I saw a paralegal scanning blueprints at a desk next to a secretarial pool, and I asked him

where I might find the office of Braden Chance. He nodded to an open door across the

hall.

To my surprise, Chance was at his desk, projecting the appearance of a very busy lawyer.

He was perturbed by my intrusion, and rightfully so. Proper protocol would have been for

me to call ahead and set up a meeting. I wasn't worried about protocol.

He didn't ask me to sit. I did so anyway, and that didn't help his mood.

"You were one of the hostages," he said irritably when he made the connection.

"Yes, I was."

"Must're been awful."

"It's over. The guy with the gun, the late Mr. Hardy, was evicted from a warehouse on

February 4. Was it one of our evictions?"

"It was," he snapped. Because of his defensiveness, I guessed the file had been picked

through during the day. He'd probably reviewed it thoroughly with Arthur and the brass.

"What about it?"

"Was he a squatter?"

"Damned sure was. They're all squatters. Our client is trying to clean up some of that

mess."

"Are you sure he was a squatter?"

His chin dropped and his eyes turned red. Then he took a breath. "What are you after?"

"Could I see the file?"

"No. It's none of your business."

"Maybe it is."

"Who is your supervising partner?" He yanked out his pen as if to take down the name of

the person who would reprimand me.

"Rudolph Mayes."

He wrote in large strokes. "I'm very busy," he said. "Would you please leave?"

"why can't I see the file?"

"Because it's mine, and I said no. How's that?"

"Maybe that's not good enough."

"It's good enough for you. Why don't you leave?" He stood, his hand shaking as he

pointed to the door. I smiled at him and left.

The paralegal heard everything, and we exchanged puzzled looks as I passed his desk.

"What an ass," he said very quietly, almost mouthing the words.

I smiled again and nodded my agreement. An ass and a fool. If Chance had been pleasant

and explained that Arthur or some other honcho from above had ordered the file sealed,

then I wouldn't have been as suspicious. But it was obvious there was something in the

file.

Getting it would be the challenge.

* * *

With all the cell phones Claire and I owned--pocket, purse, and car, not to mention a

couple of pagers--communication should've been a simple matter. But nothing was

simple with our marriage. We hooked up around nine. She was exhausted from another

one of her days, which were inevitably more fatiguing than anything I could possibly

have done. It was a game we shamelessly played--my job is more important because I'm

a doctor/lawyer.

I was tiring of the games. I could tell she was pleased that my brush with death had

produced aftershocks, that I'd left the office to wander the streets. No doubt her day had

been far more productive than mine.

Her goal was to become the greatest female neurosurgeon in the country, a brain surgeon

even males would turn to when all hope was lost. She was a brilliant student, fiercely

determined, blessed with enormous stamina. She would bury the men, just as she was

slowly burying me, a well-seasoned marathon man from the halls of Drake & Sweeney.

The race was getting old.

She drove a Miata sports car, no four-wheel drive, and I was worried about her in the bad

weather. She would be through in an hour, and it would take that long for me to drive to

Georgetown Hospital. I would pick her up there, and we would try to find a restaurant. If

not, it would be Chinese carry-out, our standard fare.

I began arranging papers and objects on my desk, careful to ignore the neat row of my ten

most current files. I kept only ten on my desk, a method I'd learned from Rudolph, and I

spent time with each file every day. Billing was a factor. My top ten invariably included

the wealthiest clients, regardless of how presshag their legal problems. Another trick

from Rudolph.

I was expected to bill twenty-five hundred hours a year. That's fifty hours a week, fifty

weeks a year. My average billing rate was three hundred dollars an hour, so I would gross

for my beloved firm a total of seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars. They paid me a

hundred and twenty thousand of this, plus another thirty for benefits, and assigned two

hundred thousand to overhead. The partners kept the rest, divided annually by some

horrendously complex formula that usually caused fistfights.

It was rare for one of our partners to earn less than a million a year, and some earned over

two. And once I became a partner, I would be a partner for life. So if I made it when I

was thirty-five, which happened to be the fast track I was on, then I could expect thirty

years of glorious earnings and immense wealth.

That was the dream that kept us at our desks at all hours of the day and night.

I was scribbling these numbers, something I did all the time and something I suspect

every lawyer in our firm did, when the phone rang. It was Mordecai Green.

"Mr. Brock," he said politely, his voice clearly audible but competing with a din in the

background.

"Yes. Please call me Michael."

"Very well. Look, I made some calls, and you have nothing to worry about. The blood

test was negative."

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

"Just thought you'd want to know as soon as possible."

"Thanks," I said again, as the racket rose behind him. "Where are you?"

"At a homeless shelter. A big snow brings 'em in faster than we can feed them, so it takes

all of us to keep up. Gotta run."

* * *

The desk was old mahogany, the rug was Persian, the chairs were a rich crimson leather,

the technology was state-of-the-art, and as I studied my finely appointed office, I

wondered, for the first time in many years there, how much all of it cost. Weren't we just

chasing money? Why did we work so hard; to buy a richer rug, an older desk?

There in the warmth and coziness of my beautiful room, I thought of Mordecai Green,

who at that moment was volunteering his time in a busy shelter, serving food to the cold

and hungry, no doubt with a warm smile and a pleasant word.

Both of us had law degrees, both of us had passed the same bar exam, both of us were

fluent in the tongue of legalese. We were kindred to some degree. I helped my clients

swallow up competitors so they could add more zeros to the bottom line, and for this I

would become rich. He helped his clients eat and find a warm bed.

I looked at the scratchings on my legal pad--the earnings and the years and the path to

wealth--and I was saddened by them. Such blatant and unashamed greed.

The phone startled me.

"Why are you at the office?" Claire asked, each word spoken slowly because each word

was covered with ice.

I looked in disbelief at my watch. "I, uh, well, a client called from the West Coast. It's not

snowing out there."

I think it was a lie I'd used before. It didn't matter.

"I am waiting, Michael. Should I walk?"

"No. I'll be there as fast as I can."

I'd kept her waiting before. It was part of the game--we were much too busy to be prompt.

I ran from the building, into the storm, not really too concerned that another night had

been ruined.

________________________________________________________________

Six

The snow had finally stopped. Claire and I sipped our coffee by the kitchen window. I

was reading the paper by the light of a brilliant morning sun. They had managed to keep

National Airport open.

"Let's go to Florida," I said. "Now."

She gave me a withering look. "Florida?"

"Okay, the Bahamas. We can be there by early afternoon."

"There's no way."

"Sure there is. I'm not going to work for a few days, and--"

"Why not?"

"Because I'm cracking up, and around the firm if you crack up, then you get a few days

off."

"You are cracking up."

"I know. It's kinda dim, really. People give you space, treat you with velvet gloves, kiss

your ass. Might as well make the most of it." The tight face returned, and she said, "I

can't." And that was the end of that. It was a whim, and I knew she had too many

obligations. It was a cruel thing to do, I decided as I returned to the paper, but I didn't feel

bad about it. She wouldn't have gone with me under any circumstances.

She was suddenly in a hurry--appointments, classes, rounds, the life of an ambitious

young surgical resident. She showered and changed and was ready to go. I drove her to

the hospital.

We didn't talk as we inched through the snow-filled streets.

"I'm going to Memphis for a couple of days," I said matter-of-factly when we arrived at

the hospital entrance on Reservoir Street. "Oh really," she said, with no discernible

reaction. "I need to see my parents. It's been almost a year. I figure this is a good time. I

don't do well in snow, and I'm not in the mood for work. Cracking up, you know."

"Well, call me," she said, opening her door. Then she shut it--no kiss, no good-bye, no

concern. I watched her hurry down the sidewalk and disappear into the building.