Chapter 1

Just as the cashier bags the last of my groceries, my cell rings. Not wanting to hold up the line, I dig through my wallet for a credit card before fumbling in another pocket for my I-Phone. By the time I fish it out, it’s too late. Call history? Nope, whoever it was blocked their number.

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

Exiting on the seventh floor, I head for the apartment at the end of the hallway and 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 bags. “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 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 dirty dishes to clear space, I plunk the bags onto the counter.

“Careful!” he barks when the stack of plates clatters. “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.

Oh, shit! Did I just…? My hand darts to my pocket. When my fingers close around a hard plastic bottle, the tension in my chest subsides. Whew, it’s still there. For a moment, I thought I gave Mr. C. my pills, too. He has no idea that I take prescription meds for a serious mental illness. I’d die of shame if that got out. 

I comb my hand across my forehead, sweeping dark brown hair from my eyes. The bangs on this bowl cut get annoying when they grow too long, but I’ve stuck with this unruly style forever and … inertia. Maybe it’s time for a haircut.

Suddenly, my phone rings. Mr. C deserves my undivided attention, but curiosity gets the better of me. Sure enough, it’s that blocked number yet again. “Mind if take this?” I ask.

After he grunts his indifference, I swipe the green icon. “Hello.”

“Joey?” a woman asks tentatively.

Joey? What the hell! No one’s called me that since high school. My heart skips a beat.

“Who is this?”

She hesitates. “Kristine.”

Time stops and memories swarm, 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 championship. Cuddling with her beneath the bleachers. Her face going slack when she realized my mind was made up. Screaming obscenities at each other.

“Kristine? I never expected—How’d you find me?”

“I googled attorneys. There’s no listing for a Joseph Grue, but I recognized your picture. And Maxwell is your middle name, so it made sense.” She pauses again. “Should I call you Joey or Maxwell?”

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

“Oh. It sounds like you still hate me.”

“I’ve never hated you. Just surprised.”

“I was hoping to see you,” she says. “Could I stop by your office? Maybe Thursday?”

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

“There’s also a legal matter.”

Suddenly, it’s hard to breathe. But what kind of claim could she still have against me after twenty years?

“Max, you still there?”

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

“That’s perfect. By the way, I changed my name too. And I look different.”

Of course she does. The last time I saw her, we were pimply teens. Who still looks like that in their mid-thirties? Certainly not me.

“What’s your new name?”

“I’ll tell you Thursday. It was great hearing your voice again. Bye for now.”

“Max?” Mr. C.’s voice break through my trance. “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 not after that. “Raincheck?” I suggest.

“Everyone has their one that got away. Kristine is mine. My best friend growing up. My first love. The one I almost married. I should be thrilled to reconnect. Instead, my stomach is churning like a volcano, spewing acid that burns my throat. Why has she come back? And why now?

The next morning, I’m in court for a settlement conference. The Daley Center, Chicago’s main courthouse, is a thirty-one-story steel office building, a far cry from the romanticized image of a Greek temple with marble columns.

After passing through the metal detector and taking an elevator, I walk through courtroom 1903, whose rear door opens to a hallway lined with offices. These are the judges’ private chambers. As I reach for the intercom buzzer, someone tugs at my elbow.

“Max, wait!” wheezes a red-faced Patti Jovik. “Everything’s changed.”

Judges aren’t known for tolerating tardiness, but one look at Patti…. I steer her back into the courtroom. “Is Novak OK?”

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. Patti reported the worsening symptoms, but Dr. Yang refused to order more tests. It got so bad, Novak couldn’t hold a toothbrush and started speaking in gibberish. That’s when Patti rushed him to the emergency room.

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

I’m helping Patti and Novak sue First Illinois Hospital for malpractice. After pouring her a glass of water, I ask what happened.

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

“Oh my god. How bad?”

“Broken neck. He needs expensive surgery. Soon, or he’ll never walk again.”

“I’m so sorry. Will your insurance cover it?”

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 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 Novak’s future. I’ve gotten to know them as more than clients. I helped negotiate Novak’s individual education plan, helped find the best doctors, even babysat a few times. He’s such a sweet kid, but these last few months, you could see the fight draining out of him. It breaks my heart.

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

She nods slowly.

“Good. I have a plan. There’s no time to explain, but do not, under any circumstances, tell anyone in there 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 the hospital’s vice president, a man whose hard face seems type-cast to play a corporate scoundrel. I already know Stephanie, the lawyer for the hospital’s malpractice carrier.

Our of the corner of my eye, I see Patti flinch. Everything about this room is intimidating if your not accustomed to it. The thick leatherbound treatises bulging from bookshelves. Photos of the judge shaking hands with Presidents. The black robe hanging from the door.

“Anything we need to discuss before getting started?” the judge asks, his perfunctory tone dictating that the correct answer is no.

“Yes, Your Honor,” I reply firmly.

“What now, Mr. Grue?”

“I’ve got new evidence that changes everything. 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 sought 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. She says the doctor was frustrated by the insurer’s veto, but the hospital wouldn’t get paid if he ran more tests. When Tracy suggested doing it anyway, he said he’d gotten in trouble before for doing that. 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.”

Having anticipated that attack, I fire back, “Not so. 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 administrator snarls. “Ms. Gerstheimer will go to jail for revealing patients’ confidential medical information.”

“Wrong! Tracy didn’t give me their information, not even their names. She contacted both patients directly, told them the situation, left my contact info. After that, it was up to them 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 know about Novak’s recent injury. You can’t afford to wait until trial; he needs money for surgery. So, let’s talk turkey.” Panic spills from Patti’s eyes.

Fortunately, when I couldn’t reach her for the past week, I suspected something like this might have happened and developed a contingency plan. It’s time to play that trump card.

“To make sure you couldn’t leverage Novak’s tragic injury, I’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, factoring in their profit margin, that means their experts think our case is worth six million. With the new evidence, we all know a plaintiff’s verdict is a sure thing. The only question is how big.”

Patti stares at me, shellshocked. Since I couldn’t reach her, this is the first she’s heard of Bobrow’s offer. A moment ago, she was resigned to accepting a pittance. But now….

“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.

On the way home the following evening, I stop by the cleaner to pick up my best suit. I’ll need it for tomorrow with Kristine. I was tempted to buy a new tie, but with my color sense…. Right. My old standby may be a tad dated, but everyone says the red paisley goes great with this suit.

My North Side apartment has two bedrooms, one-and-a-half baths. I don’t need that much space, 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. That might lead to disaster.

After dinner, I crack open a beer and sprawl out on my comfy Lawson sofa. I’ve toyed with replacing its faded, wine-stained cushions, but they’ve become old friends. What would Kristine think if she saw this worn carpeting and linoleum kitchen? I could afford a swankier place, but…. Nah. Besides, it’s a great neighborhood.

Speaking of Kristine, tomorrow is the big day.

The next morning finds me awake before sunrise. I try to get some more shuteye, pulling the covers over my head when dawn creeps in, but it’s no use. I’m obsessed with one thought. What does Kristine want?

When I finally get up, it takes longer than usual to get ready. I keep re-combing my hair, and it takes half-a-dozen attempts to get the tie knot just right.

Upon reaching the skyscraper where I work, I dash into an elevator just in time, only to watch as a little boy pushes all the buttons for one floor after another. If he were my child, I’d make this a teaching moment, explaining that he should consider how his actions might inconvenience others. But this kid’s parents….

I think I’d be a good father, but that’s not in the cards for me. I had my chance and blew it. Then I got diagnosed. After that, what woman would want someone with my condition to raise her children?

An image pops into my head, a family portrait I’ve imagined countless times. Kristine in a yellow sundress. Me in a navy polo shirt. And between us, smiling shyly, a brown-haired little girl with Kristine’s emerald eyes and my dimples. A lump forms in my throat. What I want most is forever beyond my grasp. And I’m about to get a close-up look at what I’ve missed out on.

Chapter 2

My office is buried in dreary shade, courtesy of a neighboring building that blots out the view. Sipping stale coffee at my desk, I will the clock to move faster. Any time now….

Suddenly, the phone intercom squawks. “Mr. Grue!” blurts a breathless receptionist. “It’s Crystal—I mean, she said to say Kristine, but—Anyhow, she’s here for you!”

On cue, a sliver of sunlight squirms through the pigeon-streaked window.

I set off for the lobby wondering why the receptionist sounded flustered. Normally oblivious to the décor, today I notice everything. The speckled slate floor and sleek Italian sofas. The magnificent view of the Chicago River winding alongside Wacker Drive. The etched glass partition demarcating the reception area. For once, these trappings hearten me.

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. Kristine, however, is nowhere in sight.

“I knew it!” gloats a voice only I can hear. It’s Lance, the gang leader of my invisible tormentors. “Revenge. That’s why she came back. They’re all here to watch her humiliate you.”

“You’ll finally get what’s coming to you,” crows one of Lance’s nameless minions, another voice in my head.

“Coward,” accuses a second. “Selfish bastard,” shrieks a third.

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

Kristine and I had been best friends since pre-k. After junior prom, we took it to the next level: dating, falling in love. Everything was great until late senior year when I got her pregnant. She wanted to get married and start a family, but I panicked. Too young for a lifetime commitment; had my heart set on Yale while she was headed to Stanford; yada, yada, yada.

The timing could not have been worse. Heartbroken and scared to death, Kristine failed her exit exams. Lost her spot at Stanford, shattering her dream of becoming a doctor. Still, she held off on terminating the pregnancy, partly clinging to a ray of hope that I’d man up, partly because her father would have disowned her. Then I did something that will haunt me until I die.

I never saw Kristine 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 said she had miscarried. I was relieved at the time, but later…. Again, that phantom family portrait shimmers before my eyes.

“Everyone’s here to laugh at you. They’ll laugh at the freak show.”

My body goes rigid. Is this all a cruel prank? I glare at the receptionist, but she smiles reassuringly. “She’s just freshening up.”

Using the window as a mirror, I straighten my tie for the umpteenth time. Suddenly, the chatter crests, and a woman appears in the arched entryway. With a dewy complexion and beachy copper locks, she’s stunning. Wait a second. 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 fills my chest. I’m so happy for her, but there’s a pang of regret, too. What a fool I was. Moving in slow motion, I extend a shaky hand.

“I’d prefer a hug,” she says. “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….

And yet, this grown woman bears little resemblance to my teen sweetheart—so little that I never recognized her in the movies. Kristine Winslow was an unabashed nerd, a straight-A student who favored flat shoes, thick-rimmed cat-eye glasses, and plaid pleated skirts. She had practical, short brown hair, nothing like Crystal’s tousled ginger waves that trail halfway down her back and must take forever to maintain. Crystal usually looks like she just stepped out of the latest issue of Vogue, although today she’s just wearing a green cashmere sweater.

A few things haven’t changed, like those sparkling, deep-set eyes. But the cute little mole above her lip is gone along with the endearing gap between her front teeth. And she’s so thin. Even the shape of her face—it’s oval now instead of round. 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 anymore, I finally got orthodontia and had that mole removed. Lasik surgery, plus dieting and exercise, of course, and dyed my hair.” When I don’t respond immediately, her forehead crinkles. “You don’t like it?”

“You’ve always looked amazing. Then and now.”

Brightening, she suggests we retire to my office. On the way, she gestures to a jagged, checkmark-shaped discoloration on my left cheek. “That wasn’t there before. It adds character. How’d you get it?”

“The car accident.” Rounding a bend in the corridor, I reach for a door. “It’s this one.”

As we enter my cramped office, I cringe at the musty reminder that a large man labors long hours in this stuffy space. Surprisingly, Crystal breathes in deeply, briefly closing her eyes.

She knew me so intimately. Every inflection, every mannerism, even my scent. When Lance mocks me, will she notice and figure it out? Suddenly, the hot air blasting from the heater is suffocating. I loosen my tie, then undo the top button on my shirt.

Once we’re seated on opposite sides of a laminated oak desk, an awkward pause hulks over us. I shift my weight, trying to get comfortable, while she fusses with her skirt. “Why’d you change your name?” she 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.” My heart sinks. I can’t tell her the real reason. “What’s your excuse? You changed both names.”

“Couldn’t ditch my frigging father’s surname fast enough. Wells was mom’s maiden name, of course. And Crystal’s a better stage name.”

She had a rocky relationship with her parents, especially her strict, controlling father. I was about to ask how they’re doing, but she’s already cursed him twice. Another uncomfortable silence descends until I blurt out, “I’m so sorry about everything. There’s no excuse for what I did. I—”

She inhales sharply. “Apology accepted. We both did things we’re not proud of. But please, can we save the heavy stuff for another time?”

There’s yet another discomfiting pause until she says, “So, how’s life treating you?”

“Not bad.”

“Have you been with this firm the whole time?”
I shake my head. “Bounced around a bit. Kept finding greener pastures.”

“I’m not surprised. You’re so brilliant, I’m sure 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. 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 family photos but finding only colorless diplomas. “Your degree is from Westminster? What happened to Yale?”

“I transferred. Long story.” I hate how this is going. We used to tell each other everything. Now? One deflection after another, all to keep my mental health secret.

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

Leaning forward, she regales me with Hollywood insider tales. Antics behind the scenes of blockbusters. Wardrobe mishaps. What it’s like to work with Bradley Cooper. This is the girl I remember. The animation, the perfectly timed punch lines, the infectious laugh. When her voice drops conspiratorially as she confides that her success owes much to her husband’s connections, a sense of tranquility envelops me. It’s like 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 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. I know what that feels like. The emptiness is unbearable.

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

“I’m not in the best place, but that began before David passed.” She sits up straighter. “I’m glad you brought him up, though. I want to sue the bastards responsible for his death, especially TyrThor Arms. Will you be my lawyer?”

Oh my god! TyrThor made the gun that killed my parents. Ten years ago, during a convenience store robbery. I’m finally getting a chance to bring TyrThor to justice and make amends to Kristine? It’s like winning the lottery.

My lips part to say yes, but instead I shudder violently. Spearheading a landmark case for a celebrity client? That kind of attention is the last thing I want.

“Why me? Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate your confidence. It’s just, I’ve never sued over gun violence.”

Crystal nods. “It’s so you to be up-front about that, but you’re the smartest person I’ve ever known. That’s what I need, and I trust you.”

She trusts me? I could float away. If I help her get justice, it would make things right between us. And, a way to avoid the publicity just occurred to me.

“Before we can discuss this further, I need to run a conflict-of-interests check. Do you know the defendants’ names?”

“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.”

“Clear again.”

“And the manufacturer. TyrThor Arms.”

This time when I click “Enter,” a red flag flashes onto my screen. No! I dissolve into my chair, staring at the monitor as the air rushes out of me.

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

Ashamed of disappointing Crystal yet again, I look up slowly, just in time to see her face fall. “So you won’t help me?” The pain in her voice echoes back decades.

“Could we leave TyrThor out of it?”

Looking down, she shakes her head. “They’re the most important.”

“Then I can’t. Not without leaving my firm.”

“Oh. I couldn’t ask you to—Wait! Didn’t you did say you bounce around a lot anyway?”

“But I’m happy here. I—I’d need to think about it.”

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

Her eyes close halfway. “I understand. Take as long as you need.”

A few minutes later, we hug goodbye. “It was really great seeing you again,” she says. “Whatever you decide.”

Sometime later—I couldn’t say how long—I’m still staring into space, suspended in time, when colleagues barge in. “How do you know Crystal Wells?” Darla asks. “What’d she want?” Ryan demands. Afterward, I have a vague recollection of being razzed about rekindling or “getting some rebound action,” but it’s all a blur.

Kristine Winslow is Crystal Wells. The movie star. And she wants me to be her lawyer. Never in my wildest dreams….

Eventually, I head out for some fresh air. As I pass my secretary’s cubicle, she flags me down. “Max, Andrew Hinckley is holding on line one.”

“Andrew? Did he say what he wants?”

She gives me a funny look. “Your deadline. Novak’s case.”

Oh, right. My pulse quickens. I’m about to find out if our ultimatum worked.

Chapter 3

“Thanks for coming,” Andrew says, clapping my back as if we’re 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 even, masking my apprehension as he ushers me into a conference room dominated by a massive, boat-shaped table. A tall woman stands beside it with her back to us. She turns as we enter. 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.

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

“I’m good.” Outnumbered and feeling caged, my eyes dart back and forth between them. Behind Elena hangs an ancient portrait of a stern man scowling down in godly judgment. Their founder, Zacharias Berg. Are his eyes following me?

Andrew 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?”

Elena arches an eyebrow. “Your future.”

Shit! They must’ve found out. They’re about to blackmail me over my diagnosis. A look passes between them. They’re enjoying this, two lions toying with their prey. Elena gestures for Andrew to break the news.

From experience, I know I’m probably overreacting. Paranoid thoughts are another symptom of my mental illness. Many who live with this condition don’t realize that their mind is playing tricks when they think they hear people whispering about them or feel unreasonably suspicious. I’m in the lucky half that understands what’s going on, so I can manage it better. Well, somewhat better.

“We’ve had two cases against each other,” Andrew says. “You kicked my butt both times.” He raises his glass in my direction. “To the victor. Cheers.”

What’s going on? This makes no sense.

“Let’s cut to the chase,” Elena says. “The way Andrew tells it, you’re the reincarnation of Perry Mason. I’ve always preached, ‘If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.’ We’d like to add you to the Berg & Spank team.”

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

“There’s no law against working both sides. We’d like you to start a new department.”

And then they explain. Since Berg & Spank represents major corporations, they’ve cultivated relationships with executives who sometimes need their own lawyer if they or a family member are injured. Those executives often turn to Berg, but since it doesn’t have any plaintiff’s lawyers, it’s forced to refer them elsewhere. They want me to change that.

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

“With all that publicity,” Elena adds, “you’ll start getting referrals from outside our firm. Your practice will blow up.”

On and on they go about how I’ll be a full equity partner; how I’ll double my income; 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 want to make me famous.

With much to think about, I head home early. After some initial awkwardness, the reunion went better than expected. I wouldn’t mind rebuilding the friendship that defined me for years, and I’d love to make amends by helping Crystal—as long as it doesn’t expose me to too much scrutiny.

Two beers later, my best friend answers my text. She’s stuck in negotiations but agrees to meet afterward for a late dinner. That leaves time for some internet research, something I need to do anyway. There’s no way I’d quit my job, let alone put myself in the media’s crosshairs, without knowing what I’m getting into.

Settling into a black leather, ergonomic, swivel chair, I boot up my PC. The monitor sits atop an antique, solid teak desk. My father’s desk. While the computer whirs to life, I glance fondly at two plastic dinosaurs beside the printer. A red T-Rex and a brown Triceratops. Favorite toys from my youth. Then I google the shooting.

Bates unleashed his attack on a frigid winter afternoon three months ago, striking at a downtown mall in Chicago’s Magnificent Mile. Twenty people died. When asked why he did it, 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. It looks tiny, no bigger than my hand, yet this pocket-sized cannon packs the firepower of a rifle. Ever since its debut in 2011, it’s been the best-selling gun 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.

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. The gun that killed David and my parents. A celebrity like Crystal suing a goliath like TyrThor, and a mass shooting to boot? It’ll be a media circus. That’s the last thing I need.

On the other hand, I’ll never get another chance to make amends. What I desperately need is a way to handle this case without drawing attention to myself. I have a plan….

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 give the maître de my name before taking a seat in the lobby. While I’m checking my phone, rain suddenly lashes the window.

A few minutes later, my friend Robin sprints from her car to the entrance, holding a legal pad over her head to fend off the downpour. “Goddamn storm came out of nowhere,” she mutters, wiping her face with a cloth napkin that had been cradling silverware.

“Don’t worry,” I tease. “The drowned rat hairstyle works for you.”

That draws a chuckle. “You’re one to talk, Shaggy.”

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. These days she runs her own law firm.

We met on orientation day at the big firm where both of us started our careers. We hit it off and she became my rock, the closest thing I have to family. She’s the only friend I’ve told about my voices and hospitalizations. I wouldn’t have survived the last one without her.

“Seriously, though,” I ask, “should you be running like that?” She recently learned she’s ten weeks pregnant. It’s wonderful news; they’ve been trying forever.

“My doctor said exercise is fine. But thank you for your concern.”

“Everything good on the sonogram?”

“All clear, thank god.” Her eyes shine. “And I heard the heartbeat for the first time. It’s the most beautiful sound ever.”

“That’s amazing. I’m so happy for you. Have you started redecorating your guest room yet?” The last time we spoke, she was super excited about that project.

After she describes how it’s going, I get down to business. “Let’s start with the easy one,” I say, before telling her about my unsolicited job offer from Berg & Spank.

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

“You think?”

Robin’s arm freezes midair. “You don’t?”

“There’s pros and cons.”

“Oh?” She sounds disappointed. “What are you thinking?”

“You can go first if you want.”

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

“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.

“Where were we?” Robin asks.

“Why you think I should accept.”

“Oh, right. Talent-wise you’re Michael Jordan, but you’re not the best at drumming up new clients. Meanwhile, Berg & Spank has a ready-made pipeline of cases. What they need is a great lawyer to win them. It’s a perfect match. 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 sifts through my garbage and 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.

Robin rests her hand gently on my arm. “You always do this to yourself. Always find some reason to miss out on great opportunities. You deserve this one.”

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

Robin sips thoughtfully. “You can’t go wrong either way,” she finally says, “so don’t stress. Just promise me you’ll think about it?”

I nod absently. “There’s something even bigger. You remember Kristine Winslow? I’ve told you about her.”

For a moment, that elicits a blank look. Suddenly, Robin’s face goes taut.

“She called out of the blue. First time in twenty years. You’ll never believe this….”

Chapter 4

After I explain about Crystal Wells, Robin excuses herself to the restroom, remaining there much longer than usual. I hope the pregnancy isn’t making her queasy. While she’s away, our entrees arrive, and I slice into my steak just a sliver to make sure it’s not overcooked. When blood-red juice dribbles onto the plate, my mouth waters.

“You’ve had quite the day,” Robin chirps upon returning. “Not one but two life-changing offers.”

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

Robin frowns. “Actually, no.”

“Huh?”

“First, let me ask something. Can you combine this with the Berg opportunity? 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?”

“Didn’t you just say you’re worried about Berg’s publicity making you a target? This is Berg’s deal on steroids. A celebrity suing the leading gunmaker will attract national media. And taking on the NRA? Some of those fanatics really might dox you.”

“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.”

“I could start my own shop. Like you.”

“With just Crystal’s case? No other portable 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.”

“That’s not enough. 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 looks at me cockeyed. “If you know that, why are we having this conversation?”

The moment has arrived. Everything hinges on this next exchange. I clear my throat.

“There’s another way. What if we team up? 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 her lips. “Honestly, I have concerns.”

I release the breath I was holding. Crap. She’s always been in my corner. I guess she doesn’t realize how important this is to me. I can’t do it alone.

“What concerns?”

“For starters, the practical issue. Would we have a slam dunk against the mentally ill shooter? Sure, but there’s no money in that.”

“Don’t forget Guns’R’Us and TyrThor.”

“OK, let’s talk about TyrThor. Under what legal theory can we hold a manufacturer liable when a criminal kills people with their gun?”

“I’m still researching, but how about a defective design claim?”

If an electric saw lacks a safety guard to protect your fingers, you can sue the manufacturer for not taking reasonable precautions in designing it. The same principle should apply to gunmakers, whose designs are unsafe in so many ways. For example, could they prevent pistols like The Boss from firing more than twenty shots a minute? Piece of cake. Instead, they do the opposite, offering rapid-fire upgrades.

“There’s also strict liability for ultrahazardous activities,” I add.

Some things are inherently so dangerous, they pose a grave risk even if you take every precaution. Spraying poisonous pesticides. Disposing of radioactive waste. The one who engages in an ultrahazardous activity must pay for all injuries, even if they weren’t negligent. It sure feels like making guns belongs in this category. Few things are deadlier than a loaded gun.

Robin lets out an exasperated huff. “Don’t you think other plaintiffs have tried those theories?”

“Presumably.”

“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 a quick call from the ladies’ room,” Robin adds, barging ahead with her unexpected attack. “Would it surprise you to learn that the best plaintiffs’ shop in town 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 alittle. Our side still loses ninety percent. Sorry, count me out.”

“Why do you suppose Robin called that other lawyer behind your back?”

“She doesn’t trust your judgment.”

“She’s abandoning you.”

This time, I can’t stop my shoulders from slumping, and the hurt leaks into my tone. “I said I haven’t decided yet.”

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

“But I can’t do it without you. Like you said, if I’m the first chair with all that media interest….” I reestablish eye contact, willing her to understand. “Everyone could find out.”

“Oh, sweetie.” She clasps my hand. “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 answer 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 with trustworthy friends. Taming that suspicion is a daily challenge.

This conversation has taken a bizarre turn. Every objection Robin raised, I’d planned to point out the same thing. But I thought she’d encourage me, then I’d bring up these drawbacks. When she unexpectedly shared my concerns, I reversed gears and argued with her.

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

“Max, are you OK? You’re awfully quiet all of a sudden.”

“Just thinking. I appreciate your advice. Sorry if I was a bit stubborn.”

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

I can’t help grinning back; she knows me so well. After that, we’re stuck on mute while I pick at my steak. The playoff game has ended, amplifying the silence.

Finally Robin speaks. “Unless you find something that makes this case different, I’m out. If you come up with something….” She sighs. “Then we’ll have to talk about other things. OK?”
 
The next morning, I dive into law books. Figuratively, not literally; nowadays they’re online. Every few minutes, I glance nervously at my closed door. Since I’m still at Groves & Friedlander, I’m not supposed to work on Crystal’s case, but….

TyrThor is the deep pocket. Despite Robin’s pessimism, there must be some way to hold them accountable for marketing assault weapons to civilians. Let’s see how other plaintiffs have fared…. There are many old cases, but few after 2005….

“Houston, we have a problem.”

Crap. Robin was right, and now I know why. During the’90s, gun dealers faced a spate of lawsuits. Then the political landscape shifted, and the gun lobby gained sway. In 2005, Congress passed a game-changing new law, the Protection of Lawful Commerce in Arms Act (“PLCAA”), which largely insulates gunmakers from lawsuits over shootings.

If a gun malfunctions—for example, it blows up when you pull the trigger—you can still sue the manufacturer for that. If it works properly, though, and someone shoots you? Too bad, the PLCAA slams the courthouse door in your face. How? By decreeing that the shooter’s illegal act is the “sole cause” of all casualties. Legally, it’s not the gun company’s fault.

I’m staring out the window, deep in thought, when Crystal calls for an update. Keeping my voice down to make sure no one overhears, I break the bad news.

“It doesn’t matter that TyrThor designed the perfect gun for mass shootings?” she challenges.

“No. Except for malfunctions and accidents, the PLCAA put an end to ‘defective design’ and ‘strict liability’ claims against gunmakers. It’s a unique exemption from the laws that apply to every other industry.”

“So that’s it? You’re turning me down?” Anguish drips from every word.

“I’m still researching. The PLCAA has a few exceptions. The main one is called ‘negligent entrustment.’ That means you carelessly gave someone a dangerous item despite knowing they’re unfit to use it. The classic case is loaning your car to someone who’s drunk. Likewise, if a gun store knows someone failed their background check but still sells them a weapon, the store is liable for any ensuing harm.”

Crystal’s tone turns hopeful. “Sounds promising. Keep me posted.”

Resuming my research, I dig deeper into negligent entrustment cases. Before I get far, our managing partner stops by. “What’s up?” I ask, quickly minimizing my browser. If he sees what I’m working on, I’m toast.

“I heard Crystal Wells came to see you.”

“Oh, that. We grew up together. She wants to sue over that mass shooting at the mall, but we have a conflict.” When his bushy unibrow knits, I add, “The lead defendant is TyrThor.”

“Ahh.” He nods sagely. “Too bad. This could’ve been your big break.”

After lunch, Crystal calls again. When I start my update, she interjects. “Wanna come over for dinner? We could talk about it then and catch up more. I could use some cheering up.”

My heart flutters like a teenager who just learned that his crush likes him, too. “I’d love to! What time—Oh, shoot.”

“What?”

“I have another commitment.” I’m dying to see her, but I can’t bail on Mr. C. again.

“OK. I under—”

“Wait a sec. Can I call you right back?”

I dial Mr. C., praying he answers. Without his hearing aid, he doesn’t always notice the phone. “Doing anything this afternoon?” I ask when he picks up.

“Yeah, watching the grass grow. Not canceling again, are ya?”

“The opposite. How’d you like to get together sooner, like right now?”
 
The park is only one block from our apartment building, but iconic Lake Shore Drive stands in between. Since it’s unsafe to cross this six-lane highway, they carved pedestrian tunnels beneath it. My skin crawls while pushing Mr. C’s wheelchair through the dingy concrete passage. Emerging, we continue past softball fields to the picnic area, where we set up his chessboard. I love the challenge of anticipating an opponent’s next move, and he’s an avid player, too.

When I mention my dilemma, he offers his perspective. “You two were best friends, weren’t ya?”

“Our entire childhood.”

“Then take her damn case. Win or lose, you can always find another job with your smarts. What you need is another friend.”

I start to protest, but he cuts me off. “You know what the doctors said: I’ve got two years, tops.” His voice cracks. “And how much do you think you’ll see Robin after she has that baby? Besides, I’ve always felt you two have unfinished business. Maybe not romantically, but to patch things up.” He pauses. “You never talk about it, but I’m not blind. The way that ended left you damaged. Why the hell else would such an eligible bachelor never date?”

Two hours later, after a rare chess loss, I’m en route to Winnetka, the ritzy suburb Crystal calls home. During the scenic drive, I replay the first time we met. I was an only child who usually got anxious around other preschoolers. When I was five, Crystal’s family moved into the house next door. One day, I was on our porch playing with my plastic dinosaurs while she was digging in her sandbox. She waved and invited me to join her. Normally I would have declined, but something about her soothed my nerves. It felt like an invisible bond drew me in, assuring me it was safe. She’s always had that effect on me.

Which is why my current state is so distressing. As I reach the Winnetka exit, my stomach knots with dread. I desperately want to say yes. But despite Mr. C’s faith in me, sacrificing my job for this sure-loser case would be career suicide. I hope Crystal doesn’t take it too hard. I can’t bear to cause her any more pain.