He finds my sentencesTERRIBLE and the central argumentINCONSISTENT. Everywhere else he has scribbledCASE CITATION! At the risk of sounding arrogant, I’ll tell you there’s nothing wrong with this brief. Jameson’s going to make me rewrite it just because he can, even though it’ll cost Noone as much as a compact car. And I’ll do it because I need Jameson’s vote.

I flick on the computer and it buzzes to life. I log on to Lexis, a legal research program, and type in a search request for the cases I need. It finds no cases. I reformulate the search request, but still no cases. I change it again and again and finally start to pick up cases from a district court in Arizona. That’s what legal research is like-you dig and dig until you strike a line of cases, like a wiggly vein of precious minerals. Then you strip-mine as if it were the mother lode. I’m cheered by my unaccustomed good fortune when someone knocks on the glass window of the door.

It’s Brent, carrying a covered salad and a diet Coke. I unlock the door to let him in.

“You vacuum-sealed, Mare?” He sets down my lunch.

“Can you blame me?”

“No, I’m glad of it. Listen, I got them to change your extension. I told them we kept getting calls for Jacoby and Meyers-it was all they had to hear. You’ll have a new number by this afternoon. I already sent a letter to the clients.”

“Way to go. What about my home number? I’m still getting calls.”

“Shit. They wanted your authorization to unlist it, so I wrote a letter from you and faxed it over, okay?”

“Great.”

“The only problem is it will take three days to make the change, and weekends don’t count. It won’t be changed until Wednesday of next week.”

“That’s not good.”

“Did I say I told you so? I must have. I’m just that kind of guy.”

“All right, I hear you.”

“It’s not your fault, it’s theirs. The phone company is so much more efficient since they broke it up.” Brent rolls his eyes. “What a shame. They used to be my favorite monopoly, after Baltic and Mediterranean.”

“You can’t make any money on Baltic and Mediterranean.”

“I know, but I like the color. Eggplant,” he says, in a fake-gay voice. Brent does that sometimes to make the partners laugh. He says, The joke’s on them, Iam what a gay man sounds like. “The good news is, I got you a preferred phone number.”

“What’s that?”

“You know, where you pick your own four-letter word for the number,” he says, with a grin.

“Brent, you didn’t.”

“Not that, dear. Give me some credit.” He pulls a yellow message slip out of his pocket and hands it to me.

I laugh. “546-ARIA?”

“You like?”

“It’s cute.”

“This way, people will think you got culture.”

“Right.” I hand him back the slip. “Thanks. For lunch, too. I owe you.”

“Forget it. Somebody’s got to take care of you, don’t they?”

“I got a better idea. Let me buy you dinner tonight.”

“Deal. Just don’t try to get fresh later.” He ruffles the top of my head and is gone.

I lock the door and work through the afternoon, rewriting the brief and adding the new cases. By the time I rush the disk up to Brent to correct my typing, the papers are perfect for the second time. I remember to telephone Starankovic when I get back to my desk. 4:45. He sounds as if he’s still sore at the wounds inflicted by Bitter Man and is fighting like Matlock for the one plaintiff he still represents.

“I’m gonna depose the two supervisors in the Northeast store next week, Mr. Grayboyes and Mrs. Breslin,” he says. “Then I’m gonna interview each and every one of your staff employees.”

“Bernie-”

“If you don’t consent to the interviews, I’m gonna file a motion.”

“Wait a minute, Bernie.” Starankovic knows he has to send a notice to schedule a deposition. He’s trying to fuck me, so I fuck back. “No notices, no deps.”

“I sent the notices!”

“When? I didn’t get them.”

“I sent ’em to Martin. I had ’em hand-delivered. I paid extra.”

It takes me aback. Martin. “I didn’t know about the notices, Bernie. I haven’t scheduled the deps. I haven’t even called the witnesses.”

“That’s not my problem.”

“Christ! Cooperate, would you?”

“Why should I?”

“Because I’ll recommend to Harbison’s that they let you do the interviews. Then you won’t have to file a motion.”

“So?”

“Saves you money.”

“Savesyou money,” he retorts.

“You want to go see Bitterman again? Really, Bernie? You need thatacido in your life?”

There’s a short pause. “Okay, Mary. You talk to your client. You schedule the deps. But it’s gotta be soon. I want the interviews.”

I hang up, with the feeling I’ve dodged a bullet. But I don’t know when the next one is coming, or who’s doing the shooting. Why didn’t Martin tell me about the notices? What if the note writer is Martin?

Brent brings in the finished copy of theNoone brief. After a quick review, I walk it over to Jameson, who has stepped away again. The Amazing Stella says, “That freak spends half his time in the little boy’s room.”

“That’s because he’s full of shit,” I whisper.

She smirks and beckons me closer with a coral-colored fingernail. “You know what he’s doin’ in there?”

“What?”

“Whackin’ off.”

“Stella! Jeez!” I look around to see if anyone is in earshot. The secretaries have gone home, it’s after five.

“Mary, you always think everybody’s an angel. I’m tellin’ youse, he’s got a whole drawer full of dirty magazines in his desk. He keeps it locked, but I seen it once. There’s sex toys in there, too. Reallyweird toys.”

“Sex toys?”

“Weirdtoys,” she repeats, with a shudder. Suddenly, she snaps to attention. “Mr. Jameson! Miss DiNunzio was just bringin’ this brief to youse.”

“You, Stella.” Jameson all but adds, You ignorant dago.

I try to look at him normally, but the thought of the sex toys almost makes me gag. I have to say something, so I say, “I did manage to find some cases after all. On Lexis.”

“Knew you would. I’ll look it over later.” He scampers past me into his office. He’s telling me he didn’t really need the brief by the end of the day, he just wanted to make me do tricks. Weird tricks, I think, and almost shudder myself.

Brent howls at this later, over dinner. We eat at Il Gallo Nero, a restaurant that Brent adores because Riccardo Muti used to eat here. Brent had a heavy crush on Muti. He wore a black armband on his black shirt the day the Maestro left for Milan.

“I knew it! I knew it!” Brent shouts, laughing. “Jameson’s in the closet, Mare! He’s a closet queen!”

“She didn’t say that, Brent.” I’ve had too much chianti and so has he. I don’t care, I’m having fun. And Brent has forgotten to nag me about the cops, for which I’m grateful, because I know I’ll pay for it in June.

“Yes, she did! She said weird toys. What do you think she meant?”

“I don’t know. I’m a good girl.”

“Dildos! Nipple pincers! Choke chains! He pretends he’s a dog! He fucks rhinos! Oh, no!” We both laugh until the tears flow.

When we leave, Brent puts an arm around my shoulders and we walk up Walnut Street. The asphalt is being repaved to eliminate the potholes, which cover the city streets like minefields. Philadelphia being the well-oiled machine that it is, nobody’s working on the street even though much of it is blocked to traffic. Cars lurch to avoid the police sawhorses, although there isn’t much traffic tonight. The new mayor hasn’t been real successful in attracting suburbanites to the city on weekends. I can’t imagine why. It’s a great theater town if you haven’t seenFiddler, and there’s always that friendly pat-down before you take in a first-run movie.

“Look at this street. What a mess,” Brent says. “Here, let me walk on the outside.” He do-si-dos around me so he’s closer to the curb, then puts his arm back on my shoulder.

“Why did you do that?”