Chapter 1

Just as the cashier bags the last of my groceries, my cell rings. I don’t want to hold up the line, so 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.

I walk outside on 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. 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 paper 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 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 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 do what I think? My left hand darts to my pocket. When my fingers encounter 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 timidly.

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 named Grue and recognized your picture. And Maxwell was your middle name.” 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.”

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

“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. How about 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.”

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

Everyone has their one that got away. Kristine is mine. My closest friend growing up. My first love. The one I almost married.

“Max!” Mr. C. jolts me back to the present. “Is something wrong? 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. “I can come back tomorrow.”

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 hall of justice for civil cases, is a thirty-one-story steel office building—nothing like the marble Greek temples I’d always pictured for courthouses.

I nod to a guard as I pass through the metal detector. After taking an elevator, I walk through courtroom 1903, whose rear door opens to a hallway lined with offices. These are the judges’ private chambers. I reach for the intercom buzzer.

“Max, wait!” 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 into the courtroom. “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. 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 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 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.”

“I’m so sorry. Will your medical 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. Even if it’s less than we wanted.”

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 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.

“Anything we need to discuss before getting started?” the judge asks, his perfunctory tone indicating 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, 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 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. 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 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 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 Patti 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. Now? She’s guaranteed at least $3.6 million.

“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 twenty-four 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.

The following morning, I have to scramble after oversleeping. Driving to work, I’m obsessed with one thought: Thursday can’t get here fast enough. What does Kristine want?

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 sadly, that’s not in the cards for me. I had my chance and blew it. Then I got diagnosed—probably karmic justice for what I did to Kristine. After that, what woman would want someone with my condition to father her children?

An image pops into my head, a family portrait I’ve imagined countless times. Kristine standing on the right in a yellow sundress. Me on the left 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.

As I pass my secretary’s cubicle, 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 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’m good.” Outnumbered and feeling caged, my eyes dart back and forth between them.

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 to discuss?”

“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 lions toying with their prey before pouncing. Elena gestures for Andrew to break the news.

From experience, I know I’m probably overreacting. I’ve been diagnosed with schizophrenia, and one of my symptoms is paranoid thoughts. 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 realizes 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 clinks glasses with Elena, then raises his 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. He’s only ever lost three cases, and two were against you. I’ve always preached, ‘If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.’ We’d like to add you to our 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 many executives, who sometimes need their own lawyer for personal matters, such as suing over medical malpractice or an accident, or litigating a divorce. These executives often turn to Berg & Spank, 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 have a publicist 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 your own referrals from outside our firm. Your caseload should easily keep you and at least two associates busy full-time.”

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 plan to make me famous.

On the way to dinner, I stop at the dry cleaner to pick up my best suit. Need it for tomorrow’s reunion with Kristine. I was tempted to buy a new tie, but with my color sense…. Yeah. My old standby may be a tad dated, but everyone says the red paisley goes great with this suit.

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. These days she runs her own law firm.

We met on orientation day at the big firm where both of us started our careers. Since she was older and so poised, I thought she was a senior associate assigned to mentor me, only to discover she was a fellow rookie. 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 the voices and hospitalizations. I wouldn’t have survived the last one without her.

“Everything good on the sonogram?” I ask after releasing her from a bear hug. She recently learned she’s ten weeks pregnant. It’s wonderful news; they’ve been trying forever.

“All clear, thank god. No abnormalities.” 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 brings me up to speed on those plans, I tell her about my unsolicited job offer.

“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 with Cajun fries.

“Where were we?” Robin asks moments later.

“Why you think I should accept.”

“Oh, right. Talent-wise you’re Michael Jordan, but you’re not the biggest rainmaker. Not that you couldn’t be 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. 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 though 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 sips thoughtfully. “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. 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 having them boast about your accomplishments makes you uncomfortable. 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. “Max, you always do this to yourself. Always find some reason to miss out on great opportunities. You deserve this one.”

Is she referring to leaving Yale and transferring to a little-known college despite being accepted to Oxford (less pressure)? Or law school, when I got into Harvard but chose Ohio State for the lower tuition (in-state resident)? Or the time I had a legit shot at a coveted Supreme Court clerkship, but overslept my interview and never rescheduled (too embarrassed)?

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

I nod absently. “There’s something else. 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,” I add. “We’re meeting tomorrow, first time in twenty years.”

“Are you sure that’s—Did she say why?”

“Nope. But maybe I’ll finally get the chance to make amends.”

Chapter 3

“Revenge,” gloats a voice only I can hear. It’s Lance, the gang 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? 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 cravenly balked. 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 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 said Kristine had miscarried. I was relieved at the time, but later…. Again, that phantom family portrait shimmers before my eyes.

The intercom on my phone squawks, shattering my 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. I’m usually oblivious to the décor, but this time I notice everything. The speckled slate floor and sleek Italian sofas. The stunning view of the Chicago River winding alongside Wacker Drive. The black-and-white portrait of our firm’s founder scowling down with godly judgment. I must admit, these trappings make a splendid impression on visitors. Normally, I couldn’t care less, but today….  

When I reach the reception desk, 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. Is someone setting me up for a cruel prank? I glare at the receptionist, who smiles reassuringly. “She’s freshening up.”

Walking to the window, I use it as a mirror, checking my paisley tie for the umpteenth time to make sure it’s straight. Suddenly, the chatter crests as a woman appears in the arched entryway. With a dewy complexion and beachy copper locks, she’s stunning. 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 fills my chest. I’m so happy for her, so proud of 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, 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 trail halfway down her back and must take forever to maintain. The cute little 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—it’s oval now instead of round.

Kristine Winslow was an unabashed nerd, a straight-A student who favored flat shoes, thick-rimmed cat-eye glasses, and plaid pleated skirts. Crystal Wells usually looks like she just stepped out of the latest issue of Vogue, although today she’s dressed casually in a green cashmere sweater. 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 too, plus dieting and exercise, of course, and dyed my hair.” When I don’t respond immediately, her forehead creases. “You don’t like it?”

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

Brightening, she suggests we go to my office. On the way, she gestures to a jagged, checkmark-shaped discoloration on my left cheek. “That scar wasn’t there before. 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, her eyes closing briefly at the familiar scent.

She knows me so intimately. Every inflection, every mannerism, even my smell. When Lance mocks me, will she notice and figure it out? Suddenly, the air blasting from the heater is suffocating. Loosening my tie, I 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?” I add. “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, but you have to understand what—”

She inhales sharply. “Apology accepted. We both did things we’re not proud of. But please, if it’s OK with you, can we save the heavy stuff for another day?”

“So, how’s life treating you?” she 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.”

“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. 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 family photos but finding only faded diplomas and colorless awards. “Your college degree is from Westminster? What happened to Yale?”

“I transferred. Long story.”

Another deflection. Classmates at Yale found out about Lance—I hadn’t yet learned how to hide my reactions—so I went to England until I got things under control. That way, I’m less likely to run into anyone who knows about my early episodes.

I hate how this is going. Crystal and I used to tell each other everything. I treasured that. 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. 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 several months ago; 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.

It happened to me ten years ago. By the time the caller identified himself as a policeman, my hands were shaking. “It was a convenience store robbery,” he explained. Another customer tried to be a hero, and both my parents were caught in the crossfire. 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.” Sitting up straighter, she refocuses. “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! Have I just won the lottery? TyrThor made the gun that killed my parents. I’m getting a chance to bring them to justice and make amends to Kristine? My lips part to say yes—but instead I shudder violently. Spearheading a landmark case for a celebrity client? This would be Berg’s publicity on steroids. Not to mention, it’s outside my area of expertise.

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

Crystal nods knowingly. “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 for a groundbreaking case. And I trust you.”

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

“Before we can discuss this further,” I say, controlling my voice, “I need to run a conflict-of-interest 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, of course. TyrThor Arms.”

This time when I click “Enter,” a red flag flashes onto my screen. Oh, no! I sink back in my chair, staring at the monitor in disbelief as the air rushes out of me.

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

Ashamed of disappointing Crystal yet again, I look up slowly to gauge her reaction, but she still looks hopeful. “Could you maybe switch firms? You said you’ve bounced around.”

“But I—it’s not that simple. I 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 face falls. “Oh. I—Never mind, I understand. Take as long as you need.”

A few minutes later, she takes her leave. “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 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 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 imagination…. I leave early and head home.
 
By the time I arrive, I can focus again. My North Side apartment has 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 swankier place, but.… Nah.

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. I wouldn’t mind rebuilding the friendship that defined me for years, and I’d love to make amends by helping her—as long as it doesn’t expose me to too much scrutiny, of course.

Two beers later, Robin returns my call. She’s stuck in negotiations but agrees to meet afterward for a late dinner. That leaves 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 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?”