Chapter 1

My cell always seems to ring at the worst times. Like now, when my arms are full. I could let it go to voicemail, but if there’s one thing clients hate, it’s being unable to reach their lawyer. After depositing several grocery bags on the sidewalk—gently so the eggs don’t break—I fumble in my pocket for a Samsung Galaxy. By the time I fish it out, it’s too late. Call history? Nope, whoever it was blocked their number. That’s odd.

It’s a brisk spring evening in Chicago. There should be some daylight left, but the sky is rapidly darkening, swarmed by a mob of angry clouds. Quickening my pace, I soon reach the twelve-story midrise I call home. Just as I step into the elevator, my phone rings again, but it cuts off the moment the door closes. Same blocked number. Whoever it is, they’re persistent.

Exiting on the seventh floor, I head for the apartment at the end of the hallway, then rap the brass knocker. The door opens instantly.

“You’re late,” grouses my elderly neighbor, Mr. Crenshaw, who’s become a shut-in since a stroke left him temporarily wheelchair-bound.

“Sorry, Mr. C.,” I grunt, lumbering into his kitchen with four bulging paper bags, “but the pharmacist was on a break. I had to wait for your prescriptions.”

Trailing behind, he struggles to manually push himself over the kitchen threshold. He could afford a motorized chair, but after growing up in the shadow of the Great Depression and dropping out of college to help his parents pay rent and feed his younger siblings, he’d never spend money on something he regards as a luxury.

Setting aside some dirty dishes to clear space, I plunk the bags onto a counter.

“Careful!” he barks as the stack of plates clanks. “That’s fine china.”

“Sorry.” I was careful, but I get it. This dinner service was his wife’s favorite, a wedding gift from her grandmother. He leaves it out for the memories. After putting away his groceries and loading the china into his dishwasher, I hand him a small paper bag filled with medications.

Suddenly, in a flash of panic, my left hand darts to my pants pocket. Whew, it’s in there! For a moment, I thought I accidentally gave him my pill bottle, too. He has no idea that I take prescription meds for a serious psychological condition, and I’d die of shame if that got out. 

 Just then, my cell rings—that blocked number again. “Mind if take this?” I ask, curious.

“Hey, Joey,” purrs a sultry female voice.

Joey? What the hell! No one’s called me that since high school.

“Who is this?”

“Really?” She sounds disappointed. “I know it’s been ages, but you can’t have forgotten me.”

“Kr-Kristine?”

“That’s more like it.”

Time stops, and memories swarm through my skull, butterflies mingled with wasps. A freckle-faced toddler chasing me around her yard. An exultant teen leaping into my arms when we won the State debate championships together. Her face going slack when she realized my mind was made up. Cuddling beneath the bleachers. Screaming obscenities at each other.

“I never expected—How’d you find me?”

“It took some digging. There’s no Joseph Grue in any directory of lawyers. Then I remembered your middle name, and bingo. By the way, should I call you Joey or Max?”

“Max is fine. What do you—What’s on your mind?”

“That’s some greeting. Do you still hate me?”

“What? Of course not. Just in shock.” Me hate her? I’m the one who wrecked her life.

“We’ve got to catch up,” she chirps. “I could stop by your office Thursday. Say 1:00?”

My office? That doesn’t sound very social. “Why there?”

“There’s also a legal matter.”

Suddenly, my chest seizes and it’s hard to breathe. But what kind of claim could she still have after twenty years?

“Still there, Max?”

“What? Oh, OK, I guess. One o’clock Thursday.”

“Geez, don’t sound so excited. FYI, I changed my name too. And I look different.”

Of course she does. The last time I saw her, we were wide-eyed, pimply teens fresh out of high school. Who still looks like that in their mid-thirties? Not me.

“What’s your new name?”

“Tell ya Thursday. Toodles.”

Thursday. That’s three days away. It feels like an eternity.

“You OK?” Mr. C. asks. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I did. I think I freaking did.”

Normally I’d stick around for dinner and a game of chess, but that call left me lightheaded. “Raincheck?” I ask. “I can come back tomorrow.”

Everyone has their one that got away. Kristine is mine. My closest friend growing up. My first love. The one I almost married. I should be thrilled to reconnect. Instead, my stomach is spewing molten anxiety. Why has she come back? And why now?

The next morning, I’m in court for a settlement conference. When I thought of courthouses in law school, I pictured Greek temples constructed of limestone or marble, a few stories tall, with engraved moldings above Corinthian columns. The Daley Center, Chicago’s hall of justice for civil cases, is nothing like that. Rising thirty-one stories, it’s a steel office building.

“Hi, Gabe.” I nod to a guard as I pass through the metal detector. After taking the elevator to floor nineteen, I walk through courtroom 1903, whose rear door opens to a hallway lined with offices. These are the judges’ private chambers.

“Max, wait!” shouts a familiar voice, just as I reach for Judge Xavier’s door. When I turn, a red-faced Patti Jovik tugs my arm. “Everything’s changed,” she wheezes.

Judges aren’t known for tolerating tardiness, but Patti can’t go in there in this state, so I steer her back through the courtroom to an empty jury room. “Is Novak OK?” I ask.

Her lips tremble, refusing to release the word “no.”

Novak is her teenage son—and my client. Novak’s psychiatrist prescribed lithium to treat his bipolar disorder. Two years ago, when Novak began stumbling into walls and having tremors, the psychiatrist referred him to Dr. Yang, a neurologist at First Illinois Hospital. After a battery of tests, Dr. Yang insisted he couldn’t find anything wrong and sent Novak home.

His condition deteriorated. He fell several times, and his hands shook so badly that he couldn’t text or play video games. Patti reported the worsening symptoms, but Dr. Yang refused to order more tests. Eventually it got so bad, Novak didn’t know where he was, couldn’t hold a toothbrush, and spoke in gibberish. At that point, Patti rushed him to the emergency room.

This time, blood tests revealed lithium poisoning. They took Novak off the lithium pills, but it was too late; he’d already suffered permanent brain damage. Once a good student with bright prospects, now his future holds minimum wage jobs along with stabbing pain in his feet.

I’m helping Patti and Novak sue First Illinois Hospital for malpractice. Today, we’re in court for a settlement conference. After pouring Patti a glass of water and giving her a moment to collect herself, I ask what happened.

“The pain—He tried—Novak fell. From the roof.”

“Oh my god. How bad?”

“Broken neck. Doctors say he needs expensive surgery. Soon, or never walk again.”

“Oh my god. I’m so sorry. Your medical insurance will cover it, right?”

Dissolving into sobs, she shakes her head. “They said—” Eventually, the word “suicide” squeezes through her anguished gasps. Shit. Her policy must not cover self-inflicted injuries.

“This changes—” she bawls. “I know your negotiating strategy, but now I need whatever we can get today.”

Crap. Our case is worth millions, but if anyone senses Patti’s desperation, we’ll get pennies on the dollar. That would be catastrophic for her future and Novak’s. I’ve gotten to know them as more than clients. I’ve taken Novak to the zoo and babysat a few times, helped negotiate his individual education plan, helped find the best doctors. He’s such a sweet kid, but these last few months, you could see the fight draining out of him. It’s been heartbreaking.

Kneeling so I don’t tower over Patti with my hefty 6’1 frame, I take her hands. “Do you trust me?”

She nods tentatively.

“Good. I have a plan. There’s no time to explain, but do not, under any circumstances, tell the judge or defense lawyers what happened to Novak. That’s our secret. Understand?”

After she nods again, we head out.

“Glad you could join us,” Judge Xavier drawls, dripping sarcasm as we enter his office.

“Sorry, Your Honor.” I nod a greeting to my defense counterpart, Andrew Hinckley, who introduces me to a vice president from the hospital, a man whose hard face seems type-cast to play a corporate scoundrel. I already know Stephanie Swiatek, the lawyer for the hospital’s malpractice carrier.

The judge outlines how a settlement conference works. He’ll divide us into separate rooms, Patti and I in one, the defense team in another. The judge will shuttle back and forth, conveying monetary offers and messages, and sometimes offering his own opinions to help us reach a settlement. That process is designed to defuse tension. When opposing parties talk directly to each other, emotions can drown out the substance. This summary is strictly for Patti’s benefit; the rest of us have done this before. “Anything else we need to discuss before dividing up?” the judge concludes, his perfunctory tone making clear the correct answer is no.

“Yes, Your Honor,” I reply firmly.

“What now, Mr. Grue?”

“I’ve got new evidence, something that completely changes this case. I’d like to walk everyone through it.”

“Mr. Hinckley?”

Glancing at his compatriots, Andrew shrugs. “Fine with us.”

“Keep it brief,” the judge growls.

“Yes, sir.” Remaining seated, I focus on Andrew. “In Dr. Yang’s deposition, I asked if the insurance company pressured him not to order more tests. He said no, insisting the decision rested solely on his medical judgment, not cost concerns. In interrogatory answers, First Illinois swore to that same denial. Well, they both committed perjury. Dr. Yang knew further tests were necessary and fought for approval to run them, but the insurance company vetoed it.”

Andrew comes partway out of his chair, but Judge Xavier is the one who speaks. “That’s a serious accusation. You’d better have some serious evidence to back it up.”

“Oh, I do.” I pass out copies of an affidavit. “This is from Tracy Gerstheimer, Dr. Yang’s long-time office manager, describing conversations with the doctor about Novak’s treatment. He was frustrated by the insurer’s veto, but once they didn’t pre-approve, the hospital wouldn’t get paid if he ran more tests. When Tracy suggested doing it anyway, he said he’d gotten in trouble for doing that with two other patients. The hospital threatened to fire him if it happened again.”

After huddling with his colleagues, Andrew says, “Ms. Gerstheimer is lying. Dr. Yang terminated her last year, and this is her way of getting back at him. It’s her word against his.”

Having anticipated that attack, I fire back, “Not so. The two other patients corroborated Tracy’s story; Dr. Yang told them he got in trouble.” I pull those affidavits from my briefcase.

Andrew snatches them away. “Let me see that!”

“This is a blatant HIPAA violation,” the hospital administrator snarls. “Ms. Gerstheimer will go to jail for revealing patients’ confidential medical information.”

“Wrong!” I’m ready for that argument, too. “Tracy didn’t give me their information, not even their names. She contacted both patients directly, told them the situation, gave them my contact info. After that, it was their decision to share their stories.”

The administrator’s look, a mixture of rage and shock, is quite satisfying. Andrew, however, looks disturbingly calm. “As long as we’re sharing,” he says, “we have new information, too. We know about Novak’s recent injury. You can’t afford to wait until trial; he needs money now for surgery. So, let’s talk turkey.” Panic spills from Patti’s eyes.

“Can I have a minute with my client?” I ask. The judge nods.

Once we’re alone, I tell Patti that when I couldn’t reach her for the past week, I feared something like this might’ve happened and planned for this contingency, just in case. I merely need her permission to carry out my plan. It takes some persuading, but finally she agrees.

After everyone reassembles, I play my trump card. “To make sure you couldn’t leverage Novak’s tragic injury, we’ve arranged another option.” I hand out one last document. “This is a binding offer from Bobrow & Sons, a litigation funding company. As you know, they pay plaintiffs who need cash immediately, in exchange for a piece of the eventual litigation pie.” Basically, Patti can sell them most of her case. They’d get 75% of whatever a jury awards her.

“Bobrow values this case so highly, they’ve offered us $3.6 million. If you do the math and factor in their profit margin, that means their experts think our case is really worth six million. With the new evidence, we all know a plaintiff’s verdict is a sure thing. The only question is how big.”

“What’s your asking price?” Andrew inquires.   

“Four million. Anything less, Patti might as well go with Bobrow, so take it or leave it, no negotiations. You have forty-eight hours to decide. After that, it’s off the table. We’ll accept Bobrow’s deal, and they’ll insist on taking this case to trial. They can afford to wait you out.” And with that, the settlement conference ends.

Returning to the high-rise where I work, I dash into an elevator just before the door closes, only to watch as a little boy pushes the buttons for one floor after another. If it was my child, I’d use this as a teaching moment to explain that we should consider how our actions might inconvenience other people, but this kid’s parents watch blithely. I think I’d be a good father, but sadly, a family isn’t in the cards for me. I had my chance and blew it. Then I got diagnosed, and after that, who’d want someone with my condition to father her children? This caustic reminder of life’s random cruelty stings my heart. It’s not fair. Through no fault of my own, I’ve been robbed of what I want most.

Moments later, I’m back in my office regaling colleagues with tales of this morning’s antics. Suddenly, Gary Millhouse barges in. Wearing his trademark scowl, framed by cavernous jowls that drip from his cheeks like melted wax, he sends my co-workers fleeing with one imperious wave. As the biggest rainmaker at our firm, Gary can squash the rest of us like bugs.

“Drop whatever you’re doing,” he snarls, flopping into my guest chair uninvited. “I’ve got an emergency project for you. A temporary restraining order (“TRO”).

“When do you need it?”

“First thing tomorrow.”

Crap. I promised to take Mr. C. to the park this evening. To pull everything together for a TRO, I’d have to work all night.

“Doesn’t Jason usually support you on this kind of case?” He’s an eighth-year associate, well below me in the firm’s pecking order, although we’re both cannon fodder to Gary.

“His kid’s got softball tonight. He’s the coach.”

“I have plans, too.”

“What plans?”

I know what he’ll say if I tell him: “I’m not making Jason disappoint those kids just so you can play chess.” This is the downside of being a non-equity partner. I depend on rainmakers like Gary to give me cases, so I’m at his mercy. “Never mind,” I groan.

After phoning Mr. C. to reschedule again, I spend hours researching and drafting the TRO papers. Midnight is a speck in the rear-view mirror when I finally deposit everything on Gary’s desk.

First thing the next morning, I drop by Gary’s office. “Everything’s under control,” he grunts without looking up.

“Will the hearing be—”

“I said I’ve got it.”

Swell. The hearing is the fun part. Normally, someone at my level would handle the hearing if they’d done all the groundwork. But when Gary’s in charge? No siree Bob. As I pass my secretary’s cubicle on the way to my office, she flags me down. “Max, Andrew Hinckley called.” My pulse quickens. I’m about to find out if our ultimatum worked.

Chapter 2

“Thanks for coming,” Andrew says, clapping my back as if we’re suddenly best buds. “Bet you’re wondering why I insisted you stop by in person for the check.”

“It crossed my mind.” I keep my voice casual, masking my apprehension as he leads me through several corridors. His joviality is unsettling. What’s he got up his sleeve? 

Andrew ushers me into a lavish conference room where a second attorney awaits. Her regal bearing and elegantly coifed silver hair bespeak a woman not to be trifled with. Andrew introduces her as Elena Hardiman, their firm’s managing partner.

She gestures to a mini-bar encased in ebony paneling. “Would you like a drink? We have scotch, rum, whiskey.”

I freeze. Are they trying to slip a mickey in my drink, then take incriminating photos while I’m out? “I’m good,” I say, my eyes darting back and forth between them.

For an instant, quizzical lines crease Andrew’s forehead. Then he chuckles. “Relax, no hard feelings. Off the record, our client got what they deserved.” He hands me an envelope. “Let’s get this out of the way, then we can discuss more interesting things.”

Inside is a check for four million dollars. Life-saving money for Patti and Novak. “What else is there to discuss?” I ask.

“Your future,” Elena says, arching an eyebrow.

Shit! They must’ve found out. They’re about to blackmail me over my diagnosis.

A look passes between Andrew and Elena. They’re enjoying this, two cats toying with their prey before pouncing for the kill. Elena gestures for Andrew to break the news.

I stifle the urge to flee. From experience, I know I’m probably overreacting. I’ve been diagnosed with schizophrenia, and one of my symptoms is a tendency toward paranoid thoughts. Many people who live with this condition don’t realize that their mind is playing tricks when they think they hear people whispering about them or start feeling unreasonably suspicious. I’m in the lucky half that perceives what’s going on, so I can manage it better. Well, somewhat better.

“We’ve had two cases against each other,” Andrew says. “Your cross exams in the Kellogg trial were the closest thing to Perry Mason that I’ve seen in real life. And this time”—he points to the check—“you showed remarkable doggedness, attention to detail, finesse.” He clinks glasses with Elena, then raises his in my direction. “To great lawyering. Cheers.”

What’s going on? This makes no sense.

“Let’s cut to the chase,” Elena says. “I’ve always preached, ‘If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.’ We’d like you to join our team at Berg & Spank.”

My jaw drops. “But you’re on the defense side for medical malpractice.”

“Not anymore.” Elena shakes her head ruefully. “After that perjury you uncovered, we fired First Illinois as a client. We have no use for their ilk.” When I don’t respond, she adds, “That was the last healthcare provider we represented. Now we’re free to switch sides.”

I turn to Andrew. “But what about you?” First Illinois Hospital was his biggest client. I hope he’s not getting the boot over this. The hospital’s chicanery wasn’t his fault.

Elena answers for him. “I’m retiring in December; Andrew’s replacing me. Running this shop is a full-time job. There aren’t enough hours in the day to handle cases, too.”

“You want me to take over Andrew’s defense practice?” The one that no longer has any clients? That’s a hard pass.

“Nope. We’d like you to start a new department.” And then they explain.

Since Berg & Spank represents major corporations, they’ve cultivated relationships with many wealthy executives. Sometimes those folks need their own lawyer for personal matters, such as suing if their family is injured by medical malpractice or a car accident, or litigating a divorce. These executives often turn to Berg & Spank first, but since it doesn’t have any plaintiff’s lawyers, it’s forced to refer them elsewhere. They want me to change that.

“There’d be enough of these executives to keep me busy?”

“Easily,” Elena replies. “We’ve been tracking how much business we turn away. Internal referrals alone will keep you and an associate fully occupied.”

“And that’s not all,” Andrew says. “We’ll have a publicist send out press releases each time you hit the jackpot, and arrange for your picture to appear in the next edition of Super Lawyers.”

“You can do that?”

He waves nonchalantly. “Piece of cake.”

“With all that publicity,” Elena adds, “you’ll start getting your own referrals from outside our firm. In a year or two, we’ll need to hire a second associate to keep up with your caseload.”

On and on they go about how I’ll be a full equity partner; how much more I’ll earn; yada, yada, yada. It’s hard to focus, though, with vivid images flashing through my head. My face displayed prominently in publications like Super Lawyers. My name in the Chicago Tribune. Bile rises in my throat. These bastards plan to make me famous.

Tomlin’s is a big restaurant crammed into a small space, with tightly packed tables and a kitchen that bumps up against the dining room. Above the central bar, flat-screen televisions are tuned to a Bulls playoff game that keeps eliciting raucous cheers. Arriving first, I grab the last booth in the back where it’s quieter.

“Robin!” I shout above the din, waving to catch my best friend’s eye.

With hazel eyes that light up the instant she sees you and lips that always teeter on the edge of a smile, Robin Miller has this gift of making you feel significant. Her honey skin exudes warmth, too. She attributes it to her fascinating lineage: African tribal kings on one side, Greek fisherman on the other. Looking at her, you’d never guess that she was once a decorated soldier who saw combat in Afghanistan, nor that she runs her own law firm.

We met on orientation day at the big firm where both of us started our law careers. At first, since she was five years older and so poised, I thought she was a senior associate assigned to mentor me, only to discover that she was a fellow rookie. We instantly hit it off, and she became my rock, the closest thing I have to family. She’s the only friend I’ve told about the voices and hospitalizations. I wouldn’t have survived the last one without her.

After a bear hug, we chitchat for a bit. The last time we talked, she was looking forward to seeing a musical comedy, The Book of Mormon, so I ask if she and her husband enjoyed it.

“It rocked. Laugh out loud funny and a thought-provoking theme. But enough about me. What’s up?”

I tell her about my unsolicited job offer.

“Max, that’s fantastic! Congratulations.” She raises her glass to toast.

“You think?”

Her arm freezes midair. “You don’t?”

“There’s pros and cons.”

“Oh?” She sounds surprised. “What’re you thinking?”

“You can go first if you want.”

“That’s OK. Yours is the only vote that counts.”

“No, really, I’d rather hear your perspective before biasing you.”

She grins. We’ve done this dance before. “For starters—”

Just then, our waiter arrives. Robin orders grilled swordfish with lemon garlic sauce, while I go for a rare ribeye with Cajun fries.

“Where were we?” Robin asks moments later.

“Why you think I should accept.”

“Oh, right. It seems so symbiotic. Talent-wise you’re Michael Jordan, but you’re not the biggest rainmaker. Not that you couldn’t if you set your mind to it, but drumming up business has never interested you. Meanwhile, Berg & Spank has a ready-made pipeline of cases. What they need is a great lawyer to win them. You’re the perfect fit. You’ll double your income, finally get the recognition you deserve.” She cocks her head sideways. “What am I missing?”

“The publicity part. They want to put me in legal publications.”

Robin lets out a long sigh. She doesn’t say it, but I know what she’s thinking: What’s the worst that could happen? That’s easy. If I become well-known, it’ll put a target on my back. What if someone on the other side has me followed and finds out I see a shrink? Or worse, learns what meds I take? It wouldn’t be hard to put two and two together; Thorazine isn’t used for anything else. Then they could leak it and humiliate me.

“It’s safer to lay low,” I say. “Plus I like the people at Groves—well, except Gary. At Berg, who knows?”

Robin sips thoughtfully before saying, “What if they didn’t insist on publicizing you? Then would the pros outweigh the cons?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Then I might have an idea—if you want to hear it.”

I lean forward eagerly. Robin excels at thinking outside-the-box.

“The publicity is to attract outside clients; you can get their internal referrals without it, right? What if you tell them you’re interested but don’t want the press? No need to reveal the real reason. Just say boasting about your accomplishments makes you uncomfortable, even if they’re doing it for you. Maybe they’ll drop the publicity, let you focus solely on their internal pipeline. Neither of you will make quite as much, but it’s still win-win.”

“They stressed the publicity.”

“Because they thought it would appeal to you. Doesn’t mean it’s a dealbreaker for them.” Sensing my uncertainty, she continues. “What have you got to lose by asking?”

“I also don’t love only representing rich clients. I like helping people who need it more.”

Robin rests her hand gently on my arm. “You can’t go wrong either way, so don’t stress. Just promise to think about it.”

I nod absently. “There’s another development. I’ve told you about Kristine Winslow, right?”

For a moment, that name elicits a blank look. Suddenly, her face goes taut.

“She called out of the blue,” I add. “We’re meeting tomorrow, first time in twenty years.”

“Are you sure that’s—Did she say why?” I shake my head grimly. “That’s the million dollar question.”

Chapter 3

“Revenge,” gloats a voice only I can hear. It’s Lance, the leader of my invisible tormentors. “That’s why she came back. Now you’ll get what’s coming for screwing her over.”

“Coward,” accuses one of Lance’s nameless minions, another voice in my head. “Selfish bastard” screeches a third. “This is your day of reckoning.”

To what do I owe the pleasure of these auditory hallucinations? They’re the main symptom of my schizophrenia. When it’s just Lance, I can sometimes reason with him, but debating his echo chamber is futile. Besides, what could I say? This time they’re right.

Kristine and I had been best friends since pre-k. After junior prom, our relationship took the next step: dating, falling in love. Everything was great until late senior year when the unplanned pregnancy happened. We were both stunned, confused. She wanted to get married and carry it to term, but I cravenly balked. Too young for a lifetime commitment; had my heart set on Yale while she was headed for Stanford; yada, yada, yada.

The timing couldn’t have been worse. Heartbroken and scared to death, Kristine failed exit exams. Lost her spot at Stanford. Had to take remedial summer classes just to graduate. She was humiliated, her dreams of becoming a doctor shattered. Still, she held off on having an abortion, partly clinging to a ray of hope that I’d man up, partly because her father would’ve disowned her. Then I did something I’ve regretted ever since.

I never saw her again. Soon after our break-up, I nearly died in a car accident and was hospitalized for months. That’s when I began hearing voices. When I finally recovered, my parents informed me that Kristine had terminated the pregnancy. I was relieved at the time, but later I’ve looked back with regret.

My phone’s intercom squawks, shattering the reverie. On cue, a sliver of sunlight squirms through a pigeon-streaked window. The rest of my office remains buried in dreary shade, courtesy of a neighboring skyscraper that blots out the view.

“Mr. Grue!” blurts a breathless receptionist. “It’s Crystal—I mean, she said to say Kristine, but we all—Anyway, she’s here for you!”

I set off for the lobby wondering why the receptionist sounded flustered. For once, I’m grateful for the speckled slate floor and sleek Italian sofas, framed by a stunning view of the Chicago River winding alongside Wacker Drive. And, of course, the black-and-white portrait of our founder scowling down with godly judgment from his lofty perch. These trappings make a splendid first impression, and for once that matters to me.     

When I reach the reception area, Kristine is nowhere in sight. Thirty people are milling about, supposedly waiting for elevators—everyone from senior partners to support staff. I’ve never seen such a crowd here, and there’s a frenetic buzz.

“I knew it,” Lance cackles. “They’ve all come to watch Kristine humiliate you.”

“They’ll laugh at you,” shrieks the faceless chorus of ghouls. “Laugh at the freak show. Everyone’s laughing at you, laughing, laughing at you.”

My body goes rigid. I glare at the receptionist, but she smiles reassuringly and says, “She’s freshening up.”

Suddenly, the chatter crests as a chic woman walks through the arched entrance. With a dewy complexion and beachy copper locks, she’s stunning. She looks familiar. Oh my god. That’s Crystal Wells, the movie star. No wonder my co-workers are falling all over themselves. But why is she staring at me?

She waves tentatively. To me?

Holy shit! “Kristine?”

A smile streaks across her face. “It’s Crystal now.”

I gawk like a wonderstruck puppy as Kristine, I mean Crystal, walks over. Warmth suffuses my soul—she’s done so well for herself; I’m so happy for her, so proud of her—but there’s a pang of regret, too. More than one, actually, knifing my heart to ribbons.

Should I offer a hug or a handshake? This is awkward with everyone watching. Moving in slow motion, I extend a trembling hand.

“I’d prefer a hug,” she says hopefully. “I mean, if that’s OK with you.”

The next instant, we embrace fiercely. Closing my eyes, I drink in the fresh lavender of her silky hair. For a moment, I’m back in her basement on that lumpy sofa, tasting our first kiss. At prom, feeling her heartbeat as we swayed to Whitney Houston’s classic, “I Will Always Love You.” In her lilac-scented bedroom, reveling in an ecstasy I’d never known before.

And yet, this grown woman bears little resemblance to my teen sweetheart—so little that I never recognized her in the movies. A few things haven’t changed, like those sparkling, deep-set eyes. But my Kristine had practical, short brown hair, nothing like Crystal’s tousled ginger waves that fall halfway down her back and must take forever to maintain. The tiny mole above her lip is gone, as is the endearing gap between her front teeth. And she’s so thin. Even the shape of her face looks different, somewhat oval instead of round.

And their personas? Kristine was an unabashed nerd, a straight-A student who favored flat shoes, thick-rimmed cat-eye glasses, and plaid pleated skirts. Crystal looks like she stepped out of the latest issue of Vogue. Kristine and I were inseparable. This “new and improved” model? We’ll see.

Crystal steps back, her eyes echoing a million-watt smile. “Oh my gosh,” she gushes. “Look how you’ve filled out.”

“Me? What about you? I can’t believe—How?”

“Once my effing dad couldn’t stop me, I finally got orthodontia and had that mole removed. Lasik surgery too, plus dieting and exercise, of course, and dyed my hair. Do you think this color is over the top?”

Oh, yeah, I’d almost forgotten. Her father, a strict Christian Scientist, forbade most medical treatment.

“Max?”

“What? Oh, your hair. No, it looks great. Complements your eyes.”

We set off for my office. “That scar wasn’t there before.” Crystal points to a jagged, checkmark-shaped discoloration on my left cheek. “Adds character. How’d you get it?”

“The car accident.” It left deeper wounds, but those are not visible. Rounding a bend in the corridor, I gesture to a door. “It’s this one.”

As we enter my cramped office, Crystal tries to stifle her reaction, but her nose twitches at the musty reminder that a large man labors long hours in this stuffy space. Hmph. Things like that never bothered Kristine. Once we’re seated on opposite sides of a laminated oak desk, an awkward pause hulks over us. I shift my weight, trying to settle in, while she fusses with her skirt, tucking it neatly beneath her thighs.

What’s the etiquette for catching up with your long-lost soulmate? Do we lapse into familiar routines as if the last twenty years never happened? Interview each other about basics, like the strangers we’ve become? Or, instead of dancing around the elephant in the room, should I beg forgiveness?

“Why’d you change your name?” Crystal finally asks.

“Oh, you know. Joey’s not the most dignified name for a lawyer, and I never liked Joseph or Joe. That left my middle name.”

There’s no way I’m telling her the real reason. The name Joseph Maxwell Grue appears in hospital records from several psychotic breaks during college. Using a different name makes it harder for anyone to link me to my younger self, especially since most of those episodes happened overseas. I still live with schizophrenia and paranoia, but I cope much better now.

“What’s your excuse?” She changed both her first and last names.

“Couldn’t ditch my father’s surname fast enough. Switched it to mom’s maiden name, Wells. And Crystal’s a better stage name.”

Another uncomfortable silence descends until I blurt out, “I’m so sorry about everything. Can you ever forgive me?”

She inhales sharply. “If it’s OK with you, let’s save the heavy stuff for another day.”

“So, how’s life treating you?” she finally asks after another discomfiting pause.

“Not bad.”

“Have you been with this firm the whole time?”

I shake my head. “Bounced around a bit. Kept finding greener pastures.”

She waits, but what more can I say? I left two firms because I became convinced that people there were out to get me—my paranoid tendencies weren’t as well managed back then. Not a subject I care to discuss.

“You’re so brilliant,” she says, “I’m not surprised there were bidding wars for your services. You’re a partner, right?”

I nod, although the full truth is more nuanced. I’m a non-equity partner. That means I get the same fancy title as rainmakers, but nowhere near their income level.

Crystal’s eyes roam my walls, no doubt searching for vibrant photos but finding only faded diplomas and colorless awards. “Your degree is from Oxford? Didn’t you go to Yale?”

“I transferred.”

Another half-truth. My schizophrenia surfaced right after high school. Going overseas until I got it under control was advantageous. Since most of my episodes happened in England, I’m less likely to run into anyone who knows about them.

I hate how this is going. Crystal and I used to tell each other everything. I treasured that lack of barriers. Now? One fib after another, all to keep my mental health secret.

“What about you?” I ask. “I’ve seen many of your movies, but what’s it been like?”

Leaning forward, she regales me with Hollywood insider tales. Antics from behind the scenes of blockbusters. Hilarious wardrobe mishaps. What it’s like to work with Bradley Cooper and Leonardo DiCaprio. This is the girl I remember. The animation, the perfectly timed punch lines, the infectious laugh. When her voice drops conspiratorially as she admits her success owes much to the luck of marrying someone with connections, a sense of tranquility envelops me, as if gravity has been restored to my world.

Oh, crap! Her husband. I’m such an insensitive dolt. It was all over the news; he died in a recent mass shooting. Swept up in the whoosh of Crystal’s enthusiasm, I’ve forgotten to offer condolences. Losing a loved one like that, there one second, gone the next.

It happened to me ten years ago. By the time the caller identified himself as a policeman, my hands were shaking. “It was a drunk driver,” he explained. Both my parents perished when the drunk’s SUV swerved across the median and struck their car head-on. The emptiness was unbearable. Now, it’s Crystal’s turn to suffer.     

“Forgive me for not saying this sooner: I’m sorry for your loss. How’re you holding up?”

She shrugs. “I’m not in the best place, but that began before David passed. I’ve started volunteering with Make-A-Wish. That’s helped some, seeing those little faces light up.”

Sitting up straighter, she refocuses. “I’m glad you brought up David. I want to sue the bastards responsible for his death. Will you be my lawyer?”

Oh, that’s why she’s here. I’d love to get reacquainted, and it’s certainly a worthy cause. Someone should hold gunmakers accountable for the epidemic of mass shootings. But there are a world of reasons why this is a bad idea. Foremost, spearheading a landmark case is the last thing I want, especially with a celebrity client. This would be Berg’s publicity on steroids.

“Why me? Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate your confidence. It’s just, some attorneys specialize in forcing change through litigation. Not to mention, I’m sure the gun industry has its share of idiosyncratic laws. I’ve never sued over gun violence.”

Crystal nods knowingly. “It’s so you to be upfront about that, but you’re the smartest person I’ve ever known. That’s what I need for a groundbreaking case. And I trust you.”

This feels familiar—her appreciating my strengths, glossing over my shortcomings—but this still isn’t happening. Without flatly turning her down, there may be a face-saving way out.

“I’d need to run a conflict-of-interest check. Do you know the defendants’ names?”

“There’s the shooter, Billy Bates.”

I key his name into our client database. “All clear on that one.”

“Guns’R’Us. That’s the store where he bought the weapon.”

After running that name, I groan inwardly. “Clear again.”

“And the manufacturer, TyrThor Arms.”

That name sounds vaguely familiar. When I click “Enter,” a red flag flashes onto my screen. Yes, just what I hoped for! Problem solved.

“My firm represents TyrThor in a slip-and-fall case. Ethics rules—we can’t sue a client.”

“Coward,” mocks one of the voices. “Worthless piece of shit,” sneers another. “You always let her down.” The cacophony continues. “Unqualified.”    “Unworthy.”

Ashamed of disappointing Crystal yet again, I look up slowly to gauge her reaction, but she seems unfazed. “Couldn’t you switch firms? You said you’ve bounced around.”

“But I—it’s not that simple. I need to think about it.”

Her face falls. “Oh. I assumed—Never mind, I understand. Take as long as you need.”

When we say goodbye, Crystal rivets me with a look. “There’s one more thing,” she says softly. “David wasn’t all I lost in that shooting. I miscarried the next day.”

I can’t breathe. She lost another pregnancy. How can I let her down again?

Sometime later—I couldn’t say how long—I’m still staring into space, suspended in time, when several colleagues barge in. “How do you know Crystal Wells?” Darla asks. “What’d she want?” Ryan demands simultaneously.

Afterward, I have a vague recollection that they razzed me about rekindling or “getting some rebound action,” but it’s all a blur. Unable to focus on work, I head home to my North Side apartment, two bedrooms, one-and-a-half baths. I don’t need the second bedroom, but it was the only way to get an extra bathroom. That’s major. If I had to let guests use my master bath, they could snoop through my medicine cabinet.

The worn carpeting and linoleum kitchen don’t bother me; location is more important. It’s a safe neighborhood, only fifteen minutes from work with a large park nearby. I could afford a fancier place, but this one works just fine.

After cracking open a beer, I sprawl out on a comfy Lawson sofa. I’ve toyed with replacing its faded, wine-stained cushions, but they’ve become old friends.

Besides some initial awkwardness, today’s reunion went better than I expected, at least the personal aspect. I wouldn’t mind seeing more of Crystal, rebuilding the friendship that defined me for years. And I’d love to make amends by helping in her hour of need. Taking her case would be risky, but maybe my kneejerk rejection was too hasty. Two beers later, Robin returns my call. She’s stuck in negotiations but agrees to meet afterward for a late dinner. That gives me time for some internet research—something I should do anyway. There’s no way I’d quit my job, let alone put myself in the media’s crosshairs, without knowing more about what I’m getting into.

Chapter 4

Since I often work at home in the evening, I’ve treated myself to a black leather, high back swivel chair and an antique, solid teak desk. Settling in at the desk, which offers a distant view of the downtown skyline, I boot up my computer. As it’s whirring to life, rain lashes the window. 

I google the shooting. Bates unleashed his attack on a frigid winter afternoon two months ago. He struck at a downtown mall in Chicago’s Magnificent Mile. Twenty people died. When asked why, Bates claimed “the voice of God” commanded him. He’d previously been hospitalized, diagnosed with schizophrenia—

“Sounds like someone we know,” Lance cackles.

Unlike me, he’d been convicted of several violent felonies and refused to take his meds. How can we let someone like that carry a gun?

“The same way we let someone like you practice law?”

I meant the felonies, but Lance has a point. If we start down that slippery slope, who knows where uninformed public sentiment might draw the line?

The weapon Bates used, called The Boss, is a semi-automatic, 10-millimeter pistol. Ever since its debut in 2011, it’s been the best-selling handgun in America. Colorful and futuristic, with flowing curves instead of square corners, its sleek, aerodynamic frame evokes a Star Trek phaser. Its barrel is a different story, black as death, ending in a military-style muzzle with flared air vents. The last thing victims would’ve seen was that evil orifice blazing like Sauron’s eye.

It looks tiny, no bigger than my hand, yet this pocket-sized cannon packs the firepower of a rifle.

The store where Bates obtained it, Guns’R’Us, is in Downers Grove, a Chicago suburb. Technically, Bates didn’t buy the gun; with his criminal record, he couldn’t pass the background check. His sister bought it, then a week later, it wound up in his hands. How? He hasn’t said.

The final defendant, TyrThor Arms, is the world’s largest gunmaker. They manufacture The Boss. Navigating to their website, I notice their logo—and my blood runs cold. That’s why their name sounded familiar. I’ve heard rumors about TyrThor. They crush anyone who sues them, not just the plaintiffs but their lawyers, too. Their investigators are relentless, dredging up and leaking dirt to destroy you. Infidelity. Drug use. A spouse’s drinking problem. If the whispers are true.

“Fortunately, you’ve got nothing to hide, so no worries…. Oh, wait.”

Do I really want to land on TyrThor’s radar? That’s another reason to decline this case. I can’t dwell on that now, though. It’s dinnertime.

Sprinting from her car to the entrance, Robin kicks up water while holding a legal pad over her head to avoid getting drenched. “Goddamn storm came out of nowhere,” she mutters, wiping her face with a cloth napkin that had been cradling silverware.

I already told her the gist of  Crystal’s proposition when I called, now I fill in the details. “Seeing her wasn’t as bad as I’d feared….”

“You’re having quite the week,” Robin says after I finish. “Not one but two life-changing offers.”

“I know what you’re thinking,” I interject. “This looks too good to resist. Landmark case, chance to make a difference, potential huge payday. Not to mention, I could make amends, patch things up with Crystal.”

Robin frowns. “Actually, no.”

“Huh?”

“First, let me ask something. Can you combine this with the Berg opportunity? You said Groves has a conflict, but what about Berg?”

I shake my head. “I thought of that, but they represent TyrThor in several matters.”

“Then I—please don’t take this the wrong way. It’s an honor to be offered such a prominent case; I’m proud of you. But since you asked, I don’t think it’s a great idea.”

“Ha! She knows you’re not up to the challenge.”

Where did that come from? Robin has always believed in me. “Why not?” I ask.

“Remember how worried you were about Berg’s publicity making you a target? This is ten times worse. A celebrity suing the leading gunmaker will attract national media. And taking on the NRA? Some of those fanatics really might try to take you down.”

“Fair point. There’s a possible solution, but let’s hear your other objections first.”

“Where would you go? You’d have to quit Groves, couldn’t join Berg. The legal market is tight these days; no one’s hiring lateral partners. Unless—How much portable business do you have?”

“Just Crystal’s case.” Not being a rainmaker sucks. They can go anywhere because their clients follow, bringing enough revenue to pay everyone. “I could start my own shop. Like you.”

“With just her case? No other clients?”

I nod.

“Max, it’s not realistic. You’d have no income for years.”

That’s true. Working on a contingent fee, I wouldn’t get paid until Crystal wins or settles.

“I could tap into my retirement fund until then. I’ve saved enough to cover two years of expenses.”

“You can’t count on that payout. Once TyrThor sees you’re solo, they’ll bury you under an avalanche of motions. This case will drag out for years.”

“Of course. That’s straight out of their playbook.”

Robin cocks her head sideways. “If you know that, why are we having this conversation?”

“There’s another way. What if we team up? You have the resources to fight them: associates, paralegals, investigators. I’d still do the heavy lifting, but officially I’d be the second chair. Since your name would appear first, media inquiries would go to you.”

A frown kidnaps Robin’s lips. “Honestly, I have concerns.”

“What concerns?”

* * *

[Some text omitted]

“Has an individual plaintiff ever won this kind of case against a gun manufacturer?”

I shrug my ignorance.

“The answer is no. Zero wins against gunmakers—ever.”

That bites. Guess I should’ve done more homework, but it’s only been a few hours.

“I made some calls,” Robin adds, barging ahead with her unexpected attack. “Would it surprise you to learn that the best plaintiffs’ lawyers in town, firms that specialize in products liability, wouldn’t touch this case with a ten-foot pole?”

“Seriously?”

“Max, it’s a dog. You can’t sue a manufacturer over gun violence.”

“Even if you’re right, there’s still Guns’R’Us.”

Robin sighs loudly. “Plaintiffs have fared a little better against retailers. Emphasis on a little. Our side still loses ninety percent. Sorry, count me out.”

“Why do you suppose Robin called all those other lawyers behind your back?”

“She doesn’t trust your judgment.”     “She’s abandoning you.”

If Lance was corporeal, he’d be rubbing his hands together gleefully, feet bouncing up and down. Closing the drawer on that image, I look down forlornly. This is so unlike Robin. “I said I haven’t decided yet.”

Her voice melts. “I know, and I’m sure you’ll make the right decision.”

“But if I—I can’t do it without you. It’s not just your resources. If I’m the first chair with that national spotlight? Everyone could find out.”

I reestablish eye contact. Robin needs to understand, needs to protect me by taking the lead role. Especially if those rumors about TyrThor are true.

“Oh, sweetie.” She clasps my hand. “That’s another reason this is such a bad idea. Can’t you pass?”

“Think before you answer,” implores Theresa, Lance’s lovely but seldom-heard counterpart. “If you value Robin’s judgment, why are you dismissing her concerns?”

“She’s undermining me tonight,” I reply silently.

“Lance is stoking your paranoia, and you’re letting it get the best of you. Be self-aware.”

I release a deep breath. Be self-aware. Right. My paranoia can make me unreasonably suspicious, even of trustworthy friends. Taming that suspicion is a daily challenge.

This conversation has taken an ironic turn. Every objection Robin raised, I’d planned to say the same thing. But I thought she’d encourage me, then I’d be the one pointing out these drawbacks. When she unexpectedly shared my concerns, I tried to talk her out of them.

This is a hard choice. If Crystal’s case is hopeless, I’d be a fool to quit my job. Still, I owe her for what I did. If it’s a close call, that debt tips the balance.

Earlier, I tore the crust off my bread. Now, I roll the strips between my fingers, grinding them into dust. Theresa is right, Robin wouldn’t sabotage me. Her concerns are for my benefit.

“I appreciate your advice,” I say. “Sorry if I was a bit stubborn.”

“No more than usual.” She grins. “If I ever create a montage of times you were mulish, this won’t make the cut.”

I can’t help grinning back; she knows me so well. After that, we’re stuck on mute for a while. The rain has stopped, amplifying the silence. When our entrees arrive, I pick at my steak.

Finally Robin speaks. “Unless you dig up something that makes this case different, I’m out. If you come up with something….” She sighs. “Then we’ll have to talk about some other things. OK?”