In a hallowed corner of the building I'd never been near. Mordecai was treated like a visiting dignitary by the receptionist and staff--his coat was quickly taken, his coffee

mixed just right, fresh muffins available.

He sat on one side of the table, facing Arthur, Donald Rafter, an attorney for the firm's

malpractice insurance carrier, and an attorney for RiverOaks. Tillman Gantry had legal

representation, but they had not been invited. If there was a settlement, no one expected

Gantry to contribute a dime.

The only odd slot in the lineup was the lawyer for RiverOaks, but it made sense. The

company's interests were in conflict with the firm's. Mordecai said the ill will was

obvious.

Arthur handled most of the talking from his side of the table, and Mordecai had trouble

believing the man was eighty years old. The facts were not only memorized but instantly

recalled. The issues were analyzed by an extremely sharp mind working overtime.

First they agreed that everything said and seen in the meeting would remain strictly

confidential; no admission of liability would survive the day; no offer to settle would be

legally binding until documents were signed.

Arthur began by saying the defendants, especially Drake & Sweeney and RiverOaks, had

been blindsided by the lawsuit--they were rattled and reeling and unaccustomed to the

humiliation, and to the battering they were taking in the press. He spoke very frankly

about the distress his beloved firm was suffering. Mordecai just listened, as he did

throughout most of the meeting.

Arthur pointed out that there were a number of issues involved. He started with Braden

Chance, and revealed that Chance had been expelled by the firm. He did not withdraw; he

was kicked out. Arthur spoke candidly about Chance's misdeeds. He was solely in charge

of all RiverOaks matters. He knew every aspect of the TAG closing, and monitored every

detail. He probably committed malpractice when he allowed the eviction to proceed.

"Probably?" Mordecai said.

Well, okay then, beyond probably. Chance did not meet the necessary level of

professional responsibility by proceeding with the eviction. And he doctored the file. And

he attempted to cover up his actions. He lied to them, plain and simple, Arthur admitted,

with no small amount of discomfort. Had Chance been truthful after Mister's hostage

crisis, the firm could have prevented the lawsuit and its resulting flood of bad press.

Chance had embarrassed them deeply, and he was history. "How did he doctor the file?"

Mordecai asked. The other side wanted to know if Mordecai had seen the file. Where,

exactly, was the damned thing? He was not responsive.

Arthur explained that certain papers had been removed.

"Have you seen Hector Palma's memo of January twenty-seventh?" Mordecai asked, and

they went rigid.

"No," came the response, delivered by Arthur.

So Chance had in fact removed the memo, along with Lontae's receipt, and fed them to

the shredder. With great ceremony, and relishing every second of it, Mordecai removed

from his briefcase several copies of the memo and receipt. He majestically slid them

across the table, where they were snatched up by hardened lawyers too terrified to

breathe.

There was a long silence as the memo was read, then examined, then reread, then finally

analyzed desperately for loopholes and words which might be lifted out of context and

slanted toward their side of the table. Nothing doing. Hector's words were too clear; his

narrative too descriptive.

"May I ask where you got this?" asked Arthur politely.

"That's not important, at least for now."

It was obvious they had been consumed with the memo. Chance had described its

contents on his way out the door, and the original had been destroyed. But what if copies

had been made?

They were holding the copies, in disbelief.

But because they were seasoned litigators they rallied nicely, laying the memo aside as if

it were something they could handle effectively at a later date.

"I guess that brings us to the missing file," Arthur said, anxious to find more solid footing.

They had an eyewitness who had seen me near Chance's office the night I took the file.

They had fingerprints. They had the mysterious file from my desk, the one that had held

the keys. I had gone to Chance demanding to see the RiverOaks/TAG file. There was

motive.

"But there are no eyewitnesses," Mordecai said. "It's all circumstantial."

"Do you know where the file is?" Arthur asked.

"No."

"We have no interest in seeing Michael Brock go to jail."

"Then why are you pressing criminal charges?"

"Everything's on the table, Mr. Green. If we can resolve the lawsuit, we can also dispose

of the criminal matter."

"That's wonderful news. How do you propose we settle the lawsuit?"

Rafter slid over a ten-page summary, filled with multicolored graphs and charts, all

designed to convey the argument that children and young, uneducated mothers are not

worth much in wrongful-death litigation.

Wlth typical big-firm thoroughness, the minions at Drake & Sweeney had spent untold

hours spanning the nation to survey the latest trends in tort compensation. A one-year

trend. A five-year trend. A ten-year trend. Region by region. State by state. City by city.

How much were juries awarding for the deaths of preschoolers? Not very much. The

national average was forty-five thousand dollars, but much lower in the South and

Midwest, and slightly higher in California and in larger cities.

Preschoolers do not work, do not earn money, and the courts generally do not allow

predictions about future earning capacity.

Lontae's estimate of lost earnings was quite liberal. With a spotty employment history,

some weighty assumptions were made. She was twenty-two, and she would one day very

soon find full-time employment, at minimum wage. That was a generous assumption, but

one Rafter was willing to grant. She would remain clean, sober, and free of pregnancy for

the remainder of her working life; another charitable theory. She would find training

somewhere along the way, move into a job paying twice as much as minimum wage, and

keep said job until she was sixty-five. Adjusting her future earnings for inflation, then

translating to present dollars, Rafter arrived at the sum of $570,000 for Lontae's loss of

earnings. There were no injuries or burns, no pain and suffering. They died in their sleep.

To settle the case, and admitting no wrongdoing whatsoever, the firm generously offered

to pay $50,000 per child, plus the full sum of Lontae's earnings, for a total of $770,000.

"That's not even close," Mordecai said. "I can get that much out of a jury for one dead

kid." They sank in their seats.

He went on to discredit almost everything in Rafter's pretty little report. He didn't care

what juries were doing in Dallas or Seattle, and failed to see the relevance. He had no