"Thanks." Nat gave up on the mustache. "Did he say anything when he left? I thought I saw him speak to you on the way out."

"Don't worry about it. You love your course, and it shows."

It's my passion, which I suck at. Rather, at which I suck. "Did McConnell say that? Am I fired?"

"All he said was that he found the class 'unusual.'" Angus made quote marks in the air. "Don't sweat it. Of course you're not fired."

"Easy for you to say. You have tenure. I have nine students."

"How do you do in your other classes?"

"I fill the room when the courses are mandatory. And they're 1Ls, so they're too terrified not to listen."

"You know what your problem is? You're not getting to the right students. You need marketing."

"Marketing, of justice?" Nat recoiled. "They're law students. They should be interested in justice."

"No, they're interested in law, and there's a difference. Isn't that your point?" Angus looked down at her, smiling. "For example, how many of your students want to practice law?"

"I assume all of them."

"I bet you're wrong. In my non-clinic classes, like this one"-Angus gestured around the noisy hall-"many of the students are going into business. They just want the law degree."

"Really?"

"Absolutely. Didn't you ever ask them? Talk to them about their future? Their plans? What they want out of life?"

"No." Nat reddened. She had office hours but no one came in, and she communicated with her students mostly by email. She probably kept too much to herself; that's what her father always said. She felt guilty that she didn't network, especially now that it had become a verb.

"You need to reach the students who want to be trial lawyers. Students who feel justice at gut level, like the students in my clinic. They'd love your seminar." Angus nodded. "Tell you what, I'll spread the word, and maybe you can stop by sometime and promote yourself?'

Yuck. Nat shuddered.

"Anyway, can I ask you a favor? I need your expertise."

"My expertise is legal history. Who are you suing? Julius Caesar?"

"You're funny."

You're high. Two male students walking in stared at Nat's mustache.

"You know how the clinic works. We give the students hands-on experience outside the classroom, through externship programs. One is at a local prison in Chester County. I'd like you to lecture there, with me."

"At a prison?"

It's safe. Minimum security. Inmates who take my class have to be selected, and most of em are only in for DUIs or pot possession."

Bingo. "What would I lecture on?"

"Tell 'em exactly what you told your class today. It was a great class." Angus sounded genuinely enthusiastic. "Tell 'em that true justice is tempered with mercy. That the Duke was wrong to bring Shylock to his knees. That law and justice are not always the same thing."

"But Shakespeare? To prisoners?"

"'Hath not a Jew eyes?'" Angus knit his furry blond brows, and his tone stiffened. "Maybe prisoners can relate to Shakespeare better than Ivy Leaguers can. Nobody knows the difference between law and justice better than prison inmates." He checked the clock. "I should get started. So, you free tomorrow morning?"

"It's tomorrow you're talking about?"

"One of my students got sick, and I need to fill that spot. I'd really love it if you came along. Please?" Angus slapped his hands together in mock prayer, and heads turned, one by one.

"I don't know." Nat tried to think of a way to say no. She wasn't teaching tomorrow and she couldn't lie. Faculty schedules were online.

"Please, Professor Natalie? I'm begging you." Suddenly Angus dropped to one knee and raised his hands in supplication. His students giggled and pointed, the whole room beginning to take notice, and Nat laughed, disarmed. It was fun and embarrassing, both at once.

"Okay, yes. Stop."

"Cool! Pick you up at nine." Angus popped up with a broad grin, and the students clapped and hooted with approval, which he seemed to absorb and reflect like the sun itself, beaming down at her. He soaked in the attention, and Nat could see that there were no failure spotlights in the life of Angus Holt.

She turned and fled.

Nat shook off the cold night air, set the Whole Foods bag down on the mahogany console, and slipped out of her gloves and toggle coat. The big house radiated light and warmth, its elaborate crystal chandelier in megawatt blaze and probably the gas fireplace fake-burning, too. Flowered wallpaper shed never seen before covered the entrance hall, so fresh she could almost smell the paste. The Courtney Road house was her parents' most recent McMansion, and she had stopped counting at twelve. Greco Construction had custom-built all of them, starting with their first twin in Ocean City, N.J. As family fortunes increased, they'd sold and built bigger each time, and there was always a For Sale sign planted on the front lawns, permanent as an oak tree. Nat grew up thinking that their family name was Builders Own Home!

She hung up her coat in the hall closet, the hinges of its louvered doors still stiff, and she knew that even the tiny defect would not escape her father's punch list. The aroma of roasting filet mignon and baked potatoes wafted from the kitchen, mingling with a clove-and-orange room fragrance, her mother's signature Open-House spray. Tony Bennett sang in the background but was drowned out by boisterous laughter and a raucous argument; her boyfriend, father, and three brothers armchair-quarterbacking the Eagles. In the spring, they’d armchair-quarterback the Sixers, and in summer, they'd armchair-quarterback the Phillies. You could say they had a passion. Not for sports. For armchair-quarterbacking.

"No way!" came a voice from the great room. "You can't run a team that way, with a player thinking he runs the show. Coach runs the show. Management runs the show, calls the shots. Owner runs the show. Not a dumbass wide receiver."

Dad. Big John Greco, enunciating the standard management-rights line, not at all influenced by the fact that he ran a successful construction business and a family obsessed with football.

"Aw, come on, Dad! They never shoulda let him go! He was the best receiver in the league. They let too many good players get away. Started a long time ago, with Corey Simon and Ike!"

John Greco, Jr., still known as Junior. Junior was Operations Manager at Greco Construction and had been an All-American quarterback at Villanova, like Dad. He'd just missed the NFL draft, also like Dad, and was heir to the CEO throne, to be vacated when Dad retired, which was never.

Nat was just about to join them when Jelly, their huge Maine coon cat, ambled across the Oriental like a moving ottoman. He stopped and stretched, extending his front legs with their mop feet, then leaned forward sleepily and extended his back legs. Nat would never understand how he slept with this noise level. It was survival of the fittest chez Greco, even for the pets.

"Get over it! It was years ago now! They lost who they could afford to lose."

Tom Greco. Tom was the second son and had been an offensive lineman at Villanova until an ACL tear ended his football career. He'd graduated with a degree in accounting and was now the company CFO, which they said stood for Chief Fuck-Off. The joke was that nobody worked harder. In the world.

"Hey, Jellybelly." Nat bent down and scratched the cat, which shed named for the Jellicle cats in the Eliot poem. Gray wisps sprouted from his ears, his coat was dense and striped, and only his funky teeth gave away his age, which was sixteen. He had been her Christmas kitten, the perfect gift for a bookworm who loved to curl up with a new Nancy Drew, a waxed sleeve of Ritz crackers, and a glass of cold milk. From early on, she preferred reading to sports and had ended up warming the Greco bench. Not that she minded. There were worse things than being The Smart One.