CHAPTER 2: THE SELECTION
Day five began at 6:47 AM, thirteen minutes before my alarm.
I stared at the ceiling of my Murray Hill studio, listening to the city wake up beyond the thin walls. Garbage trucks grinding through their routes. Someone's bass-heavy music thumping from the apartment below. The usual symphony of New York refusing to give you a moment's peace.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Email from Pearson Hardman HR.
I grabbed it, heart rate kicking up despite myself.
Subject: Associate Position - Congratulations
Dear Mr. Roden,
We are pleased to offer you a position as a first-year associate at Pearson Hardman...
I read it twice. Then a third time, just to make sure the words didn't rearrange themselves into a rejection.
I made it.
The System pulsed, quiet acknowledgment in the back of my mind.
[CAREER MILESTONE ACHIEVED]
[PEARSON HARDMAN ASSOCIATE - ACCEPTED]
[NEW OBJECTIVES AVAILABLE]
I dismissed the notification and rolled out of bed. No time for celebration. First day was today—9 AM orientation, meet the other associates, get assigned a desk. I needed to be sharp, prepared, exactly what they'd hired.
The shower was cold because the building's water heater was garbage. The coffee was instant because I hadn't had time to find a decent bodega yet. My suit was the same charcoal from the interview, paired with a different tie—dark blue, professional, forgettable.
By 8:15, I was on the subway heading downtown.
By 8:50, I was walking through Pearson Hardman's marble lobby for the second time, this time as an employee instead of a candidate.
This is real.
The associate bullpen was exactly what I'd expected—open floor plan, glass-walled offices for partners ringing the perimeter, cubicles for the rest of us crammed into the middle. Twelve desks arranged in neat rows, each with a computer, a phone, and a stack of orientation materials.
Eleven other people were already there, milling around, introducing themselves with the kind of aggressive networking that law school had drilled into all of us.
I recognized a few faces from the waiting area during interviews. The woman in the severe black suit—she introduced herself as Jennifer Park, Columbia Law, corporate focus. The two guys comparing credentials—Kyle Durant and another associate whose name I immediately forgot.
"Scott Roden, Harvard."
"Kyle Durant, Yale. Corporate litigation."
We shook hands, performed the ritual dance of establishing pecking order through credentials and small talk. Kyle had the easy confidence of someone who'd never doubted his place in rooms like this.
He will.
At exactly 9 AM, Louis Litt walked in.
I knew him from the case files I'd studied—senior partner, financial law specialist, the kind of brilliant that came wrapped in neurotic insecurity and barely-controlled rage. He looked exactly like his reputation suggested—expensive suit, perfectly groomed, eyes that cataloged every person in the room like we were line items on a balance sheet.
"Welcome to Pearson Hardman," he announced, voice carrying across the bullpen with theatrical authority. "You are the top one percent of law school graduates in this country. You fought through interviews, beat out hundreds of candidates, and earned your place here."
He paused for effect.
"That means nothing. Starting today, you're at the bottom again. Associates are disposable. Partners are gods. Your job is to make us look good, bill hours, and don't embarrass the firm. Any questions?"
Silence.
"Good. Let me introduce you to your class."
He went down the line, rattling off names and credentials like an auctioneer. Jennifer Park, corporate. Kyle Durant, litigation. Three more associates with backgrounds in securities, tax, and IP law. Each one radiating competence and ambition.
Then Louis paused, and something shifted in his expression—irritation mixed with resignation.
"And our final associate is a special case. Harvey Specter personally hired him outside the normal process."
Here we go.
The door opened, and Mike Ross walked in.
Same ill-fitting suit. Same nervous energy. Still looking like he'd wandered in from a college campus instead of graduating from Harvard Law.
"Everyone, meet Mike Ross."
Mike waved awkwardly.
"Hey. Uh, excited to be here."
The other associates exchanged glances—skeptical, calculating, already wondering what made this kid so special that Harvey Specter had bent the rules.
I stayed neutral, watching.
They don't know yet. But they will.
Louis clapped his hands once.
"Assignments will come from partners directly. Your desks have your login credentials and case files. Work hard, bill hours, and remember—this firm runs on excellence."
He left without another word, and the bullpen erupted into low conversations.
I found my desk—second row, middle position—and started logging into the computer. The orientation materials were thick enough to be used as a weapon. I flipped through them mechanically, mind already racing through strategy.
Harvey personally hired Mike. That means Mike gets Harvey's cases. Harvey's mentorship. Harvey's protection.
The System supplied probabilities I didn't ask for.
[ANALYSIS: PEARSON HARDMAN SUCCESS FACTORS]
[MENTOR RELATIONSHIP: CRITICAL]
[WITH HARVEY SPECTER MENTORSHIP: 89% PARTNERSHIP PROBABILITY]
[WITHOUT HARVEY SPECTER MENTORSHIP: 47% PARTNERSHIP PROBABILITY]
[CURRENT STATUS: UNASSIGNED MENTOR]
Forty-seven percent.
Barely better than a coin flip.
I looked across the bullpen to where Mike was setting up his desk, already looking overwhelmed by the orientation packet. Harvey appeared in his office doorway, caught Mike's eye, gestured him over.
Of course.
Three hours later, I'd finished orientation materials, memorized the firm's case management system, and started reviewing my first assignment—a corporate tax filing for a shell company Louis needed processed by Friday. Boring work. Grunt work. The kind of thing partners dumped on first-years to see if they'd quit.
I didn't mind. Work was work.
But I needed more than grunt work. I needed visibility. I needed to prove I belonged in rooms where decisions got made.
Harvey.
I'd studied his cases during my research. The man was Pearson Hardman's top closer—the lawyer clients called when they absolutely had to win. Corporate litigation, mergers, hostile takeovers. High-stakes, high-profile work.
If I could get on one of his cases, even as a junior associate doing research, it would catapult my career forward by years.
Worth the risk.
I grabbed the file I'd prepared over the weekend—analysis of Harvey's current case, a Shell Oil subsidiary restructuring with international tax implications. EU regulatory framework, transfer pricing issues, the whole complicated mess. I'd spent twenty hours breaking down the strategy, identifying gaps, preparing recommendations.
Harvey's office was on the corner, glass walls giving him a view of the entire bullpen. I walked over, folder in hand, heart rate steady.
This is the moment.
I knocked on the open door.
Harvey looked up from his computer, eyebrow raised.
"Mr. Specter," I said, keeping my voice professional, confident. "Scott Roden, first-year associate. I analyzed the Shell Oil restructuring you're handling—the EU regulatory framework has some complications with the UK subsidiary's transfer pricing that might trigger an HMRC audit. I found—"
He cut me off mid-sentence.
"I don't need another eager beaver, kid."
The words hit like a slap.
"You want to impress me?" He leaned back in his chair, expression bored. "Bill hours. Do the work Louis assigns you. Don't waste my time with analyses I didn't ask for."
He turned back to his computer, dismissing me without another glance.
Through the open door, I could see Mike already inside the office, sitting in the chair I'd imagined myself occupying, Harvey's body language open and engaged as he explained something with animated gestures.
Two years of preparation. Twenty hours of research. And he didn't even look at the folder.
I walked back to my desk, folder still in hand, face carefully neutral despite the anger burning in my chest.
[EMOTIONAL STATE: FRUSTRATION DETECTED]
[ANALYSIS: REJECTION BY SENIOR PARTNER]
[CALCULATING ALTERNATIVE STRATEGIES...]
I sat down, opened my laptop, and stared at the screen without seeing it.
He dismissed me. Like I was nothing. Like the work didn't matter.
The System's calculations scrolled across my mind.
[WIN RATE CALCULATOR ACTIVATED]
[QUERY: LONG-TERM SUCCESS PROBABILITY AT PEARSON HARDMAN]
[PROCESSING...]
[WITH HARVEY SPECTER MENTORSHIP: 89%]
[WITHOUT HARVEY SPECTER MENTORSHIP: 47%]
[CURRENT STATUS: DISMISSED/IGNORED]
[RECOMMENDATION: SEEK ALTERNATIVE ADVANCEMENT PATH]
Forty-seven percent.
I closed my eyes, let out a slow breath.
This firm runs on proximity to power. And I just got shut out.
Across the bullpen, Mike laughed at something Harvey said. The sound carried over the low buzz of associate conversations, bright and easy.
He gets everything. The mentorship. The attention. The career I should have.
The System hummed quietly, nonjudgmental, waiting for me to decide what came next.
If Harvey won't open the door, I'll find another one.
Six PM.
Mike left with Harvey for "client drinks," whatever that meant. Probably schmoozing at some expensive bar while Harvey taught him the social side of law practice.
The other associates trickled out over the next hour. Jennifer Park stayed until seven, making a show of her work ethic. Kyle Durant left at six-thirty, complaining about needing to hit the gym.
I stayed.
Not because I wanted to impress anyone—the bullpen was empty, nobody was watching. I stayed because the Shell Oil file was still open on my computer, and I couldn't let it go.
Harvey didn't want my analysis? Fine. I'll do it anyway.
By midnight, I'd built a comprehensive breakdown of the regulatory strategy, complete with contingency plans for three different audit scenarios. It was better than what I'd shown Harvey. Tighter. More thorough.
It was the kind of work that separated good lawyers from great ones.
And nobody would ever see it.
I saved the file, shut down my computer, and walked out into the empty lobby.
The city was quieter at this hour—still alive, but gentler. Cabs cruising for late-night fares. A few drunk twenty-somethings stumbling home from bars. The usual late-night crowd.
I caught the subway back to Murray Hill, found a seat in the nearly-empty car, and let my head rest against the window.
First day.
[CAREER MILESTONE: FIRST DAY COMPLETE]
[HOURS BILLED: 14.5]
[RELATIONSHIP STATUS: HARVEY SPECTER - DISMISSIVE]
[RELATIONSHIP STATUS: LOUIS LITT - NEUTRAL]
[RELATIONSHIP STATUS: MIKE ROSS - UNKNOWN]
The System's assessment was clinical, emotionless.
But underneath the calculations, I felt something else.
Determination.
Harvey Specter didn't think I was worth his time? Fine.
Louis Litt had grunt work that needed doing? I'd do it better than anyone expected.
Mike Ross got the golden ticket? Good for him.
I'll build my own path.
The subway rattled through the tunnel, carrying me home through the city's underground veins.
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