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Pants Down: An Eyewitness Account of an Ill-Fated Firm Retreat (Part 2)

Friday, July 25, 2008 2:52 PM - By Hope Winters

hope winters.jpg[Ed. note: This is the second ATL post by former practicing attorney Hope Winters. It’s a continuation of the story started in this post, which you should read first if you haven’t done so already.

Judging from the comments to her maiden post, it seems that readers had strong reactions to Hope Winters. That’s what we like around here — writers who hit a nerve. To paraphrase Gossip Girl, “You know you love her….”]

The summer weeks went by quickly, and as that July weekend approached, I felt a deep sense of dread and resentment. We associates bitched about the event constantly on e-mail, but finally, we got to the final stage of grieving: acceptance. We were told to sign up for tennis, golf, or even lounging at the pool on Saturday afternoon.

Not one of these options appealed to me. Tennis or golf? Both sports required an unbridled competitive spirit and a laser-like focus. With these psycho-competitive, self-absorbed, Type-A-plus men? Please. I think I’d rather insert a needle into my eyeball. Option Two was no more desirable. Lounging around the pool in a bikini, surrounded by undersexed, middle-aged men who hated their wives with lives of leisure for saddling them with two mortgages? Recipe for rape.

I decided I would just sneak off and read a novel quietly under a shaded tree. I was not about to partake in any of these forced social activities.

So, we arrived, pulling up slowly in jumbo silver buses at what we referred to as the “compound” (because it was like Jonestown — we were not allowed to leave). A luxurious resort with a green golf course, an Olympic-sized swimming pool, tennis courts…. I must say the Lansdowne wasn’t so bad - if you were on your honeymoon.

We quickly deposited our luggage in our sparsely decorated rooms that we shared with our roommates and rushed to the bar. The associates gathered together along the round oak bar, fervently waving our arms at the bartender, “Gin and Tonic! Cabernet! Heineken!” Cries for alcoholic beverages of choice were erupting everywhere. I quickly secured a Cabernet and retreated to the end of the bar where I met some of my Antitrust colleagues from different offices. One of them, Pablo, from the Argentina office, started talking to me at length about a deal we were working on and the status of a Hart-Scott-Rodino application. Hello? I do not want to talk about barriers to entry or oligopolies now. I wanted to ask him what Malbec he recommended and what Argentine steak is like.

I managed to excuse myself for an alleged restroom break and then located the one cool group at the other side of the bar discussing indie films and making fun of partners - my favorite pastime. An important sidenote: No dinner was served on night one. Just drinks. With overworked lawyers that never go to out. This was like Spring Break for senior citizens.

Read the rest of the tale, after the jump.

As the night progressed, we got increasingly loud and bold about our insults — and totally wasted. As I looked around the room with blurred eyes, I noticed everyone else was wasted too. Some people were actually swaying; some had developed gimpy necks.

However, there was one pervasive trend that had developed as I was belting Cabernets …. everyone was hooking up. A married partner I had worked for had his arm leisurely draped around the rib cage of a hot blonde from the Ukraine office. Two associates, in different groups, from the Pennsylvania office, were holding hands. And there was my dear friend and roommate Rachel — she traded up, dumping Maria for me — leaning in closely, laughing, and tossing back her jet-black hair with a partner from the Bratislava office. I wanted to stop her. Maybe I was jealous. I am almost always the one hooking up. Maybe I was concerned about her reputation and the future of career - she was the type of girl likely to become partner. But I did nothing. I kept drinking and laughing. This wasn’t the time to be a Pill.

Well, as you might expect, Rachel didn’t come home that night. I woke up the next day at ten a.m. Late. Mergers began at 8 a.m. Panic. Wait. Where’s my roommate? I could not believe she pulled this trick - especially at a firm retreat. I quickly showered, texted Rachel, and ran down to Corporate Transactions. I knew, as usual, I would be in trouble for being late.

The frosted hair, Ann Taylor-clad senior partner who led our group was yelling at both associates and partners - pointing her finger and telling us we had better all be there tomorrow at 8 a.m. sharp. I wanted to raise my hand and say, “Good morning, Margaret. I apologize for being late. But this is your freaking fault. You drop the lawyers off at an open bar at 5 p.m. with no food. What the hell did you expect? Promptness and professionalism? Please.”

I still couldn’t find Rachel, but I became less concerned as the morning rumors circulated. Rachel had hooked up with the Bratislavan. But this behavior had actually become mainstream by lunch — everyone had hooked up. I was the outlier - and, for once, for model behavior. When I found Rachel at lunch, I gave her quite the lecture. How in the hell could she hook up at the firm retreat? With a married man, no less? And, did she know everyone was talking about her? She laughed, of course, but was also mortified. She was really hung over and promised to behave for the rest of the retreat.

I think everyone was in a state of “shock and awe,” but the rest of the day seemed to be going well — attendance at boring lectures, the feigned display of interest in the same. Later that night, we were herded like cows to a buffet dinner. I think top leadership recognized food was absolutely required tonight. We downed our processed chicken and butter-soaked green beans - then darted like kids in a candy shop to the open bar again at 8:30. Despite having a lot less time to drink tonight, everyone, as predictably as a 28-day menstrual cycle, got wasted. Again. And…. hooked up. Including Rachel. These people were addicts. Like caged animals recently released into the jungle.

I couldn’t believe it. Rachel didn’t come home again; she seemed to have developed an affinity for emerging-economy countries. I guess all of this would be suppressed and just forgotten about after the retreat. I mean, everything in law firms has a shelf life of like three days. There would be another scandal in the works to gossip about the following week.

And, on Sunday, everyone did manage to show up in time — despite the bloodshot eyes and rumpled blue Oxford shirts. At least the guys managed to zip up their khakis.
Good Lord.

As we departed the compound later that day, my friends Eleanor and Stephen and I decided to recap the entire weekend and all the associated drama, while on the bus. We loved it. We were innocent parties judging the adulteresses and alcoholics. We decided they should never ever have a global law firm retreat again. This was a disaster beyond even my wildest imagination. We also decided to rename the Lansdowne retreat “Pants Down.”

In essence, that is what it was — so the moniker was appropriate. Of course, the new term circulated rapidly around the firm, and the partners didn’t like it so much. Especially those caught with their pants down. But there was a sort of tacit agreement among all parties concerned that what happened at Pants Down, stayed at Pants Down.

There was no e-mail about attending a mandatory retreat the next year — or the following year. Pants Down was an incident not to be repeated.

* * * * *
Hope Winters is an early retired lawyer, turned Senate staffer, turned corporate lobbyist. She lives in Washington, DC, and blogs at Here’s the Thing.

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Posted in: Biglaw, Drinking, Parties, Sex Scandals

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