Suits: A Lawyer Surviving TV Chaos

For Jessica, the managing partner of Pearson Hardman Law Firm, the fourteen legal counsel retainer agreements on her desk felt like a nuclear bomb—both awe-inspiring and troublesome. 

The awe came from thirteen of them being signed by founders of America's fastest-rising internet startups, while the last belonged to a little-known Hope Fund holding a billion dollars in stock. All had chosen Martin Scott, a junior attorney, as their legal counsel and representative. The contracts totaled over $26 million, and securing these clients could send shockwaves through the legal industry. 

The trouble? What to do with Martin Scott himself. 

By firm standards, the contract values alone qualified him for senior partnership. But promoting a one-week rookie to management risked internal chaos. After a day-long discussion with senior partners Harvey and Louis, followed by a talk with Martin, Jessica devised a compromise: 

- Martin was promoted to **Senior Attorney** at Pearson Hardman. 

- His commission rates increased: 

 - **40% → 60%** for personal clients 

 - **30% → 50%** for corporate clients 

This would net Martin $15 million annually from these contracts. If he maintained this performance and expanded corporate advisory work over two years, he'd ascend to senior partner with 5% equity. 

Martin accepted without protest. He knew these founders trusted Pearson Hardman's reputation more than his rookie status—a reality of business. This institutional leverage, not raw skill, kept him from starting his own firm. High-stakes legal work required a team, not a lone lawyer. 

His promotion came with a move from a 38th-floor cubicle to a 43rd-floor office alongside senior partners Harvey Specter and Louis Litt—one floor below Jessica's domain. The symbolic upgrade pleased him. 

Now swamped with client work, Martin left the office past midnight for the first time. Hailing a cab, hunger redirected him to Williamsburg Restaurant in Brooklyn. 

The streets remained grimy, dotted with hippies, addicts, and sex workers. One approached him, tracing his $4,000 Brioni suit: "Free tonight, baby." 

Martin stepped back: "Wake up—*Pretty Woman* left theaters 20 years ago." 

Inside, he greeted Earl, the diabetic Black cashier and aspiring rapper, who joked about "kiss-hand etiquette" before warning him about a "clueless new blonde" server. Martin laughed: "That's my friend." 

Seated, he met Max Black—a sharp-tongued waitress who mocked his "dry-clean-only suit" while flirting. Ordering a burger and fries, he quipped, "Time is money," earning an eye-roll. 

Max then dragged coworker Caroline to peek at him. Caroline—former socialite turned waitress after her father's imprisonment—panicked: "I slept with him! He can't see me like this!" 

Max shrugged: "Worry about tips, not your uniform." 

Their banter halted as Martin waved. Caroline froze, mortified, while pervy cook Oleg leered at her from the kitchen.