Hello people (namely, friends and family).
So this is what's happening: I've been gone for weeks preparing for trial and then being at the actual trial, and now it is over. What now?
The trial went as well as it could possibly have gone, except for the result, which I will get to in another post. First, let me tell you that the bathroom at the Ritz-Carlton is all you might imagine it to be. And the pillows are awfully nice, too. And then there was the view out my window of the Harbor, and the Statue of Liberty just across the water. There was even a telescope set up so I could get a little more up close and personal with her, but she was always upside down. Two weeks in that room, and I never figured out how to fix that. Luckily, I'm a lawyer and not a ship's captain.
But the absolute best thing about staying in a fancy hotel was staying on the fancy floor -- the 11th floor, to be exact. When you get off the elevator (with your extra special key card) there are huge jars of candy just waiting for you. There is a very nice person behind a desk to say, "Hello, Ms. Chiasson, how are you today?" (I think she only said that to me, though.)
Then, when you go into the lounge (which we spent most of our non-trial time in), there were more jars with cookies and trays of food laying around, bottles of fancy water and diet coke, and champagne. Yes, champagne. Did I get to drink any? Nooooo. I was woooorking. But some other nice person would come by every afternoon, after the trial day, and say, "Good afternoon, Ms. Chiasson, would you like a beer now?" Of course, I wanted to be polite so I usually accepted. Just one, though, to keep the wheels turning for the pre-dinner work to be done. After a few hours we would head to some restaurant for a steak and fries (but really fancy fries, elegant, even) and some wine, then I would go back to my room for more work to prepare for the following day.
I managed to keep myself fairly busy with this schedule. There was always something that needed to be done, and usually several things at once. I wasn't the only one available, I was just the only one that seemed to be getting anything done. One of the other associates, from our co-counsel law firm, managed what I assume was a very difficult feat: Every single time anyone involved with the trial looked at her, including our British clients, she was eating a plate of fruit. For two weeks. Fruit, all the time.
This is a person who must weigh about 90 pounds soaking wet. She must have been trying, single-handedly, to combat the image of fat, produce-starved Americans. There was always fruit available, and she kept a plate of it as her constant companion, like a security blanket -- when we were in the war room (a fancy name for a room with lots of boxes and computers in it) while I was madly searching for exhibits; when we were in the trial room (during key witnesses you could turn around and see her munching away on a piece of watermelon) while the rest of us took notes and told important jokes about the other team; walking through the halls during trial breaks, carrying her plate, while the rest of us talked strategy; and back at the 11th floor lounge (she did not have an extra special key card to get into the lounge herself, we had to vouch for her; then she wiped out all the fruit) while the rest of us feverishly prepared for the following day.
I learned at least two lessons from her behavior:
1.) Eat fruit constantly and you will waste away to nothing;
2.) Eat fruit constantly and you will be mercilessly mocked by those around you.
Given my pride, I am not sure how to synthesize these lessons. Of course, having a big fat ass opens one up to merciless taunting, as well. But at least in that case one would be in good company -- most Americans are fat. But walking around with a plate of fruit like it's your teddy bear during a two week trial? That's just weird. I mean, have a cookie, for chrissakes, like a normal person!
So I've decided there must be a middle way, some delicate balance that will promote health and group acceptance, and it goes something like this:
Eat more fruit, but only at appropriate times. And cut back on fries. But not during trial.
Now the trial is over and I am back to my own home. No 11th floor lounge. No jars of cookies. No plates of cheese and veggies waiting for me when I come home from work. Nobody to offer me a beer. And no fruit bowls.
During private moments, however, when I was sure no one was looking, I have managed to peel an orange or two.
