When the call came down for her to go up to the tenth floor and see Mr Schiff, Colleen was sure she was about to be fired. Those blue notices on her file … it had been months and months since she'd had one, but there were probably processes Human Resources had to go through and they'd only just got around to her now.
She sighed, taking one last look around the Narcotics typing pool. She would miss them, Erin, Louisa, Tanya, Amelia. She would miss the work, which was a lot more interesting than typing up letters in some business office. She would miss Jack McCoy's ridiculous nonsense.
She would have to get another job.
Six months ago, the thought would have filled Colleen with panic. Another job, a new job, new people … endless interviews with recruiters who'd look at her and know instantly that she was clumsy, that she was stupid, that she didn't have the faintest idea what she was doing.
Now she sighed again, and pulled the cover over her typewriter. She would have to get another job, and that would be a nuisance.
"Ah, Ms Petraky, there you are," Adam Schiff said when she tapped on his door. "Come in. Sit down."
She perched on the edge of the chair by his desk. "Mr Schiff, I want to say how grateful I am for the opportunities the District Attorney's Office has given me, and despite —"
He frowned at her, which did nothing for the butterflies in her stomach. "Opportunities, that's one way to put it, unpaid overtime would be another. You look nervous."
Mr Schiff was as gruff and abrupt one-to-one as he was at the annual office Christmas Party. Colleen swallowed hard. "I know I've had some unauthorized leave and I promise —"
He waved that away. "I know what that's about. Jack McCoy told me. You're worried I called you up here to fire you? Ms Petraky, the District Attorney doesn't personally fire anyone below the eighth floor."
"Oh," Colleen said.
Mr Schiff frowned and looked at her from under his eyebrows. "I want you to work for me."
"I … already work for you."
"I want you to work for me up here." He waved a hand towards the door. "Out there. My secretary is getting married. Which wouldn't be a problem except for the reason she's getting married involves a metaphorical shotgun." He paused. "Maybe an actual shotgun, for all I know. Anyway, I need someone to sit at that desk out there."
"And do your typing?"
"Sometimes. There's not much of it. I need someone to manage my diary, screen my visitors, write my letters —"
"Write your letters?"
"Do you know how many people write to me, Ms Petraky? If I answered them all myself I'd never get anything else done. Jack McCoy says you're wasted in the typing pool. He says that if you can organize a string quartet, a shower of rose petals and a four-course dinner for two catered and served in a courtroom in a day, then you should have no problem organizing me. He says you correct his grammar when it needs it and can remember every word you ever typed."
"Not every word," Colleen hedged. "Just most of them."
"That'll do," Mr Schiff said. "How about it? Will you help an old man out? There's a pay rise."
"Oh, I don't need a pay rise —"
"I'll take that as a yes. And the pay is non-negotiable. You'll earn it. And whether you need it or not, you deserve it. When can you start?"
"I have some outstanding depositions to finish typing —"
"You can do that out front."
"Then … now?"
"Alright." He heaved himself forward in his chair and leaned over to shake her hand. "Welcome to the tenth floor. Try not to get knocked up."
"No, sir, Mr Schiff," Colleen said, and, stunned, made her escape.
Her new desk was just by Mr Schiff's door. It was a lot newer and nicer than her old desk, no doubt because every visitor to the District Attorney would see it.
And there was a bunch of flowers on it that Colleen was almost certain hadn't been there when she'd walked into Mr Schiff's office.
White roses. Tied with a white ribbon.
She knew she should go right downstairs and tell the others, collect her work and come back up here to make a start. Instead she sat down at her new desk and ran her fingers softly over the satin-smooth wood. Personal secretary to the District Attorney himself! Even, from the sound of what he'd told her she'd be doing, an assistant! Not an Assistant District Attorney, but an assistant nonetheless.
"You're new," a voice said.
Colleen looked up to see Ben Stone peering at her over the top of his glasses. She knew him by sight, of course, and of course he had no idea who she was. He was a brilliant prosecutor, and she was just one of the dozens of women who deciphered his handwriting.
Had been just one of the dozens of women who deciphered his handwriting. "I'm Ms Petraky, Mr Stone. Mr Schiff's new secretary."
"I hope you last longer than the previous two," he said, and eyed the flowers. "Although if you're already receiving roses from …" He picked up the bouquet and looked for a card. "A mystery admirer, I have to say that the signs are not good."
"They're not from an admirer, Mr Stone." Colleen held out her hand and he surrendered the flowers.
Mr Stone frowned at her, and Colleen had a moment's sympathy for anyone unfortunate enough to be a witness in a case he prosecuted. "And how do you know that? They're anonymous."
Colleen was not a witness. She was the District Attorney's new personal assistant. A good portion of her job was going to involve wrangling ADAs who were all too used to getting their own way.
Might as well start now, she thought, and smiled at Mr Stone. "Oh, I know exactly who sent them. They're from a friend, Mr Stone, a very good friend indeed."
A good friend, and a good man.
Good enough, perhaps, to qualify as her own personal white knight.
