quite apprehensive new associates congregated on the law firm's forty-fourth-floor mezzanine for coffee and juice. After signing in and receiving name tags, they chatted nervously, introduced themselves, and looked for friendly faces. At 8:15 they began to file into the large meeting room, and on the way in each was handed a four-inch-thick notebook with the bold Scully & Pershing Gothic logo printed on the front. It was filled with the usual information  -  a history of the firm, a directory, pages and pages on firm policies, health insurance forms, and so on. In the "Diversity" section there was a breakdown of their class: Male, 71, Female, 32; Caucasian, 75, African-American, 13, Hispanic, 7, Asian, 5, Other, 3; Protestant, 58, Catholic, 22, Jewish, 9, Muslim, 2, Undeclared, 12. Each member had a small black-and-white photo with a one-paragraph bio. The Ivy League dominated, but there was fair representation from other top schools such as NYU, Georgetown, Stanford, Michigan, Texas, Chicago, North Carolina, Virginia, and Duke. There was no one from a second-tier school.

Kyle sat with a group from Yale and played with the numbers. Fourteen from Harvard, and though they were indistinguishable at the moment, it would not be long before the rest of the class knew who they were. Five from Yale. None from Princeton because Princeton had never established a law school. Nine from Columbia.

With 103 associates at a starting salary of $200,000, there was now more than $20 million in fresh legal talent sitting in the room. A lot of money, but over the next twelve months each would bill at least two thousand hours at $300-$400 an hour. The hours would vary, but it was safe to say that the rookie class would generate at least $75 million for the firm in the coming year. These numbers were not in the binder, but the math was easy.

Other numbers were missing, too. Of the 103, 15 percent would leave after the second year. Only 10 percent would survive and make partner in seven or eight years. The attrition was brutal, but Scully & Pershing did not care. There was an endless supply of disposable labor, even that of the Harvard and Yale variety.

At 8:30, several older men entered the room and sat in chairs along the narrow stage. The managing partner, Howard Meezer, stepped to the podium and began an elaborate welcoming speech, one he had no doubt memorized from years of use. After telling them how carefully they'd been chosen, he spent a few minutes touting the greatness of the firm. Then he outlined the rest of the week. The next two days would be spent in that room listening to various talks about all aspects of their new careers and life at good old Scully & Pershing. On Wednesday, they would spend a full day in computer and technology training. On Thursday, they would break down into smaller groups and begin brief orientations in specialized fields. The tedium was rapidly approaching.

The next speaker talked about compensation and benefits. Next was the firm's librarian, who spent a long hour on legal research. A psychologist talked about stress and pressure and in a nice way told them to remain single as long as possible. For those who were already married, the top ten law firms in New York currently had a 72 percent divorce rate among associates under the age of thirty. The monotony of the lectures was broken by the "tech team" when they handed out shiny new laptops for everyone. A lengthy tutorial followed. Once the laptops were warmed up, the next technical adviser handed out the dreaded FirmFone. It was similar to most of the current smartphones on the market, but it had been designed especially for the hardworking lawyers at Scully & Pershing  -  designed and built by a software and gadget company that the firm had taken public with great success a decade earlier. It came with contact and biographical information for every lawyer in the firm, in all thirty offices, plus every paralegal and secretary, almost five thousand people in New York alone. The database included detailed summaries of all S&P clients, a small library of the most commonly used research, recent state and federal appellate decisions, and a registry of all New York and New Jersey judges and court clerks. The phone was equipped with high-speed Internet access and a dizzying assortment of bells and whistles. It was valuable and invaluable, and if one was lost, stolen, or otherwise misplaced, bad things would happen to its owner. It was to be kept at hand twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week until further notice.

In other words, the fancy little FirmFone now controlled their lives. Mega-firm lore was replete with outrageous tales of cell phone and e-mail abuse.

There were snide comments and soft groans from the crowd, but nothing too loud. None of the class clowns wanted to get too cute.

Lunch was a quick buffet on the mezzanine. The afternoon dragged on, but interest remained high. These were not boring law school lectures. These were important. The orientation ended at six, and as they hurried out, there was a lot of chatter about heading to the nearby bars.

ON WEDNESDAY, Kyle passed his first test. He and eleven others were assigned to the litigation practice group and led to a conference room on the thirty-first floor. They were greeted by Wilson Rush, the firm's leading litigator and attorney of record for Trylon Aeronautics in its case against Bartin Dynamics, though that lawsuit was not mentioned. Kyle had read so much background on Mr. Rush he felt as though he'd already met him. The great man told a few war stories, great trials from his illustrious career, then hurried away, no doubt off to sue another large corporation. More thick notebooks were passed out, and the next lecture was on the nuts and bolts of preparing lawsuits, responses, motions, and other filings that either pushed litigation along or tried to bog it down forever.

The first gunner appeared. There is at least one in every class, whether it's first-year contracts in law school or a group of fresh recruits on Wall Street. A gunner sits in the front row, asks complicated questions, sucks up to whoever happens to be at the podium, works every angle, cuts throats for better grades, stabs backs to make law review, interviews only at the top-rated firms regardless of how bad their reputations might be, and arrives at the firm with every intention of making partner before anyone else in his class. Gunners succeed magnificently; most make partner.

His name was Jeff Tabor, and they immediately knew where he was from because in the midst of his first question he managed to say, "Well, at Harvard, we were taught that not all known facts should be included in the initial lawsuit."

To which the fifth-year associate handling the lecture quickly retorted, "This ain't Kansas, Toto. It's our way or the highway." Everyone laughed but the gunner.

At 9:00 p.m. on Wednesday, the twelve new litigation associates met at a three-star restaurant in midtown for what was supposed to be a nice dinner with Doug Peckham, the partner who had supervised Kyle the previous summer. They waited in the bar and had a drink, and at 9:15 the first comment was made regarding Doug and his tardiness. All twelve had their FirmFones in their pockets. In fact, each had two phones. Kyle's old one was in the right pants pocket, the FirmFone was in the left. At 9:30, they began to debate the idea of calling Mr. Peckham, but decided against it. Then, at 9:40, he called Kyle with a quick apology. He'd been in trial, things had run late, and he was now back at the office tending to some urgent matter. The associates were to proceed with dinner and not worry about the bill.

The fact that a partner was working until 10:00 p.m. on a Wednesday night throttled the enthusiasm for a fine meal. It also set the tone of the conversation. As the wine flowed, they began telling the worst associate-abuse stories they'd heard. The contest was won by Tabor the Gunner, who when lubricated with alcohol was not the same asshole he'd been throughout the day. During a recruiting visit a year earlier, Tabor had dropped in on a friend he'd known in college. The friend was a second-year associate with another mega-firm and was perfectly miserable in his new profession. His office was tiny, and while they were chatting, Tabor's friend tried to shove a sleeping bag under his desk, out of view. Tabor, ever curious, had asked, "What's that for?" And as soon as he asked the question, he knew the answer. His friend sheepishly explained that he often found it necessary to catch a few hours of sleep during the night when he was overworked. Tabor pressed on and extracted the truth. The firm was a lousy place to work. Most of the rookies were on the same floor, and it was nicknamed "the Campsite."

ON THE NINETIETH day of Baxter's recovery at Washoe Retreat, Walter Tate entered the small conference room and shook hands with his nephew. Then he shook hands with Dr. Boone, Baxter's chief therapist. Walter had spoken with Boone several times by phone, but the two had not met.

Baxter was tanned, fit, and in relatively good spirits. He had gone ninety days with no booze or drugs, the longest stretch in at least ten years. Under the direction of Uncle Wally, he had reluctantly signed the paperwork that allowed the clinic to keep him locked away for up to six months. Now he was ready to leave. Uncle Wally, though, was not so sure.

The meeting belonged to Dr. Boone, and he went through a rather wordy summary of Baxter's progress. Once properly dried out, Baxter had proceeded nicely through the initial stages of therapy. He was aware of his problem. On day 23, he admitted he was an alcoholic and an abuser of drugs. However, he still would not admit to being physically addicted to cocaine, his favorite. At all times, he had been cooperative with his counselors, even helpful to other patients. He exercised strenuously each day and became fanatical about his diet. No coffee, tea, or sugar. In short, Baxter had been a model of good behavior. His rehab had been successful, so far.

"Is he ready to be released?" Uncle Wally asked.

Dr. Boone paused and stared at Baxter. "Are you?" he asked.

"Of course I am. I feel great. I'm enjoying the sober life."

"I've heard this before, Baxter," Walter said. "The last time you stayed clean for, what, two weeks?"

"Most addicts need more than one rehab," Dr. Boone added.

"That was different," Baxter said. "It was only thirty days, and I knew when I left that I'd start drinking again."

"You can't stay clean in L.A.," Walter said.

"I can stay clean anywhere."

"I doubt that."

"You doubt me?"

"Yes. I doubt you. You have a lot to prove, son."

Each took a breath and looked at Dr. Boone. It was time for judgment, for the sentencing, for a final word in this horribly expensive facility. "I want your frank opinion," Walter said.

Dr. Boone nodded, and without taking his eyes off Baxter, he began, "You're not ready. You're not ready, because you're not angry, Baxter. You must reach a point where you're angry at your old self, your old life, your addictions. You have to hate the way you were, and when this hatred and anger consumes you, then you'll have the determination not to go back there. I can see it in your eyes. You're not a believer. You'll go back to L.A., back to the same friends, and then parties, and then you'll take a drink. You'll tell yourself that one drink is okay. You can handle it, no problem. That's what happened before. You start with a couple of beers, then three or four, and then it spirals down. Booze at first, but the coke quickly follows. If you're lucky, you'll come back here and we'll try again. If you're unlucky, you'll kill yourself."

"I don't believe this," Baxter said.

"I've talked to the other counselors. We're all in agreement. If you leave now, there's a good chance you'll screw up again."

"There's no way."

"Then how much longer?" Walter asked.

"That depends on Baxter. We haven't broken through yet, because he's not angry at his old self." Dr. Boone's eyes met Baxter's. "You still have this fantasy of making it big in Hollywood. You want to be famous, a star, lots of girls, parties, magazine covers, big movies. Until you get that out of your system, you cannot stay clean."

"I'll find you a real job," Walter said.

"I don't want a real job."

"See what I mean?" Dr. Boone said, pouncing. "You're sitting here now, trying to talk your way out so you can hustle back to L.A. and take up where you left off. You're not the first Hollywood casualty I've seen, Baxter. I've been around the block a few times. If you go back there, you'll be at a party within a week."

"What if he goes somewhere else?" Walter asked.

"When he's finally discharged, we'll certainly recommend a new place of residence, away from his old friends. Of course there's booze everywhere, but it's the lifestyle that has to change."

"What about Pittsburgh?" Walter asked.

"Oh, hell no!" Baxter said. "My family's in Pittsburgh, and look at them. I'd rather die on skid row."

"Let's work here for another thirty days," Dr. Boone said. "Then we'll reevaluate."

At $1,500 a day, Walter had his limits. "What will you do for the next thirty days?" he asked.

"More intensive counseling. The longer Baxter stays here, the better his chances of success when he reenters."

" 'Reentry'." I love the term," Baxter said. "I can't believe you're doing this."

"Trust me, Baxter. We've spent hours together, and I know that you're not ready."

"I'm so ready. You don't know how ready I am."

"Trust me."

"All right then, let's meet again in thirty days," Walter said.