SITTING IN HIS IMMACULATE OFFICE, JARED STARED AT his state-of-the-art telephone. “C’mon, you bastard – ring already.”

“That’s not how it works,” his assistant, Kathleen, said as she walked into the room clutching a series of files. “It doesn’t ring until you look away from it.” Three weeks ago, Kathleen had turned thirty-five, although a face full of freckles and poker-straight hair down to her waist made her look at least five years younger. She had started working at Wayne & Portnoy almost seven years ago, when an aversion to the sight of blood forced her to rethink her career in nursing. For the past four years, she’d worked for Jared. And while Jared’s attention to neatness and organization made him a high-maintenance boss, Kathleen prided herself on being even more compulsive than he was. As the joke around the office went, Kathleen was so aggressively organized, she could alphabetize dust. Some thought her dedication to Jared was an expression of her own love of control, while others thought it was a clear indication of the small crush she had on her boss.

Jared’s office reflected the tastes of his living room at home – comfortably elegant, handsome, and filled with old movie memorabilia. Jared had developed his fascination with pop artifacts while majoring in history and minoring in film. Then, as a graduation gift, his parents bought him an original movie poster for Humphrey Bogart’s The Big Sleep. It was love at first sight. Today, two framed movie posters decorated his office walls: one of the Italian classic The Bicycle Thief and one of the French version of Woody Allen’s Manhattan. On the credenza behind his mahogany desk was an old trophy from his years on the Yale cross-country team. Always the competitor, Jared had been obsessed with running for as long as he could remember. He didn’t care about speed; he wasn’t a sprinter. He was far more concerned with the pacing and planning that were required for long-distance races.

He had won the trophy during his junior year in college, when he was invited to an international race sponsored by the University of Madrid. Of the three hundred American competitors, Jared was the only one who did research on the terrain. After a few well-placed phone calls and a trip to a travel agency, he realized that city planners, in an attempt to bring the Summer Olympics to Spain, had recently torn up a once-smooth section of downtown and replaced it with more authentic and tourist-friendly cobblestone streets. Jared and his teammates trained for months in the rougher-paved sections of New Haven, and the Yale team swept the long-distance events.

Jared’s approach to running was logical, rational, pragmatic – a physical activity he used as a means to hone his cerebral skills. That intellectual challenge was what kept him competing, and that intellectual challenge was what attracted him to the law. By the time he graduated from law school, the racetrack had become the partnership track.

“Can I ask you a question?” Jared said, his eyes still glued to the phone. “When it comes to bringing in new clients, am I not good at it, or is it just plain hard?”

“What did Sara tell you?” Kathleen asked.

“She said it’s hard.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think I’m not good at it.”

“That’s all I need to hear – I refuse to answer.”

Jared looked up. “Why do you always have to do that?”

“Jared, remember what happened last time I disagreed with you? You wanted to know what to buy your mom for her birthday – Sara and I said scented soaps and bubble bath; you said a bouquet of flowers. Then you drove us both completely insane by buying every women’s fashion magazine and spending at least a week trying to prove us wrong. And then, when you were finally convinced that you could even prove something as silly as what to buy someone for their birthday, you still kept pushing until we both converted to your conclusion.”

“I was right, though. Bubble bath was a passing fad. At least for that year.”

“This isn’t…” She stumbled. It wasn’t her place to scold him. After a moment, she added, “When it comes to work, and the law, and an important case, I love watching you get caught up in the research. But when it comes to my very own personal opinions, I don’t want to be on the receiving end of the inquisition.”

“So you agree Sara’s being-”

“Please, Jared, stop critiquing everyone’s advice. Sara’s good at facing hard problems. She knows what she’s doing and she knows you.”

“Okay, so that means you really think-”

“The only thing I really think is that your wife’s a smart woman. And since I’m no dummy myself, I see no reason to get involved. Now can we please move past this and get back to the case?”

“No, you’re right,” Jared said, eyeing the phone one more time.

“What time did he say he’d call?” Kathleen asked.

“Twenty minutes ago. I don’t care if he’s late – I just want to make sure I have the information before Hartley gets here.” Jerry Hartley was Jared’s opposing counsel in a lawsuit accusing Rose Microsystems of sexual discrimination. Rose was one of Jared’s biggest clients, and while Hartley’s case was pretty weak, Jared knew discrimination cases were always dangerous territory.

“So what’s the strategy?” Kathleen asked.

“In this situation, I do everything in my power to make sure the case never goes to trial. Negotiate or die.”

“What if Hartley won’t negotiate?”

“All lawyers negotiate. We just have to find Barrow.”

“He may be your favorite private investigator, but the guy has dropped off the face of the planet,” Kathleen said. “In the last fifteen minutes alone, I called him at the office, called him at home, called his cell phone, beeped him, and faxed him. I’d send out a carrier pigeon, but I need a destination first.” Kathleen opened the file folder that she was holding. “Maybe we should contact a different private eye. On my list alone, I have fourteen other detectives, six moonlighting cops, and three lowlife informants. All of them are up to the task.”

“Barrow’s already put in a week’s worth of work. Trust me, I know him – he’ll come through.”

Before Kathleen could respond, Jared’s phone rang.

“Jared Lynch,” he answered. “Yeah. No. Bring him up.” He hung up the phone and ran his hand through his neatly trimmed hair. “Ready or not, here comes Hartley.”

“And you don’t have jack,” Kathleen added.

“And I don’t have jack.”

As she headed next door to 100 Centre Street, Sara struggled to match Guff’s breakneck pace. Dodging through the stream of lawyers who regularly crisscrossed between the two buildings, Guff explained, “Not only is this where most of the courtrooms are, this is also the home of ECAB.”

“E-CAB?” Sara asked.

“Don’t worry, you’ll see.” Guff walked in the front entrance of the building. Once past security, they headed straight for the elevators. The elevator doors were about to close when someone jammed an arm between them. The doors opened wide and a tall man with pepper-gray hair and a military-style crew cut gave Sara a cursory glance and stepped inside.

“Good to see you, Victor,” Guff said.

“Mmm,” Victor said coldly. With a freshly pressed dark-blue suit and a perfectly knotted red-and-navy Hermès tie, Victor cut an imposing figure.

Hoping to break the tension, Guff tried again. “Victor, I want you to meet Sara Tate. Sara – this is Victor Stockwell.” Sara and Victor nodded to each other. “Sara just started with us. I’m taking her to ECAB to show her the ropes.”

“Better show them quick,” Victor said. “As of now, they’re letting sixty people go.”

“Sixty?” Sara asked as the elevator doors opened on the second floor.

Sara and Guff followed Victor out of the elevator and into the middle of the hallway. “Where’d you get that number?” Guff asked.