“Tiziani got here early,” Brent says, when I get back upstairs. “I set him up in Conference Room F with coffee and sandwiches for lunch.”

“Aren’t you the perfect host.”

Brent winks. “He’s hot.”

“I thought you were a one-man man.”

He gives me a playful shove and I take off.

Nick Tiziani is the personnel manager at Blake’s, a national food manufacturer. He fired his female assistant because she dressed funny. That’s the truth, and even though it’s a lousy reason to fire someone, it’s lawful. However, he also told her to stop dressing like a man and bought her a subscription toVogue. He says he was trying to help; she says it was sex discrimination. A lot depends on how well he tells his story at this dep.

“Mary!Come sta?” Tiziani says, when he sees me.

“Bene. Grazie, Nick.”

He shakes my hand warmly. A suave guy, Nick always smells better than I do. He’s dressed head to toe in Gucci, which is part of the reason he’s getting sued down to his silk boxers. Clothes are very important to Nick; he’s a big proponent of form over substance. The day his funky assistant came in wearing camouflage pants was the last straw, especially because Blake’s CEO was visiting from headquarters. Nick fired her on the spot. She’s lucky he didn’t kill her.

I review the incident with him and teach him the defense witness mantra: Don’t volunteer, listen to the question, give me time to object. Don’t volunteer, listen to the question, give me time to object. Nick nods pleasantly as I speak, which proves he’s not listening to a word I say.

“Nick, you’re with me on this, right?”

“Sure, Mary. Piece a cake.”

“It’s not that easy. You’ve never been deposed before.”

“How hard can it be?”

“Harder than you think. Everything you say is recorded and is admissible in court. They’ll use it to rough you up on cross, throw your own words back at you.”

“You make it so complicated. It’s business, that’s all. Her lawyer is a businessman. I am a businessman.” He touches a manicured finger to a custom shirt. “I’ll explain it to him, we’ll see eye to eye. Come to terms.”

“Nick. Believe me, this guy is the enemy. He’s not going to see it your way. His job is to see it any waybut your way. Say as little as possible. Remember: Don’t volunteer, listen to the question, give me time to object.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He fidgets in his chair. “Hey, did you hear this one? What’s the difference between a catfish and a lawyer?”

“One is a scum-sucking bottom dweller and the other is a fish.”

“You’re no fun,” he says, pouting.

The deposition is at the offices of Masterson, Moss amp; Dunbar-an away game. Masterson, Moss is another reason the case is dangerous. A hot-shit firm like that would ordinarily never represent a noncorporate plaintiff, but this plaintiff is the daughter of one of its sharky securities partners. As such, she rates one of the fairest-haired boys, Bob Maher. Maher’s on every Young Republicans committee in the tristate area and is more of a sexist than Nick will ever be. But it’s not Maher’s prick that’s in the mousetrap. Not this time, anyway.

Nick and I sit in the reception area at Masterson, which is the oldest law firm in Philadelphia and the largest, at almost three hundred and fifty lawyers. I think of it as the Father firm in the holy trinity because it’s so traditional. Somebody has to wave the flag of old-line Philadelphia, and Masterson has preempted the field. The decor is early men’s club, with bronze sconces and heavy club chairs everywhere. Maps of the city in colonial times adorn its wainscoted walls, wafer-thin oriental carpets blanket its hardwood floors. The place looks like Ralph Lauren heaven. Nick eats it up.

“Classy,” he says.

“Prehistoric,” I reply.

Soon we’re met by Maher himself. A strapping Yale grad, Maher flashes Nick a training-table All-Ivy grin and leads us to a large conference room, which has a glass wall overlooking one of the firm’s corridors. He pours Nick a hot cup of fresh coffee and introduces him to the luscious female court reporter, Ginny, no last name. Ginny tells Nick she loves his tie. Nick tells Ginny he loves her scarf. They both laugh. Everything’s so chummy, I feel like the new neighbor at a swingers party. I decide that Maher’s a fine practitioner of the Seduce-the-Shit-Out-of-’Em approach to deposition taking, and Nick’s too turned on to catch on.

Maher begins the questioning with softballs about Nick’s personnel history. Nick describes one promotion after another with a braggadocio indigenous to Italian men. I let it run and watch the lawyers scuttle back and forth outside the glass wall. Oblivious to the promenade is a tall, dignified lawyer with wavy silver hair. Legs crossed, he sits in a Windsor chair readingThe Wall Street Journal. I recognize this as a typical dominance display by an alpha wolf in a corporate law firm. Berkowitz does it too, with less finesse.

“Mr. Tiziani…may I call you Nick?” Maher asks.

“Just don’t call me late to dinner.”

Maher laughs at this joke, ha-ha-ha, as if he’s never heard it before. I glance up at the silver wolf. He’s looking into the conference room over the top of the wide newspaper. That’s unusual. Why would he watch a dep unless he had a specific interest in it? Then it clicks. He must be the plaintiff’s father.

“Tell me, Nick, what is your current title at Blake’s?”

“I’m Vice President of Personnel. I got the promotion a year ago. A year ago in September. As vice president, I report directly to Chicago. It’s a dotted-line relationship with the CEO, as opposed to a straight line. I’m not sure if you’re familiar with organizational charts, Bob, and I’d be happy to explain-”

I touch Nick’s sleeve gently. “Nick, why don’t we just let Bob ask his questions? It’ll save time.” Don’t volunteer, listen to the question, give me time to object. Don’t volunteer, listen to the question, give me time to object.

“Oh, sure, Mary. No problem,” he replies helpfully. The man hasn’t a clue.

The plaintiff’s father turns a page of theJournal but continues to watch us over its top.

“Thank you, Nick,” says Maher. “I’ll ask you about that later. Now, as Vice President of Personnel, are you familiar with the federal laws prohibiting sex discrimination in the work-place?”

I ignore the plaintiff’s father and lean over. Things are heating up and I want to be in Nick’s line of vision during the questioning. Maybe it’ll remind him that this is a deposition, not group sex.

“Let the record reflect that defense counsel is blocking my view of the witness,” Maher says sharply.

Ginny’s fingers move steadily on the black keys of her machine. Everything we say will be on the record. If you can imagine it in black-and-white type like a script, you can fabricate the reality:

“Pardon me. What did you say, Bob?”

“I said you’re obstructing my view of the witness.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Bob.”

“I can’t see him when you do that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“There’s something about the way you’re sitting.”

“What? I don’t understand.”

“Move away from the witness.”

“How’s this, Bob?” I don’t move.

“Not good enough. More to the right.”

“This is silly, Bob. Let the record reflect my agreement with counsel for plaintiff that the witness can stay for only three hours today. If we spend much more time discussing my posture, we won’t be out of here until seven.”

Maher quiets with a scowl.

Nick remembers that he’s The Witness, not just-call-me-Nick.

And I sit back and meet the gaze of the lawyer outside, who’s plainly glaring at me now over theJournal. The eyes of an outraged father. Even from a distance, they seem to drill into me.

“Nick, did there come a time when you met the plaintiff, Donna Reilly?”