Chapter 6 — 2 Broke Girls
Martin's eyes opened at six a.m. without assistance, the way they always did — his internal clock calibrated by three years of Harvard Law early-morning study sessions that had permanently reset his baseline.
Something was wrong.
Specifically: something was holding him. From behind. Something warm, and breathing, and — he catalogued this with growing displeasure — had a knee resting on his hip at an angle that suggested deeply unconscious comfort.
Martin turned his head.
Leonard Hofstadter, physicist, Princeton PhD, was spooning him with the committed enthusiasm of a golden retriever who had found a good spot and made it his own.
"Leonard."
Leonard's eyes snapped open. He went rigid. Then, with the reflex of a man who had learned certain vital lessons, he immediately lifted the blanket and checked.
"You're wearing boxers," Martin said flatly, "so you're safe. But we need to talk about your sleep habits."
"I was cold," Leonard said, with zero conviction.
"We have blankets. You're lying on top of one of them."
"I — yeah." Leonard put the blanket back down. "Sorry."
Martin was already out of bed, pulling his gym clothes from the closet — gray Adidas sweatpants, a worn Columbia t-shirt he'd owned since undergrad, running shoes. He untangled his earbuds, pocketed his phone, and was gone before Leonard had fully regrouped.
Their building sat in Astoria, Queens — close enough to the East River that on clear mornings you could see the Midtown skyline glittering across the water, far enough from Manhattan that the rent was survivable on a physicist's salary. It was a decent neighborhood. Quiet by New York standards, which meant it was merely chaotic rather than genuinely alarming.
Martin ran his usual route — south along the waterfront path, across the pedestrian bridge, a loop back through the residential blocks — about six miles at a comfortable pace, enough to think without it becoming meditation.
The city ran alongside him. Dog walkers, other joggers, a few people in work clothes moving with the purposeful grimness of early commuters. Nobody made eye contact. Nobody acknowledged anyone else. This was the fundamental social contract of New York at six in the morning: you were there, other people were there, and everyone had agreed by silent mutual consent to pretend otherwise.
Martin had grown up in the Midwest in his previous life. It had taken him a while to stop finding this rude and start finding it restful.
Back at the apartment by seven-thirty, showered and standing at his wardrobe by seven-fifty.
The wardrobe was, objectively, the most organized thing in the apartment. Twelve bespoke suits hung in a precise row — navy, charcoal, black, two shades of gray, a subtle glen plaid he rarely wore but kept for specific occasions, several others — plus three sets of formal wear in the lower section. Shirts organized by color. Ties by weight.
Leonard, who had apparently gone back to sleep, stirred and surfaced again at the sound of the wardrobe sliding open. He put on his glasses, propped himself up on one elbow, and watched with the drowsy expression of a man who wasn't entirely sure where he was.
"Don't," Martin said to the mirror, "tell me you've developed feelings."
Leonard startled. "What? No! I was just — how did you know I was—"
"Mirror. Light travels both directions." Martin adjusted his tie. "Basic optics. You'd know this."
Leonard sat up fully, wounded. "I specialize in optics."
"Then stop being surprised by them." Martin checked the knot, made a minor adjustment. "Go back to sleep. You've got another hour."
"I'm up now." Leonard swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Why do you wear a suit every day? You don't even have court today."
"Because the suit is the message before I say a word. A client sees me in a suit, they see someone who takes their situation seriously enough to dress for it." Martin shrugged into his jacket. "Also I've spent a lot of money on them and I intend to get the value."
Leonard was quiet for a moment, apparently considering this. "Do you ever think physics might be more intrinsically interesting than law?"
"I think physics is remarkable," Martin said pleasantly. "I also think that in a hundred years of the Standard Model, you haven't resolved the fundamental tension between general relativity and quantum mechanics, and the four forces remain stubbornly un-unified. Law, by contrast, is adaptive by design. It bends. It responds to the world as it changes." He turned from the mirror. "Also, I actually make money."
"We make—"
"Leonard. I've done your taxes for two years. I know exactly what you make."
Leonard opened his mouth. Closed it.
"Good luck in the physics building," Martin said, grabbing his briefcase. "Try not to collapse any wave functions by accident."
"Get out."
Martin got out.
In the cab heading toward Brooklyn, he took out his appointment book, photographed the relevant pages with his BlackBerry Bold — still the best physical keyboard he'd ever used, a fact he appreciated every time he needed to type on the move — and compiled the images into an email.
He sent it to Rachel's work address, then dialed her number.
She picked up on the third ring. Her voice had a different texture than it did in the office — slightly less armored, like someone who hadn't yet finished assembling the professional version of herself for the day.
"I told you three days," she said, by way of greeting.
"It's been thirty-nine hours. I'm rounding down." Martin watched Queens give way to the BQE through the cab window. "This isn't a social call. Can you find a pen?"
A pause. The rustling of something being located.
"Ready."
"I sent you an email with this week's schedule — all the case files you handed me yesterday, organized by meeting date. You don't need to do anything with it before you officially start. Just read it so you know where I am if Jessica or Harvey asks."
"Okay."
"Second thing — my scheduling format is in that same email. The attachment labeled 'template.' I know you have your own system, and I'm sure it's good, but I need us working from the same format so that if you're out, I can read your notes without a decoder ring."
A brief silence that suggested she had opinions about this.
"Third — Jessica wants Harvey and me to do a recruiting run to Harvard Law before the end of the month. When you're in, connect with Harvey's secretary — Donna — and find a window that works for his calendar. He takes priority on the scheduling since he's senior. Copy me on whatever you set up."
"Donna Paulsen," Rachel said. "I know who she is."
"Good."
"Is there a fourth thing?"
"No. That's it."
Another pause. "You called me before nine a.m. on a day I don't work for you yet to tell me three things that could have waited until Monday."
"I wanted to get ahead of the week."
"You wanted to get comfortable talking to your secretary before she officially is one," Rachel said. "Which is either smart management or mildly controlling, and I haven't decided which yet."
Martin smiled at the window. "Let me know when you land on an answer."
"I will. Goodbye, Martin."
"See you Monday, Rachel."
The cab dropped him in Williamsburg just before nine.
Martin stood on the sidewalk for a moment, looking at the storefront in front of him.
It was a diner — small, slightly worn around the edges in the way that distinguished charming from shabby by about three good decisions. Hand-painted lettering on the window. A little retro, a little Brooklyn. The kind of place that had clearly been someone's serious project.
And it triggered something in the back of Martin's memory that he couldn't immediately place.
He'd spent twenty-three years in this world quietly cataloguing the points where it diverged from — or rhymed with — the TV shows and movies that had apparently been stitched into its fabric. The Big Bang Theory had given him Sheldon. Suits had given him Harvey and the firm. Breaking Bad was presumably happening somewhere in the Southwest right now, and he tried not to think about that too hard.
This diner, though.
He stood there another moment, and then it clicked.
2 Broke Girls.
Which meant — he did the mental math quickly — that the Channing scandal had already broken. He'd seen something in the Post two months ago about a Manhattan wealth manager named Channing being indicted on fraud charges, a Ponzi scheme that had vaporized the savings of hundreds of investors. He'd filed it away without connecting the dots.
Which meant somewhere in this city, there was a girl named Caroline Channing, whose entire life had just fallen apart, and who was very likely going to end up working in this diner.
Martin filed this information carefully and pushed open the diner door.
The restaurant was closed — chairs still up on some of the tables, the particular quiet of a place between shifts. From somewhere behind the bar came the irregular sound of something being fixed with more optimism than expertise.
"Hello? Anyone here?"
The hammering stopped. A moment later, a man appeared from behind the bar.
He was short — genuinely, notably compact — with the efficient movements of someone who'd made peace with working harder than the space available. He spotted Martin, brightened immediately, and came around the bar with his hand extended.
Martin checked the file. "Han Lee? Martin Scott, from Pearson Hardman."
Han pumped his hand with genuine enthusiasm. "Mr. Scott! Yes, yes — we spoke on the phone. I have to say, I was expecting someone..." He tilted his head, studying Martin's face with frank curiosity. "Older? You look very young. Not that that's bad! My cousin is a pediatric surgeon, everyone thinks he's a resident. He's forty-two."
"I'm twenty-three," Martin said, "but I've been practicing for a year, and I have a JSD from Harvard Law. Your business is in good hands."
Han looked visibly relieved. "Harvard. Okay. Yes. Sit down, please — can I get you coffee? The machine is the best thing in this building, I spent more on it than the refrigerator, which my accountant was very unhappy about, but I stand behind the decision."
"Coffee would be great."
Han disappeared behind the counter and returned with two cups and the particular pride of a man who genuinely believed in what he was serving. The coffee, Martin had to admit, was excellent.
"So," Martin said, opening the file on the table between them. "Let's talk about what you need. From the intake form, it looks like you're looking for a general counsel arrangement — contracts, lease review, employment agreements?"
"Yes, exactly." Han wrapped both hands around his mug. "I've been operating for two years and I've just been doing everything myself, which my accountant also does not appreciate. But lawyers are expensive, and I wanted to make sure the restaurant was stable before..." He gestured vaguely at the room around him. "You know."
"That's smart," Martin said. "Building first, infrastructure second. The arrangement I'm proposing is straightforward — a monthly retainer that covers routine review and consultation, and an hourly rate for anything that requires court representation or extended negotiation. I'll review any contract before you sign it and flag anything that needs your attention."
Han nodded along, then paused. "Can I ask — why did the firm assign someone so junior to my account? Not to be rude—"
"You're not being rude," Martin said. "The honest answer is that your account is small enough that a senior associate isn't cost-effective for either of us. I'm building my client base. You need reliable legal support that doesn't cost more than your rent. We're a good fit for where we both are right now." He looked up from the file. "And I'll tell you this straight — I take every client the same way regardless of size. If something comes up that's above my level, I'll tell you immediately and bring in someone more senior. You won't get passed off without warning."
Han studied him for a moment. Then he smiled — the broad, uncomplicated smile of someone who'd just decided to trust something.
"Okay," he said. "Let's do it."
They spent another forty minutes going through the initial terms. Han, it turned out, was meticulous beneath the cheerful exterior — he had questions about everything, wanted to understand every clause, and had apparently been keeping records in a system of his own devising that was idiosyncratic but, on closer inspection, completely coherent.
Martin found himself genuinely liking him.
As they finished and Martin was putting the signed paperwork back in his briefcase, Han refilled both their coffees without asking.
"Can I ask you something personal?" Han said.
"Go ahead."
"Are you from New York originally? You don't have the accent, but you have the—" he made a gesture that seemed to mean the thing.
"Midwest originally," Martin said. "Moved here for school, stayed for work. You?"
"Seoul, then L.A., then here." Han looked around his diner with the expression of a man surveying something he'd built with his own hands and wasn't entirely sure how. "New York is very loud."
"It gets easier," Martin said.
"Does it?"
Martin thought about it honestly. "No," he said. "But you get better at it."
Han laughed — a real one, surprised out of him. "That's the most honest thing any professional has said to me since I moved here."
Martin finished his coffee, closed his briefcase, and stood.
"I'll have the final retainer agreement messengered to you by end of week," he said. "If anything comes up before then — a contract, a vendor agreement, anything — call the office and they'll get you to me."
Han stood too, shook his hand again with both of his. "Thank you, Martin."
"Thank you for the coffee," Martin said, and meant it.
He stepped back out onto the Williamsburg sidewalk. The morning had warmed up. He had six more clients to see this week, a second-degree murder defense to start building, and a Harvard recruiting trip to schedule.
He flagged a cab.
Through the diner window, he could see Han already back behind the bar, fixing whatever he'd been fixing when Martin arrived.
Somewhere in this city, Martin knew, a girl named Caroline Channing was having what was probably the worst month of her life — her father arrested, her money gone, her entire world restructured overnight. She'd land on her feet. The show had said so.
But she'd need a place to land first.
He filed the thought away as the cab pulled into traffic.
One thing at a time.
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