HATING THE WAY her conversation with Val and Kate had ended, Taylor did what she always did when she felt out of sorts: she threw herself into her work—a tendency that apparently (according to Val) was going to one day render her an angry, lonely old maid who yelled crazy gibberish and threw ratty gray house slippers at neighborhood kids riding bicycles past her house.

Fine—that may not have been word for word what Val had said, but Taylor took the liberty of filling in the implied innuendo of her friend’s “one day you’ll come home and realize that work is the only thing you’ve got” comment.

Taylor Donovan, expected life trajectory:

Associate.

Partner.

Retirement.

Crazy gibberish, ratty slippers.

Pathetic death (alone, of course), thinking of the one time she had almost kissed Jason Andrews.

R.I.P.

Determined to push aside Val’s warning and all accompanying morbid thoughts, Taylor turned back to the files on her desk. The next morning she would be cross-examining the most important witness in the EEOC’s case and she needed to be ready. This witness, the named plaintiff, had always troubled Taylor. She knew the witness planned to testify that she had suffered severe emotional distress because of the alleged harassment she’d been subjected to in her work environment. It was testimony that, if believed by the jury, would help bolster the EEOC’s demand for significant monetary and punitive damages.

Derek chuckled when he dropped by Taylor’s office later that day and found her reviewing the files from the psychologist who had treated the plaintiff for her stress.

“You’re reading those again? We’ve been through those files a million times. Trust me—there isn’t anything we missed.”

Taylor set the file down on her desk, rubbing her temples. “There has to be—there’s no way this woman would’ve become so distraught because of her work environment. Even if everything she says is true, it’s not enough to cause someone severe emotional distress.”

“But the psychologist ran diagnostic tests and found her to be clinically depressed. How do we get around that? Argue that she’s an eggshell plaintiff?”

Taylor sighed, reluctant to go down that route. An “eggshell plaintiff” defensive strategy meant arguing that the plaintiff was “fragile,” that is, more sensitive than the average person on the street. That a more “reasonable” person would not have been bothered by the same conduct the plaintiff claimed caused her depression. Such arguments generally did not go over well with juries—no one liked to see the big-money corporate defense attorney calling the poor distressed plaintiff, in essence, a weak-ass little wimp.

“No, I’ve been trying to come up with some other angle for her cross.” Taylor stopped rubbing her temples and peered over at Derek. “You subpoenaed all her medical files, right?”

Derek nodded. “This the only psychologist she was treated by.”

“How about her general practitioner—do we have any files from him?”

“Yep, and I already checked them. Nothing.”

“What about any other doctors she saw? Her ob-gyn?” Derek made a face. “You want to read her gynecologist’s files?”

“Not particularly,” Taylor said. But at least it would keep her busy, so that her mind wasn’t drifting off with thoughts of Jason.

The things he had said to her at the Black & Pink Ball.

How he looked in his tuxedo.

How it felt to be dancing that close to him.

All dangerous thoughts. She needed to stay focused—she had a job to do.

So Taylor asked Derek to bring her the file. And twenty minutes into her reading, she had absolutely no problem staying focused on work.

She picked up her phone.

“Derek. You are not going to believe what I’m reading right now.”

“IF YOU DON’T mind, Ms. Campbell, I’d like to shift gears and talk about your claim for emotional distress damages.”

Up on the witness stand, the named plaintiff, Emily Campbell, sat straight and upright in her chair. She nodded to Taylor, who stood in front of the jury, just a few feet away from the stand.

“So if I understand your earlier testimony correctly, Ms. Campbell,” Taylor said, “you are certain there was nothing else going on in your life during the time of your employment with the defendant that could have contributed to your stress. Is that correct?”

Ms. Campbell folded her hands demurely, looking chaste and proper in her cream sweater set and pearls. “That’s correct—the only stress I experienced was caused by the terrible work environment I had been subjected to. I couldn’t eat or sleep. I had to see a therapist several times a week just to get by.”

“And you’re positive that nothing else could have been causing the stress you experienced during that time frame?”

“I’m positive,” Ms. Campbell said definitively.

“And, according to you, the stress was so bad that you sought treatment from a psychologist—a Dr. Gary Moore—is that correct?” Taylor crossed over to the defense table. She picked up a file and brought it back with her to the podium.

“Yes—I went to see him because—”

“A simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ will suffice, Ms. Campbell.” Taylor smiled politely. She opened the file she had brought to the podium as she continued on with her questioning.

“Ms. Campbell, as part of your claim for emotional distress damages, you signed a waiver permitting us to look at your medical records, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“And that waiver allowed us to look at all your medical records?”

“Yes, although Dr. Moore is the only psychologist I saw for the emotional distress I suffered.”

“I understand that, Ms. Campbell, but for a moment I’d like to talk to you about treatment you received from a Dr. Michelle Phillips at 1089 First Street in Santa Monica. You do know Dr. Phillips, don’t you?”

There was a scurry of activity over at the plaintiff’s table as Frank began riffling through his files. Taylor heard him mumble under his breath to his cocounsel, presumably something along the lines of “Who the fuck is Dr. Phillips?”

Ms. Campbell looked at Taylor, confused. “But Dr. Phillips is my gynecologist—I really don’t see what she has to do with any of this.”

“Yes or no, Ms. Campbell.”

“Yes, I know Dr. Phillips,” the witness grumbled.

Carrying her file, Taylor stepped closer to the witness stand.

“Do you recall telling Dr. Phillips during your appointment on February second of last year that you needed to be tested for sexually transmitted diseases because—let me make sure I get this correct here . . .” Taylor read out loud from her file, “Because, quote, ‘your weasel-dick husband slept with a skanky whore stripper and the cheating bastard didn’t use a rubber’?”

Ms. Campbell shot up in her chair. “She actually wrote that down?”

The jury tittered with amused laughter and sat up interestedly. Finally—things were starting to look a little more like Law & Order around here.

“I take it that’s a yes?” Taylor asked.

“Yes,” Ms. Campbell’s voice cracked. She cleared her throat as Taylor asked her next question.

“And do you also remember telling your gynecologist that you were, quote, ‘under extreme emotional distress because of your unfaithful dirtbag husband and couldn’t eat or sleep’?”

Ms. Campbell sunk lower in her chair as if trying to hide. “Yes,” she whispered.

Taylor pointed to the file. “And then, according to Dr. Phillips’s records, did you also tell her, ‘Thank god I at least have my job to get away from that lousy son of a bitch, or I’d probably kill them both’?”

By now, Ms. Campbell had sunk so far down in her chair that there was little more than two eyeballs peeking out over the witness stand.

“I may have said that,” she said meekly.

Taylor smiled patiently. Of course she had.