To make matters worse, there’s a cherub posing as plaintiff’s counsel. He can’t be more than a year out of law school, and his face is as tender and soft as a newborn’s. His hair, a wispy strawberry blond, brings out the rosy hue of his cheeks. His briefcase is spanking new; his bow tie looks clipped on. My job is to ignore all this cutehood and yank out his nuts with the roots intact.

“Young man,” interrupts Einstein, “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”

“Oh, jeez. I’m sorry, Your Honor.” He blushes charmingly. “I’m new at this, I probably forgot to say it. My name is Henry Hart. Henry Hart, Junior.”

“Is the plaintiff your father, Henry?” asks Einstein.

“Yes. They call me Hank. I just got my mother to stop calling me Little Hank, if you can believe that. I have to remind her that I’m twenty-four now.” He smiles, utterly without guile.

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Harbison’s did this to the child’sfather? And I have to justify it?

“Twenty-four, my, my.” Einstein turns to his law clerk and chuckles. “Was I ever twenty-four, Neil?”

Neil doesn’t miss a beat. “Come on, Judge. You’re not that old.”

“No? I remember the big one. World War II. I was a navigator in the Eastern Theater. Flying B-24’s out of Italy.”

“The flying boxcars!” says Hank.

Einstein looks delighted. “How do you know about the flying boxcars?”

“My father flew a B-29 out of England.”

“Well, I’m impressed. I look forward to meeting him, even under these circumstances.” Einstein’s gaze lingers warmly on Hank’s face. “Now, is this your first pretrial conference, Hank?”

“Yes, sir.”

Einstein touches Hank’s sleeve lightly. “Well, son, it’s nothing to be afraid of. All I want to do is to hear both of you out. Maybe see if we can settle this matter.”

“Right, sir.”

“Go ahead and outline the facts for me. You needn’t rush.”

“Okay, Your Honor. Thanks.” Hank glances down at his notes. “The facts in this case are simple. My father worked at Harbison’s for thirty-two years, as long as I can remember. He’s an accountant. He started out in Harbison’s bookkeeping department.” Hank rechecks his notes. “He got promotion after promotion and a salary increase each time. He entered management in 1982. He was promoted to chief financial officer in 1988, reporting directly to the chief executive officer, Franklin Stapleton. But as soon as he turned sixty-five, Your Honor, Mr. Stapleton told him he had to retire. In clear violation of the Age Discrimination in Employment Act.” Hank glares at me accusingly.

I scribble on my legal pad to avoid his stare. I write:I hate my job. I’m moving to New Jersey to grow tomatoes in the sun.

“Go on, Hank,” says Einstein.

“Of course, my father refused. He was at the peak of his skill and experience, and he needed the income besides. So, in retaliation, Harbison’s demoted him. They stripped him of his title, his office, and his pride, Your Honor. They busted him down to office manager of their store in the King of Prussia mall. So, after serving Harbison’s for thirty years, after reporting directly to the chief executive officer, they had him peddling eye bolts, Your Honor. In the mall.” His boyish chest heaves up and down with outrage.

The chambers are silent. I write:The beach would be nice. I could look for dimes in the sand with a metal detector.

“Well, Henry, I was about to give you a lecture on the relative wisdom of representing relatives,” Einstein says with a smile, “but your dad has found a very fine lawyer in you.”

“Thank you, sir.” Hank blushes again.

The judge frowns at me over the rimless edge of his half-glasses. “Ms. DiNunzio, you represent Harbison’s in this matter?”

I nod yes. I feel like the devil in disguise.

“That’s quite a story I just heard. I’m sure the jury will be as impressed with it as I am.”

I clear my throat as if I know what I’m going to say, but I have no idea. “Your Honor, I just got this case today. We’re new counsel.”

Einstein frowns again. This frown says, You are making excuses, and that is reprehensible.

What’s a girl to do? I parrot back what I read in the file on the way over. “As you know, Your Honor, there are two sides to every story. Harbison’s denies that it made such statements to plaintiff and that it demoted plaintiff on account of his age. Harbison’s position is that it demoted plaintiff because his management style was abrasive and, in particular, he was verbally abusive to company employees.”

“That’s a he and you know it!” Hank shouts, and leaps to his feet.

An appalled Einstein clamps a firm hand on Hank’s arm. “Sit down.”

Hank eases back into his chair. “I’m sorry, Your Honor.”

Einstein snatches off his reading glasses and tosses them onto the file in front of him. The judge plays by the rules, which don’t provide for name-calling in chambers. He can barely look up, he’s so offended. “It’s notme you owe the apology to, young man,” he says finally.

“That’s all right, Your Honor,” I break in. “I’d be upset too, if it were my father.” I mean this sincerely, but it sounds condescending. Unwittingly, I’ve exploited the only weakness in Hank’s case-that he is his father’s son.

The point, however inadvertent, is not lost on Einstein. The tables turn that fast. The judge replaces his glasses and, without looking at Hank, asks coldly, “Henry, is your father interested in settling this matter?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Ms. DiNunzio, is Harbison’s interested in settling this matter?”

“No, Your Honor.”

Einstein snaps open his black Month-at-a-Glance and thumbs rapidly through the pages. “The deadline for discovery is two months from today. You go to trial July thirteenth. I’ll send you both my Scheduling Order. Exchange exhibits and expert reports in a timely manner. I do not expect to hear from either of you regarding extensions of time. That’s it, counsel.”

We leave Einstein’s chambers. Hank flees ahead of me to the elevator bank. As he forces his way into an elevator, I see that he’s in tears.

“Hank, wait!” I call out, running to the elevator. But the stainless steel doors close as I reach it, and I’m left staring at the ribbon of black crepe between them. I press theDOWN button.

I hear the voice. It sounds harsher now, less like Mike.What goes around comes around. You made an angel weep, now you’re getting it back. A phone call greets you at the door. An anonymous note shows up in your mail. And a dark car is tracking your every move.

Pong! The elevator bell rings out, silencing the voice.

The doors rattle open. The only person in the elevator is a steroid freak in a muscle shirt and mirrored sunglasses. Acne dots his shoulders and his hips jut forward suggestively as he leans against the side of the elevator. “Come on in, honey,” he drawls. “The water’s fine.”

“Uh, no. I’m going up.”

“Maybe next time, sugar.”

As soon as the doors close, I punch theDOWN button again. I slip thankfully into the next elevator, packed with honest citizens wearing yellowJUROR buttons. I grab a cab back to the office and spend most of the ride as I did before, looking out the windows, peering anxiously at every dark sedan on Market Street. When I get back to the office, Brent’s desk is empty. He has his opera lesson tonight; he says there’s more to life than shorthand.

I go into my office to empty my briefcase.

There, sitting at my desk, bent over my papers, is Ned Waters.