“That’s four hundred thousand bucks, give or take.”

Max smiled and said, “You can afford it, sir. Start thinking like a trial lawyer with money to burn.”

A vice president of some strain had been reserved. Max asked for the right person and red carpets were rolled down every hallway. Clay took charge of his affairs and signed all the proper documents.

The wire would be received by five that afternoon, according to the veep.

Back in the SUV, Max was all business. “We took the liberty of preparing a corporate charter for your law firm,” he said, handing over more documents.

“I’ve already seen this,” Clay said, still thinking about the wire transfer.

“It’s pretty basic stuff—nothing sensitive. Do it online. Pay two hundred dollars by credit card, and you’re in business. Takes less than an hour. You can do it from your desk at OPD.”

Clay held the papers and looked out a window. A sleek burgundy Jaguar XJ was sitting next to them at a red light, and his mind began to wander. He tried to concentrate on business, but he simply couldn’t.

“Speaking of OPD,” Max was saying, “how do you want to handle those folks?”

“Let’s do it now.”

“M at Eighteenth,” Max said to the driver, who appeared to miss nothing. Back to Clay he said, “Have you thought about Rodney and Paulette?”

“Yes. I’ll talk to them today.”

“Good.”

“Glad you approve.”

“We also have some people who know the city well.

They can help. They’ll work for us, but your clients won’t know it.” He nodded at the driver as he said this. “We can’t relax, Clay, until all seven families have become your clients.”

“Seems as though I’ll need to tell Rodney and Paulette everything.”

“Almost everything. They will be the only people in your firm who’ll know what’s happened. But you can never mention Tarvan or the company, and they’ll never see the settlement agreements. We’ll prepare those for you.”

“But they have to know what we’re offering.”

“Obviously. They have to convince the families to take the money. But they can never know where the money is coming from.”

“That’ll be a challenge.”

“Let’s get them hired first.”

If anyone at OPD missed Clay it wasn’t obvious. Even the reliable Miss Glick was preoccupied with the phones and had no time for her usual expression of “Where have you been?” There were a dozen messages on his desk, all irrelevant now because nothing mattered anymore. Glenda was at a conference in New York, and, as usual, her absence meant longer lunches and more sick days around OPD. He quickly typed a letter of resignation and e-mailed it to her. With the door shut, he filled two briefcases with his personal office junk and left behind old books and other things he owned and once thought had sentimental value. He could always come back, though he knew he would not.

Rodney’s desk was in a tiny workspace he shared with two other paralegals. “Got a minute?” Clay said.

“Not really,” Rodney said, barely looking up from a pile of reports.

“There’s a breakthrough in the Tequila Watson case. It’ll just take a minute.”

Rodney reluctantly stuck a pen behind an ear and followed Clay back to his office, where the shelves had been cleared, and the door was locked behind them. “I’m leaving,” Clay began, almost in a whisper.

They talked for almost an hour, while Max Pace waited impatiently in the SUV, parked illegally at the curb. When Clay emerged with two bulky briefcases, Rodney was with him, also laden with a briefcase and a stuffed paper shopping bag. He went to his car and disappeared. Clay jumped in the SUV.

“He’s in,” Clay said.

“What a surprise.”

At the office on Connecticut Avenue, they met a design consultant who’d been retained by Max. Clay was given his choice of rather expensive furniture that happened to be in the warehouse and thus deliverable within twenty-four hours. He pointed at various designs and samples, all on the higher end of the price scale. He signed a purchase order.

A phone system was being installed. A computer consultant arrived after the decorator left. At one point, Clay was spending money so fast he began to ask himself if he’d squeezed Max for enough.

Shortly before 5 P.M., Max emerged from a freshly painted office and stuck his cell phone in his pocket. “The wire is in,” he said to Clay.

“Five million?”

“That’s it. You’re now a multimillionaire.”

“I’m outta here,” Clay said. “See you tomorrow.”

“Where are you going?”

“Don’t ever ask that question again, okay? You are not my boss. And stop following me. We have our deal.”

He walked along Connecticut for a few blocks, jostling with the rush-hour crowd, smiling goofily to himself, his feet never touching the concrete. Down Seventeenth until he saw the Reflecting Pool and the Washington Monument, where hordes of high school groups clustered for photos. He turned right and walked through Constitution Gardens and past the Vietnam Memorial. Beyond it, he stopped at a kiosk, bought two cheap cigars, lit one, and continued to the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, where he sat for a long time and gazed down The Mall to the Capitol far away.

Clear thinking was impossible. One good thought was immediately overwhelmed and pushed out by another. He thought of his father living on a borrowed fishing boat, pretending it was the good life but struggling to scrape out a living; fifty-five years old with no future whatsoever; drinking heavily to escape his misery. He puffed on the cigar and mentally shopped for a while, and just for the fun of it made a tally of how much he would spend if he bought everything he wanted—a new wardrobe, a really nice car, a stereo system, some travel. The total was but a small subtraction from his fortune. What kind of car was the big question. Successful but not pretentious.

And of course he would need a new address. He’d look around Georgetown for a quaint old town house. He’d heard tales of some of them selling for six million, but he didn’t need that much. He was confident he could find something in the million-dollar range.

A million here. A million there.

He thought of Rebecca, though he tried not to dwell on her. For the past four years she had been the only friend with whom he’d shared everything. Now there was no one to talk to. Their breakup was five days old, and counting, but so much had happened that he’d had little time to think about her.

“Forget the Van Horns,” he said aloud, blowing a thick cloud of smoke.

He’d make a large gift to the Piedmont Fund, designating it for the fight to preserve the natural beauty of Northern Virginia. He’d hire a paralegal to do nothing but track the latest land grabs and proposed developments of BVH Group, and wherever possible he’d sneak around and hire lawyers for small landowners unaware that they were about to become neighbors of Bennett the Bulldozer. Oh, what fun he would have on the environmental front!

Forget those people.

He lit the second cigar and called Jonah, who was at the computer store putting in a few hours. “I have a table at Citronelle, eight o’clock,” Clay said. It was, at that moment, everybody’s favorite French restaurant in D.C.

“Right,” Jonah said.

“I’m serious. We’re celebrating. I’m changing jobs. I’ll explain later. Just be there.”

“Can I bring a friend?”

“Absolutely not.”

Jonah went nowhere without the girl-of-the-week. When Clay moved out he would move out alone, and he would not miss Jonah’s bedroom heroics. He called two other law school pals, but both had kids and obligations, and it was pretty short notice.

Dinner with Jonah. Always an adventure.