The box is back in the closet. I put it away Sunday after I found what I was looking for, which is what I do with things I’ve dealt with and also things I haven’t. I’m aware those two states are not distinguishable from the outside.
I have the document. I know the clause. I know there’s a missing exhibit, something called “Restricted Clients,” that I either need to locate or find someone qualified to interpret without. I know exactly who can answer this: an employment attorney who represents employees. Not employers. The distinction matters and is not obvious from most law firm websites.
I have known this for 48 hours. I had not yet scheduled anything.
Monday was Monday. Eight hours of calls and a status report I had owed since Thursday and one conversation that ran twenty minutes long, so by end of day I could honestly say I hadn’t gotten to it. Tuesday I ran out of that excuse by midmorning.
I opened a new browser tab. Typed a search for employment attorneys in my area who represent employees. Then I had to do a second search to confirm why that second word mattered, because employment attorneys work both sides and you need to know which side you’re on. This was the one useful thing I learned last week when I googled non-solicitation clauses: the whole field bifurcates. Employees on one side, employers on the other. I need someone who has seen this from my side of the table.
I found two firms that seemed right. One has an intake form.
The form asks the standard things. Name, contact information, how you heard about the firm. Then: “Please describe the nature of your legal situation and the assistance you’re seeking.”
I sat there for eight minutes. I know because I had blocked the hour on my work calendar and I could see the clock. I had typed “focus time” into the subject line, because “personal legal consultation re: the employment agreement I signed at 25 before I understood what I was signing” did not feel like something I needed visible on a shared calendar. “Focus time” is accurate. I have never been more focused on a single thing.
Here is what I needed to type: I am a senior director at a B2B software company, I’ve been there 24 years, I am planning to leave in September to start an independent consulting practice, and I need someone to tell me what my non-solicitation clause permits. It references an exhibit I may not have. I can bring the agreement.
Four sentences. Factual. Professional. Nothing I should feel strange about putting in writing. I’m not confessing to anything. I’m not anywhere near doing anything wrong. This is due diligence that people do every day, and I know that, and I still read those four sentences three times before I hit submit.
I hit submit.
The confirmation email came in about thirty seconds. The firm will be in touch within two business days to schedule a consultation. Done. I have a confirmation number.
What I did not expect was how it felt to submit. Not scary, exactly. I keep starting that sentence with “it was scary” and pulling back because that’s not quite right. It felt more like crossing a threshold I’d been circling instead of walking through. Circling has no record. There’s a record now.
I have a legal situation. I typed that into a form with my own name attached to it and hit submit and now it exists in a database at a law firm in a way that my spreadsheet and my phone note and my nine months of circling do not. Something became concrete in the last 48 hours that was previously a question I was asking only to myself.
The attorney might tell me the clause is fine as written. Might tell me the missing exhibit is findable, or irrelevant, or the exact concern. I don’t know what question I’m actually asking until I hear what question they think I’m asking.
Two business days.
My calendar still has “focus time” for the hour I used. I’m leaving it there. It was accurate.