I thought about the contract. It was essentially ready to go. All I’d have to do was insert the new salary. “No problem, Mr. Pickett. What are the new contract terms?”

Forester named an amount, hundreds of thousands less than the original. I pulled up the contract on the computer, typed in the new salary term and printed it out. Now I’d have to proof the thing. If I made one mistake, I’d be collecting unemployment in a week.

Thirty minutes later I called Forester. “Does Baumgartner still get a signing bonus?”

“Ah!” he said, sounding pleased. “Excellent point. No. No signing bonus anymore.”

“I’ll take that out. And what about the bonuses if he reaches certain ratings?”

“Keep in the ratings bonuses.”

“May I have your fax number? I’ll send the contract to you in five minutes.” I took down the fax, gave Forester my direct line and told him I’d stay in my office for the next few hours in case any additional changes were needed.

I went back to my office with a pleased smile on my face. Making the changes to the Bomber’s contract, although simple, had been the first time I’d felt any proficiency with the law.

Forester called back in an hour and a half. “So you said your name was Isabel McNeil, is that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How do you spell McNeil?”

I spelled it for him. I could hear Forester murmuring, as if he was writing this down, and the notion that Forester Pickett-media mogul, founder and CEO of Pickett Enterprises-was writing down my name was thrilling.

“Well, Ms. McNeil, you saved Pickett Enterprises today.”

I blushed. I couldn’t help it. As a redhead, the blush is impossible to control. “I think that’s overstating it, sir.”

“It’s the truth. That’s all there is to it. Now, tell me, how long have you been a lawyer?”

“Only about a year. I’ve been working here with Tanner Hornsby most of the time.”

Forester grunted at the mention of Tanner’s name. I interpreted this as a derisive grunt, which made me love him even more.

He asked me where I’d gone to law school, and I described Loyola University in Chicago. He asked about college, and I told him about the University of Iowa. And soon, I was talking about high school in the city and grade school before that and how we’d lived in Michigan before that. Forester was one of those great listeners. He chuckled at all the right times, and asked for clarification about this and that. He told me a few stories, too, like how he’d started in the business by buying a radio station, but how he’d gone to the University of Chicago at age fifty to get his college degree.

By the end of our conversation I felt, oddly, as if I was becoming friends with the man. The fact that he was a bizillionaire and I was a relative pauper didn’t matter, nor did the fact that he was one of the firm’s biggest clients and I was merely a peon associate.

When we were about to hang up the phone, Forester said, “You did well today, Izzy.” It was the first time he’d called me that, and I blushed again, but this time with pride.

The next day, Forester sent a new case to the firm. The lawsuit wasn’t anything big, just a simple torts case, a slip-and-fall accident at a theater Forester owned, and it arrived at our offices the same way all Pickett cases did.

The only remarkable thing was that the letter of retention wasn’t directed to Tanner. Instead, it was made out to Isabel McNeil.

7

An emergency-room nurse in pink scrubs stepped in front of me and held out an authoritative arm. “Who’re you here to see?”

“Forester Pickett.”

She pursed her mouth. “Mr. Pickett is…” She glanced over my shoulder, as if looking for reinforcements.

“He’s passed away. Yes, I know.” I put on my courtroom face and refused to let the statement register. “I’m actually here to see his son.”

“No one can go in except the family.”

A green curtain that covered the entrance to one of the rooms was flicked back at its corner and Shane Pickett’s face peeked out. “She’s okay.” He let the curtain fall closed.

“All right, go ahead,” the nurse said. “Sorry about your loss.”

The emotion hit me for the first time, and I felt as if I might gag on something large, something wrong, in my throat. “Thank you.”

I pulled back the curtain and stepped inside. Shane sat next to a metal bed, staring at the form that lay there, covered. Shane was a small man, a sharp dresser, his brown hair always parted severely and combed precisely. He had recently started wearing glasses that were stylish, but I got the feeling he wore them so that he would somehow look older, smarter. When Forester had had a heart attack a few years ago and succession planning was done at the company, Shane was made president of Pickett Enterprises, so that if something happened to Forester or when he stepped down as CEO, Shane would run the place. Forester was determined to keep it a family company. (I think he hoped Shane would have kids and that those kids would work there, too.) But Shane hadn’t been a “natural” in the business like his father was. There had been a lot of talk that he wasn’t ready or worthy for the position of CEO.

Shane looked up at me now, then back at what was apparently the form of Forester Carlton Pickett, the kindest and most vibrant man I’d ever known, now covered with a white, hospital-issue sheet. Forester had been a simple man in many ways, but he’d loved luxury in all its forms, and in particular he’d often spoken about his 1500 thread-count sheets and how he always bought the best bedding money could buy. Something about the hospital sheet that now covered him struck me as deeply wrong.

“Shane, I’m sorry,” I said.

Shane stood and launched himself into my arms, crying.

“It’s okay,” I murmured, rubbing his back. “It’s okay.”

But it wasn’t.

As Shane’s sobs continued, all I could think about was the discussion I’d had with Forester two weeks ago.

We were in my office for our “monthly roundup” as Forester called it. Forester met with his key professionals to find out precisely what everyone was up to. In the early days, I hosted him in the big Baltimore & Brown conference room with its view of the Sears Tower. I always ordered in a vast assortment of coffees, pastries and exotic fruit, but he’d soon had enough of that.

“You don’t need to feed me, Izzy,” he’d said. “And your office is just fine. Wherever you work, I work.”

So each month, I sat at my desk with its stacks of documents and contracts, and Forester sat unperturbed on the other side, sometimes moving a large folder in order to see me better.

That day, a few weeks ago, Q had come into the office with Forester’s usual cup of black coffee and a green tea for me.

“How are you, Quentin?” Forester said, standing to greet him. He was a little distracted that day, but as always, Forester took the time to speak with everyone.

“Great, sir, thanks.” Q handed him his cup of coffee with a smile. If anyone else had called him Quentin, he would have grimaced, but Q loved Forester as much as I did.

“And how’s Max?” Forester asked, even though being gay didn’t quite register with Forester. “I don’t understand it,” he’d once said to me, almost under his breath, but not in an unkind way. Just in a bewildered way. Yet he dutifully and honestly asked about Max every month.

“Great,” Q said. “He’s fantastic.”

“Good. Say hello for me.” Forester patted him on the shoulder affectionately. “And thanks for the coffee.”

We took our seats and spent the next hour discussing a lawsuit we’d filed against a delinquent contractor from a build-out of one of Forester’s studios.

As we wrapped up, Forester shifted in his seat. “Look, Izzy, you’ve got to promise me something.”

“I’ll be nice to the contractor at his deposition. I promise.” Forester hated needless nastiness, which was, I suppose, why he wasn’t a lawyer.