Endings and Beginnings 
 
Author: Linda Wilson AKA ranapipens4ever (rana pipens = bullfrog–love
frogs!)

E-mail: redactor@sysmatrix.net

Rated: PG-13–some strong language

Summary: This is what I think might happen to Nick, Lulu, Baby Anne,
Burton, Jake, Alvin and several others as they start new lives in the
wake of the "Antarctica episode.

Disclaimer: The settings and all characters, with the exception of
the James Turnbull family and the counterman and waitress at The
Incline, are taken from the television series "The Guardian."
Resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental;
similarity of events, dates, characters or the portrayal of events is
unintentional.

Notes: The federal HUD Brownfields Economic Development Initiative
and the Pittsburgh Act 47 fiscal recovery plan are real–too real,
some people in Pittsburgh would say of Act 47. Several real
Pittsburgh law firms have computerized their performance reviews and
are very happy to have done so. The new pressident of the Cleveland
Bar Association does, indeed, want law firms to make pro bono work
part of their agendas. Many real law firms hire summer associates and
later take them on full-time. There is, indeed, a SMART Recovery
program in Pittsburgh and Nick attends it faithfully for the reasons
he states. I arrived at the price for the house on Amberson Place
after reviewing ads for houses in Shadyside; I took $100,000 off the
price because it's wood, not brick or stucco. Caroline's remarks to
Lulu are, indeed, offensive, but I didn't make them, she did. Get mad
at her, not me. (Besides, wait till Gus Archer comes on the scene–
you'll hate him as much as you do Les Moonves.) For those who hold
that Nick would never put food in a microwave oven or make instant
iced tea, I point out that he has a new job and he and Lulu are still
in the process of moving into a new house and have a new baby. The
guy is up to his ears–give him a break.


The garden is imaginary; the toads that live there are real.


Heartfelt thanks to Suz and D. for beta reading; if this is any good
at all it's due to their efforts.


--+--


Chapter 1


Nick Fallin sat back and looked over the performance review displayed
on the flat-screen monitor on his desk. McNeil & Hurley, the firm he
had joined after Jake Straka had engineered his firing from Fallin &
Fallin, was firmly committed to the digital age and Nick, remembering
the weeks of agony that constituted semiannual performance reviews at
what had been Fallin & Associates and then Fallin & Fallin, realized
that at times like this he didn't miss his former firm one bit. At
the one-time Fallin & Fallin, partners carried six-inch binders and
file folders around with them for what felt like weeks and then sat
through what always became an all-night session in the conference
room with irritation rising in direct proportion to the caffeine
consumed. Some partners claimed they didn't see their families for so
long at review time that their kids referred to them as "Uncle Daddy."
In contrast, at Nick's new firm, which he had joined as a full equity
partner–another six months and his name would be on the door–lawyers
critiqued their own and others' performances as well as those of
paralegals and administrative staff either from their desk monitors
or on laptops programmed to access specified areas of the central
files. Each partner's and associate's opinion was compiled in the
system and the results distilled down into an easily read form which
a partner and the subject of the review discussed. Partners who
couldn't immediately recall all the details about whoever they were
evaluating could call up a biography that included a photo. They
could review what other partners had written, and add their own
comments about work ethic, maturity, and written and oral and
interpersonal skills. Associates could complete a self-evaluation
that included billable hours, variety and quality of assignments and
their own professional development.

Of course, McNeil & Hurley–and their chief information officer–
weren't fools. The system had been set up so that associates and
partners saw only the files they were supposed to see. Senior
partners–most of whom were department heads–could tap into more data,
but once a review was considered completed and sent to the system's
central repository, it became a read-only file. This prevented
various people from "gun decking" reviews, and the systems department
continually reviewed and upgraded the security. Once reviews were
written and passed muster, they were in the system in their unaltered
state forever. This, too, made Nick feel good. Two years of his
reviews of Sandra Kestle rating her as "excellent" until her work had
mysteriously fallen off about three months before she had quit and
filed a sexual discrimination suit against him had mysteriously
disappeared and only the fact that he and Burton Fallin had kept
copies had kept him from being sued as well as fired from the firm
his father had founded.

Nick set thoughts of Sandra Kestle aside. He had other things to
think about, one of them being a reflection that McNeil & Hurley
partners and associates weren't the only ones happy with the advance
into the brave new digital world. The firm's clients included big-
name corporations that expected a fairly high level of technical
expertise from the law firm they hired. The system helped provide it.
There were other benefits as well. The process took days, not weeks,
and left everyone free to go after more clients and work with the
ones they had. Since he had been with his new firm only a few weeks,
Nick didn't have too many reviews to look over–the retiring partner
he had been hired to succeed as head of the corporate department had
completed all but the ones for the people with whom Nick worked
directly and had left him all the information he needed to make sure
those reviews were complete–but all the same, he had landed three new
clients in the time he otherwise might have spent doing paper-and-
pencil evaluations. Looking through the other partners' and
associates' self-evacuations, he saw that most of them could make
similar claims.

His fascination with the system as well as the review process
engrossed him so deeply that it was some minutes before he became
aware that his intercom was beeping. 
 
"I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr. Fallin," Ginny, his secretary, said, 
"but there's a Mister James Turnbull to see you. He didn't have an appointment."

For a few seconds, Nick stared at the phone on his desk in surprise.
James Turnbull was a client he had seen briefly at F&F just before
Jake Straka had manipulated the executive committee into revoking his
partnership. In fact, Turnbull's appointment had been with Jake, who
was out of the office when Turnbull had showed up–probably using a
dinner date with the partners to get the votes together to bounce me,
Nick thought. Turnbull had cooled his heels in the conference room
for half an hour before Gretchen, after fruitless attempts to reach
Jake, had brought the matter to Nick's attention.

Nick himself had tried to find Jake, but calls to his cell phone had
connected only with his voice mail. Nick had quickly decided that the
best thing to do for the firm–-which was supposed to be client-
centered, he reflected--was to try to hold on to the client. He had
seen Turnbull, who had told him the reason he had come to the firm
was to expand the chemical coatings company his grandfather had
founded by going public to facilitate the acquisition of some
publicly held manufacturers of similar products. Nick had started the
first steps in the process and Turnbull had left the office,
contented that his IPO was well underway and, even after Jake's
initially dropping the ball, committed to F&F.

Nick had flagged the file to alert Jake that another partner or
associate would have to handle the public offering. He had wanted to
brief Jake on Turnbull the next morning, but never had the chance–
though half an hour late to a meeting in Burton's office, a
disheveled and slightly hung-over Jake had accused Nick of stealing
his client. Nick had retorted that he had kept the client for the
firm and made sure Jake got credit for the initial interview. His
thanks was a contemptuous sneer from Jake that he, Jake, was
certainly in a better position to take care of the client himself and
Nick could just keep his nose out of it. 
 
"Well, fine," Nick had snapped. "By the way, Jake, don't you want to 
know the reason he came in here in the first place?" 
 
"I can read,"Jake  had snapped.
 
"Great," Nick came back. "So can the SEC."

He had turned and walked out, knowing Burton was wearing a worried
frown. That piddly-ass lawsuit Sandra Kestle filed–-probably because
Jake planted the idea–is nothing, Nick thought. Dad didn't want to
make me managing partner because he didn't want to risk everybody
else's livelihood? Great. If Jake gets nailed by the SEC, he'll take
the whole firm down with him. Well, that's their lookout. I wish them
more luck than I think they're going to have.

Nick's reflections had taken no more than a few seconds, seconds he
occupied by picking up his phone and pushing the intercom
button. 
 
"I'll see him, Ginny," he told the secretary. "Where is he,
in the conference room?" At her affirmation, Nick rose and walked
down the hall

To his surprise, Walter McNeil, the partner who had hired him, was
seated in the conference room with Turnbull. Nick greeted both and
joined them at the conference table.

"Young man, I'm glad I tracked you down," Turnbull said. "I've known
Walter, here, for a long time, and I'm really glad you're on his
team."

"Thank you, sir," Nick said.

"You were so helpful that night at the other place," Turnbull
said. "I'm sure you had someone you wanted to get home to, but you
didn't quibble at spending a couple of hours with me."

"I was glad to, sir," Nick said. He reflected briefly that it was
true. He was still living at 1980 Ellsworth while he waited to see if
a buyer could complete a financing package. Lulu and the baby were
living at 4530 Amberson Place, the house Lulu had said she wanted and
that Nick had bought during Shannon Gressler's brief foray into child
pornography. He had wanted Lulu and the baby to be somewhere safe, he
remembered, but he wouldn't think of them as secure until he moved in
with them. And he and Lulu hadn't resolved their problems yet,
despite the birth of their daughter. Perhaps they never would. 
 
He turned his mind back to the man with whom he was speaking." I was
happy to help start the wheels turning for your IPO."

"That's one thing I wanted to talk to you and my old friend, Walter,
here about," Turnbull said. "I understand you were leaving the firm
in the next day or so, but you did your best for them and for me
anyway. That speaks well for your character."

Nick lowered his eyes briefly. "Sir, I'm committed to wherever I'm
working as long as I'm working there."

"Well, I'm really impressed with you, young man."

"That's one reason we hired him," McNeil interjected. "Another, of
course, is, he's really good at what he does."

"I'd agree with that," Turnbull said. "Their doesn't seem to be
anyone at that other place with his depth of understanding."

"All I did was tell you what I'd tell anyone else contemplating an
IPO–expect the shares to rise, then fall, and if you want them to
level off at a point that really reflects their true value, have a
strategic plan that serious investors can understand and work with,"
Nick said.

"Well, nobody at your former firm said anything like that since you
left," Turnbull said." That young fellow, what's his name, Straka,
doesn't seem to be too anxious to get this thing moving along the
pipeline."

"Straka is handling it himself?" Nick asked.

"Yes, he is," Turnbull said.

Nick and McNeil exchanged looks. As Jake himself had once noted,
Pittsburgh is a very small town, and consequently every member of its
corporate legal community knew Jake Straka was prohibited in
perpetuity from handling any publicly traded securities. If Jake
violated the SEC ban, he would immediately be disbarred, fined and,
if criminal charges were filed, possibly do some prison time. If
whatever firm Jake worked for couldn't prove Jake had acted without
its knowledge and consent in working with the IPO, the fines levied
could well push it into insolvency.

"Jimmy, I don't want to knock my competition–it's always a bad idea,"
McNeil said. "But I would advise you to check with the SEC before you
allow Mr. Straka to do anything about your IPO."

Nick gave his employer a grateful look. McNeil had just kept him from
being trapped between his duty to a client and the damaging position
of speaking ill of a former colleague. McNeil might, as Burton Fallin
had commented when Nick went to work for him, be "a little slick,"
but he believed in a surprising number of management principles that
Nick would never have expected from the head of a corporate law firm
with a reputation for giving the sharks he swam with a run for their
money.

"I was starting to think the same way," Turnbull said. "Is there
anybody in particular who would be good for me to talk to?"
"Who have they got over there at the local SEC office, Nick?" McNeil
asked.

He wasn't all the way off the hook for this one, Nick realized.
Whether or not Walter McNeil was telling the truth about his
unfamiliarity with the Pittsburgh SEC branch office, Nick possessed
knowledge which he was legally and morally obligated to use in the
service of his client. 
 
"Mr. Turnbull, I wasn't directly involved with Straka's problems with the 
SEC," he said. "You'd have to talk to my father. I know someone at the SEC 
talked 
to him and he talked to Jake. I think the person at the SEC office was a man 
named Ron Gersh."


"Ron Gersh," Turnbull said as he wrote the name down in a small black
leather-bound pocket datebook with gold edged pages.

"But I strongly recommend you talk to my father. He's the one with
the firsthand knowledge," Nick said.

"Very good." Turnbull looked up from his datebook. "When I talk to
Burton Fallin–-well, I'd–-you fellows could handle this for me,
couldn't you? I'd really like to work with you, if that's all right."

"We'd be happy to take care of you," McNeil said. "Just have them
send over your file–we'll let them know we're expecting it–and we'll
get started."

"Great, great," Turnbull said.

It was McNeil's turn to aim a look at Nick–a look that Nick had no
trouble reading. You just brought in an IPO worth at least $100
million. Good work, the look said. Nick lowered his eyes. Maybe I'm
not a total loss, he thought. Between the clients I brought with me
and that $3 million in business Dad shuttled my way, a lot of people
seem to want to get better acquainted with me. Well, whatever works.
Nick had been aware that all through the conversation Turnbull had
been making nervous gestures–playing with his shirt cuffs, fingering
his tie, turning the gold pencil with which he wrote Gersh's name
over and over in his fingers. Something besides a pending IPO was
bothering this man.

Turnbull finally put the datebook and pencil back in his pocket. It
was time to cut to the chase. "Walter, I have to tell you, there's
another reason I especially wanted to talk to you–-and young Mr.
Fallin, here, today."

Nick and McNeil looked at each other, then at the client. "Yes?"
McNeil said encouragingly.

Turnbull looked at his hands, then back at Nick. "Mr. Fallin, I know
a few things about you. You have some experience in some–ah–different–
areas. You still keep your hand in at that legal clinic for kids,
don't you?"

"We think it's a good thing to have some pro bono cases in the
hopper," McNeil said. This was true for a number of reasons, one of
which was a talk to the Pittsburgh Bar Association by the Cleveland
Bar Association's newly elected president. During his term in office,
the CBA president planned to ask area law firms to commit to a
certain number of pro bono hours and to find specific projects and
areas for offering assistance. The infrastructure that had supported
the education and well-being of the community is eroding, the man had
said in a talk McNeil, Nick and several other McN&H lawyers had
attended, and law firms were in a unique position to meet those
needs. Pittsburgh was in a similar situation. The result of the CBA
president's talk was a rush by a number of Pittsburgh firms to get on
the pro bono bandwagon. Aside from altruism, Nick knew McNeil &
Hurley could claim to be one-up on every other firm in town because
of its newest partner's connection with LSP.

Despite McNeil's comment and the CBA president's talk, however, Nick
had spent the past month trying to untangle himself from LSP. Now
Turnbull was clearly leading up to something and Nick was certain the
price of adding Turnbull's IPO–and any other corporate business he
wanted to bring to McNeil and Hurley–would be some involvement with
LSP. Shit, Nick thought. Am I going to have this damn tin can tied to
my tail for the rest of my life? "However I can help you, sir, I
will," he said, careful to keep his facial expression and his voice
neutral.

"I know they deal with indigent clients, but I thought–well, I guess
it won't surprise you to know that even somebody who can pay his own
way has problems too," Turnbull said. Nick and McNeil nodded.
Turnbull took a deep breath. "I took over the business at kind of a
rough time in the coatings industry. I was lucky, though–Christine,
my wife–she was my right hand. She was the one, in fact, who figured
out that the best way to grow the business was to acquire more
businesses doing similar things. It really took awhile to get off the
ground, but all of a sudden, it did. We were a big fish in a
specialized pond."

Nick nodded. Out of the corner of his eye he could see McNeil also
indicating his assent.

"Well, suddenly Chrissy didn't seem to have the energy she once did.
She was thinner, too, and she just–didn't look right." Turnbull
sighed. "I don't think it was sudden at all. I think I just didn't
notice." He looked at his hands, which he had clasped in front of him
on the conference table. "Anyway, after nineteen years, just like
that, she–was gone. Acute mylogenous leukemia, they said."

McNeil and Nick expressed sympathy.

"For as long as we were together Christine and I were very happy,"
Turnbull said. "There was just one thing–we never had children. Too
busy even to try, I guess. Then time ran out." He paused. "I
thought there'd never be anyone else. Then I met a young woman at an
American Chemical Society regional convention. She worked for a
company I was about to buy. He paused. "That was eighteen years ago."


"It's not uncommon for someone to marry again if a previous marriage
was happy," Nick voiced a sociological truth he had acquired at LSP.

"No, it's not," McNeil agreed.

"Well, I was lucky again," Turnbull concurred. "And this time around
I got the one thing that was missing." He took out his wallet and
extracted a snapshot.

McNeil and Nick looked in turn at a photograph of a young girl with
long, dark hair and expressive brown eyes.

"This is Schuyler, our daughter, We call her Skye. She's fifteen,"
Turnbull said.

"She's beautiful," Nick said, meaning it. Even the hint of petulance
he saw in the set of Skye Turnbull's mouth didn't detract from her
finely molded features.

Turnbull took back the picture and put it away. "She's been a joy.
Honor student, popular, never gave us a minute's trouble–"

"Until now?" Nick asked. This explained Turnbull's obvious agitation.
Turnbull nodded slowly. "About six, seven months ago she got
acquainted with a boy at school. Up to then things were casual–a
group of kids would go to the movies together, Kennewood, like that.
Then she started seeing this young man and things started to change."

"How did they change?" McNeil asked.

"We always encouraged her to have her friends over–Pat and I both got
a charge out of the gang of kids that used to hang around. Then they–
weren't there any more," Turnbull said. "She didn't see anyone else
but him."

"This boy monopolized her," Nick said. He had a feeling he knew where
this was heading.

"He did," Turnbull said. "It was like he owned her. He'd call every
evening at six o'clock, and if she didn't answer by the second ring
you could hear the profanity out in the garden when she did pick it
up. And then–"

"The abuse started," Nick said.

"She wore long sleeves, even in hot weather, but every so often she'd
push them back or she'd be wearing one of those tops with the–what do
they call them, boat necks–and it would slip and I'd see bruises.
Pat, her mother, said when she asked her about them she said she fell
or bumped into something or some other obvious excuse. She loved to
swim, but she quit that, too."

"Because it would have meant getting into a bathing suit, where all
the bruises would show," Nick said.

"That's right," Turnbull said. He took a breath. "And then–I know
there comes a time when a teenage girl won't talk to her parents, but
Pat and Skye always seemed close, able to talk to each other. But
after she and this boy had been dating for a while–about a month, it
must have been–Skye just closed herself off–crawled in a hole and
pulled it in after her. We'd ask her how was her date and if she
answered at all it was a mumble or she'd just say `Fine,' And she'd
get a phone call every now and then and in about 10 minutes, his car
would be in the driveway and she'd be gone for a couple of hours.
When she came home she'd head straight for the shower. "

"Uh-huh," Nick said, more to himself than to either of his hearers. A
case that LSP had been assigned recently was making its way to the
front of his mind. "Mr. Turnbull, when did she run away with him?"

Turnbull's jaw dropped. "How did you know?" he asked.

"That `legal clinic for kids' you mentioned just got a case that
involves two girls from a group home. LSP is suing the Department of
Children's Services on their behalf for lax supervision. The girls
started dating boys who monopolized them and abused them. The
difference was, while the usual pattern for an abuser is to keep the
girl to himself, regarding her as his property, these guys farmed the
girls out."

"Pimped on them, you mean," Turnbull said. It was Nick's turn to look
surprised. "Mr. Fallin, I'm 62 years old. I've seen a thing or two in
my time. And one thing that got me where I am is calling a spade a
spade. This–fellow–abused my daughter and turned her into a
prostitute for his friends." He sighed and the feistiness drained out
of him. "After I saw the pattern–the jumping whenever he snapped his
fingers, so to speak, the constant running to the shower, the keeping
herself to herself–I figured out what was going on. Pat and I talked
about it–forever, it seemed like. We knew we'd have to be careful
about how we got her way from him."

"That's right," Nick said. "She'll defend him fanatically. It has to
be her decision. And when it is, it's most dangerous when the victim
is about to break off the relationship."

"She seemed to want to break it off," Turnbull said. "There was a one-
step-forward, two-steps-back feel to it, but we could tell she was
starting to think differently about him. Then–" He exhaled. "She said
she thought if she just told him how she felt–`make him aware she was
a person' she said–that would be enough to do it. We told her not to
meet him alone–if she wanted to meet him at a friend's house fine,
tell him if she wasn't home in 15 minutes or so we'd call the cops."

"What happened?" Nick asked.

"We're not entirely sure. She did just that–went to the friend's
house, had a code phrase ready, she'd call us, call the cops, but–
things went wrong. We waited, but didn't get the call. We finally
called the friend and she said Skye and the boy talked for awhile,
then she just got in his car and they left."

" Mr. Turnbull, what is the boy's name?" Nick asked.

"Hathaway–Justin Hathaway."

"These girls from the group home I mentioned–they were–ah–
acquaintances of his, too." He looked at Turnbull. "I think I know
the rest of it. You reported your daughter missing to the police,
they took the information and a picture but treated the case as a
runaway–which means they didn't try too hard, since she wasn't a
small child–and about two weeks later you got a call from your
daughter from a West Virginia state police barracks."

Turnbull looked briefly startled. "That's right," he said. "She'd
been picked up for prostitution. They said they'd release her to us,
but when we got there, she'd already been released–to Hathaway."
Nick nodded. "LSP got a call, too. The same thing had happened to the
two girls from the group home–Hathaway was pimping them in West
Virginia, too. As their guardians at litem we authorized a social
worker to go to West Virginia for them but when she got there she
found the state cops had released them to Hathaway."

"Didn't something like that happen to a girl in New York?" McNeil
asked. "She got picked up by some character, he had her–ah–working
for him, she called her mother from Florida, but before the mother
got there, the Florida cops released her to the guy?"

"That's right," Nick said. "In that case, the girl was a runaway. The
guy and his partner faked an ID so she could fly to Miami, she got
arrested there, the cops released her to the pimp and he brought her
back to New York and had her on the street."

"What was wrong with the Miami police that they released her back to
the pimp?" Turnbull asked.

"They have the same problem as the West Virginia state cops–and ours
here in Pittsburgh–overworked and underfunded," Nick
said. "Ironically, what helped the New York cops find the girl was,
the pimp and his partner brought her back to Queens, where they'd
first had her working. The two of them are looking at 25 years each."
He paused. "The cops here think that's what Hathaway is doing–going
back to his home turf. We're setting up something with them to try to
at least find out where they are."

"And now you've heard about my Schuyler, you think she's with them?"

"We knew another girl was with them, but we weren't completely sure
what the story was. Now I think there's a lot of room for assuming
the other girl is your daughter. I'm going to stop in at LSP later
today and when I do I'll let the police know about this. I'll keep
you posted on where we go from here."

"Do you really think we can find her?"

"Mr. Turnbull, if I've learned anything at LSP, it's not to make
promises I'm not completely sure I can keep," Nick said. "I do think
there's a very good chance that we'll at least get a handle on where
she and the other girls are. I can promise you that I'll do
everything I can. And I'll keep you posted as much as possible."

"Mr. Fallin, you're an answer to prayer," Turnbull said.

Nick felt himself flush as he lowered his head a little. "Sir, I'm
just doing my job as best I can. I'm lucky that I have the experience
and the access."

"No, I'm the lucky one," Turnbull said. "And I think it might be more
than luck. Like I said, you're an answer to prayer." He stood up and
so did Nick and McNeil. "This is the first time I've had a reason to
have any hope about my little girl in at least a month. I don't
believe it just happened." Hands were shaken all around. "And I've
always believed that prayers get answered better if I do some of the
work, so I'll let you fellows get on with yours."

"Mr. Turnbull, as soon as I find out anything–about your IPO or about
your daughter–I'll call you," Nick said. "I'll walk you out."

"Bless you, young man," Turnbull said.

Nick returned to the conference room from showing his new client out
to find McNeil gathering up the papers left from te discussion. "That
went well," McNeil said.

"I feel a lot more certain about the IPO than I do about the
daughter," Nick said.

McNeil shook his head. "What makes a kid like that–bright, pretty,
popular–take up with something like this Hathaway, anyway?"

McNeil had seated himself at the conference table and Nick did the
same. "From what I've heard, that kind of a girl thinks if she just
loves the guy enough she can turn him around," Nick said. "It's the
flip side of the reason the other girls fell for him, They came from
backgrounds where abuse was the norm. They expected it. Schuyler
Turnbull probably thought she could reform him."

McNeil shook his head. "Sounds like she learned differently, and she
learned the hard way." He neatened a stack of some papers. "Anyway,
the IPO doesn't look like it'll be any problem."

"No," Nick agreed. "As soon as I get the files, I'll get right on it."

"I meant what I said about you being good at what you do," McNeil
said. He grinned suddenly. "What did you do to make Chuck Phelps stop
demanding the 22 grand and just buy Clayton Steel, anyway?"

It was Nick's turn to grin. "Phelps wants to develop the mill
property for commercial space. I suggested to his lawyer it would be
in his client's best interest to apply for a HUD Brownfields Economic
Development Initiative grant. The government is giving him a million
dollars free and clear to clean up the site and two and a quarter
million in Section 108 guaranteed loan assistance for redevelopment.
He's already got a couple of tenants lined up, so he jumped at it."

McNeil chuckled. "I'll never forget the look on Clayton's face when
Brad told him Phelps said he could keep the 22 grand and the check
for $24 million was in the mail. Come to think of it, I'll never
forget he look on Brad's face when you told him Phelps caved in." He
sobered. "Nick, why did you let Brad get the credit for handling
that?"

Nick shrugged. "Clayton was and is Brad Fulton's client. Besides, you
know what I did, I know what I did, Phelps' lawyer knows what I did,
we're billing even more hours, we built up good will–and the firm's
reputation–and the word will get around that we're the ones who came
up with this idea and we're the ones who can handle these cases. I
don't need a parade."

McNeil chuckled again. "Son, you remind me of me. It took awhile, but
I finally figured out I got my biggest payoffs when I was trying to
do something for somebody else. Every time I tried to make myself
look good I fell flat on my face. You're cottoning on to it."

Nick sighed and stood up. "Be that as it may, I have to go do
something for somebody, namely our newest client. I'll have to get
this case from Alvin Masterson, and he's going to start pushing for
me to take over LSP again."

McNeil sighed as well. "I'll give him that he knows talent when he
sees it. How's he doing, anyway?"

Nick shook his head. "Not good. It's progressing."

"ALS. What a hell of a thing to happen to somebody. Give him my best,
will you?"

"Sure." Nick left the conference room. McNeil watched him walk across
the firm's spacious, gracious lobby. All the same, I'm glad he wants
to be here as much as he needs to be here. We got ourselves a prize,
he thought.
 

*****************
 

Alvin looked up briefly from the file he was perusing as Nick came
off the elevator and crossed the bullpen toward him. "About time you
got here. The director is supposed to meet with the board and it
helps if he's here before they walk in," he said.

Nick deposited himself in one of Alvin's visitor's chairs. "Alvin, I
told you already–I refuse to accept the directorship of this clinic."

"There's nobody else."

"The hell there isn't. A couple of months as assistant director and
Emily Bearnsley can take over."

"She's a lightweight."

"She'll do fine."

"She said this place is set up to fail." Alvin took a breath. "My
clinic. Set up to fail."

Nick smiled thinly. "She's right. She knows what's wrong and I know
how to fix it. I'll help her get LSP on a sound financial footing,
but read my lips, Alvin: I am not about to become director."

"Then what are you doing here?"

" I pulled you off the Seventh Street Bridge for two reasons: one, I
thought you had a lot more to contribute to this place and, two,
given the situation, you need something to center your head. That
won't happen if I do your work for you. Besides, the firm I'm with
now likes their people to put in some pro bono hours. Walter McNeil
sends you his best, by the way. And one of my clients there has a
problem that relates to a case we have here."

"We can't take any monetary compensation for it. You know that."

"Ths client will make a donation–a generous one, too."

"Well, as the director, you should be the one to let the board know–"

"Alvin–"

"–that we're accepting a donation because of a case, not as a general
contribution–"

"–Alvin!"

"–and that you feel to do so is indicated under the terms of the
charter–"

"–ALVIN!!!"

"Okay!"

"Yeah, okay. Now if you're finished jerking my chain, I'll relieve
you of the file on the Kovacic and Hulec girls."

"Oh, yeah, the lax supervision case." Alvin turned in his chair and
reached for a file. He grasped it with his whole hand, instead of
between his fingers and thumb, put it on his desk and pushed it to
Nick. "Is this the one with the donor attached?"

"Yeah. The third girl who was seen with them, the one we weren't sure
about, is the client's daughter."

"Well, well. `The colonel's lady and Judy O'Grady are sisters under
the skin.' I like Kipling. What do you think you can do for them?"

"We're filing the suit. "

"Uh huh. And?"

"And the cops are looking for this Hathaway kid. They think he's
headed back here."

"What did we give them for that information?"

"Nothing that violates our clients' right to privacy and the cops are
keeping us up to date on what they have. They've been hinting that
they may want me to do a little field work"

"Will you?"

"Is there any reason I shouldn't?"

Alvin made a sound, half gurgle, half snarl, that indicated
disgust. "You've been co-opted. They got to you."

Nick shook his head. "And you wonder why I don't want to be director.
Alvin, the cops are not always The Enemy. Work with them, once in a
while. Every so often you'll actually help a client."

Alvin snorted and changed the subject. "You don't come to meetings
any more."

"Yes, I do. I just don't go to your meetings."

"Maybe your probation is over, but your addiction isn't."

"Thank you for the vote of confidence. It's the reason I left the 12-
step program."

"Look, Nick–"

"Somebody at my new firm introduced me to another program."

"There is no other program."

"For you, maybe. For me, there's this one."

"All right, what brand of snake oil is this?"

Nick sighed. "Rational emotive behavioral therapy–SMART Recovery."

"And just what do they do for you that 12-step doesn't?"

Nick, who had been rather pointedly ignoring Alvin , thumbing through
the file instead, lifted his head and looked at his former
sponsor. "A lot of what the 12-step program teaches is negative. One
reason I started using in the first place was all the negative
feelings I had about myself. I don't need more. And no, I don't feel
I have to `give myself to a higher power' to conquer this disease. If
I'm considered responsible for deciding to get drunk, drive and cause
an accident, I should be able to consider myself responsible for
deciding to stay sober. And any Higher Power worthy of the name
didn't go to the trouble of putting a brain in my skull just to have
me check it at the door for a meeting."

Alvin looked directly at Nick. "You've been giving this a lot of
thought."

"Sure I have. Alvin, I'm a father. Even if Anne weren't a special
needs child, the kind of person I am matters. Who I am and what I do
is going to make up a big part of the person she becomes. I don't
want to blow that."

"So how does this thing help?"

"Focuses on four points, not twelve–building motivation to abstain,
coping with urges, managing thoughts and feelings, and learning how
to live a balanced lifestyle."

"Abstaining takes more than willpower."

"Yes, it does. It takes knowing the ABCs."

"The what?"

"The ABCs. The activating event that makes you want to use–like your
girlfriend is pregnant or getting fired from the firm your father
founded, the beliefs–I'm worthless, inadequate, undesirable, the
consequences–will I snort that line, pick up that tequila sour?"

"Uh-huh. Then what?"

"Disputing the irrational beliefs–I'm still Anne's father, whether
I'm with Lulu or not, I'm still a good lawyer, another firm wants me,
cognitively understanding the process–and assessing the cost-benefit
ratio of the consequences. What will happen if I use, if I drink, is
it worth it."

"Not that different from AA."

"AA concentrates too much on negative feelings without giving me any
help to understand them and overcome them. No, what's different is
the kind of cross-talk discussion we have–discussion that adds
insight and understanding. And there's the attitude that a relapse
isn't a reason to give up on yourself, it's an opportunity to learn."

"Sounds good, but–"

"Right. But I can't spend one night in a meeting and expect to stop
using," Nick said. "That's the thing about this–I have to apply the
skills and the principles to every part of my life. How hard am I
willing to work at this? That's what I keep asking myself. Let me
tell you, Alvin, having a kid is one hell of a motivator."

"All the same–"

"And that's another reason I couldn't be this clinic's director, even
if I wanted to. I have a special needs child and a mortgage on a
$650,000 house I bought at the request of the mother of that child.
Do the math, Alvin."

"I still think this is where you really belong."

"Keep thinking that way, if it makes you happy. I know differently."

Nick picked up the file and stood up. "If this client hadn't got me
involved in this case today, I'd be on my way home right now."

"How does Lulu like being a stay-at-home mom?" Alvin asked.

"I think she's finding it's all a little overwhelming," Nick
said. "The baby would be enough, but we're neither of us finished
moving in yet. I really had to put a foot up some asses to get the
nursery finished by the time we took the baby home from the hospital."

"Think Lulu might decide to come back to work part-time?" Alvin asked.
"That'll depend on a lot of things. Anyway, she told you she wasn't
coming back. You should be the one to ask her if she changed her
mind." At the door to Alvin's office, Nick turned. "No harm in
asking, though." He left, closing the door behind him. Alvin shook
his head. God, but I feel sorry for all three of them, he thought.
SMART Recovery. Huh.

In his office at LSP–the office that had once been James Mooney's,
the one he had succeeded to after Mooney was shot and killed by
Taliek Allen and had expected to leave forever once his community
service hours were over–Nick reviewed the file on Stephanie Kovacic
and Cyndee Hulec. The two had been residents of a group home in
Dormont, where they had attended the local high school. The group
home rules allowed girls over age 15 to date on Friday or Saturday
nights as long as their grades were B or better and they did their
household chores–not so different from the average family situation,
Nick thought. The difference was, no one vetted the boys the girls
went out with. And, he realized after he read more of the case
histories, no one ever seemed to have told the girls that sex was not
love, sex was just sex. Their sex education had consisted of a brief
and clinical description of where babies came from, a demonstration
of a condom rolled over a banana and a lecture as to the symptoms of
various sexually transmitted diseases. No one had ever told them that
what they did now could determine who they would have to deal with
for the next 18 years.

There was definitely a suit here, Nick thought. Alvin had started the
initial filing against the Department of Youth Services, but hadn't
done much follow-up, for obvious reasons. Meanwhile efforts to
recover the two girls seemed to have stagnated as well. Of course,
Nick knew, finding and recovering the girls wasn't exactly the
province of LSP, but sometimes the clinic and the Pittsburgh police
worked together. Alvin can call it being co-opted all he wants, Nick
thought. There are two–no, three kids out there– whose chances of
getting back home are decreasing by the minute. If sharing some
information that I'm not legally obligated to keep to myself can help
them, fine. Let's go for it.

He picked up the telephone and called the 43rd police precinct. While
he waited for Detective Harold Jonas to answer he reflected that
Shannon Gressler had opened up some new avenues for him. Well,
according to what he'd learned at SMART Recovery meetings, that was
what experiences, good and bad, were for–learning. That he seemed to
learn more from the bad experiences than the good ones was just an
indication that life tended to be carelessly edited sometimes. 
 
"Hal, it's Nick Fallin," he said when Jonas had answered and identified
himself. "I just took the Kovacic-Hulec case away from Alvin
Masterson. You know that third girl with them? I think I can identify
her. Get the file on a Schuyler Turnbull from Missing Persons and
I'll come down and tell you about what I've just learned."
 

**********************
 

Jonas' office at the 43rd Precinct was dingy and small, its walls
covered with posters, pictures and notices of missing children as
well as a "rogue's gallery" of their predators. Jonas looked up from
a file open on his battered desk as Nick came in. 
 
"Hey," he said. "I hear you're a dad. Congratulations. Boy or girl?"

"Girl, thanks," Nick responded.

Jonas shook his head. "Good luck, friend," he said. "They tell me
it's a lot harder to raise girls than boys, and I guess this Turnbull
kid and the Kovacic and Hulec girls prove it."

"So you got the Turnbull file from Missing Persons, then?" Nick asked.

"Yeah, requested it as soon as you and I got off the phone. So she's
the party of the third part?"

"It sure looks that way," Nick said. "By the way, her father is
willing to underwrite any extras involved if there's some kind of a
surveillance or recovery operation."

"I won't say no," Jonas said. "You know yourself these things can run
into money and right now this department's pretty strapped."

"Yeah," Nick replied. "Now that the Act 47 fiscal recovery plan went
through, you guys may end up buying your own bullets."

"We're practically doing that now," Jonas replied. "Thank God for
community support–if some neighborhoods didn't hold block parties and
bake sales, some precincts wouldn't even have bulletproof vests." He
shook his head. "Anyway, now we know who this kid is, we have
something else to add to the picture. It's all a battle for
information and every little bit helps."

"Great. If there's something you want me to do, let me know," Nick
said.

Jonas looked at Nick. "We just might be able to use you," he
said. "You've never had all that much contact with the local porn and
prostitution scene."

"I sure remember the contact I did have," Nick said.

"You did just fine–but I almost shit a brick when I heard you went in
that hooker haven warehouse by yourself, with no backup, nobody even
knowing where you were going."

Nick sighed. "Somebody had to do it. My father wanted to rescue that
Gressler kid in the worst way."

"Well, he's lucky he got you back, at least." Jonas noticed the
shadow that flickered across Nick's face. "Anyway, now you know what
an undercover operation feels like, a little bit. If you had the
chance, do you think you'd like to help with another one?"

"For the Turnbull girl and the others?" Nick asked.

Jonas nodded. "Like I said, these people, the bad guys, don't know
you, and that's a big plus. You wouldn't be doing it alone. We'd have
a vice squad veteran going in there with you, and you'd have backup
ready. You might be able to get us some valuable information, at
least."

"The Turnbull girl's father is a client of the firm where I'm working
now," Nick said. "As a matter of fact, he came to us especially
because I've been working with LSP and he thought I might be able to
help recover the daughter. Yes, I could help with this."

"Okay," Jonas said. "We're setting something up right now. I'll call
you when we're ready."
 

***************
 

The standard early evening crowd was thronging The Incline. Nick made
his way to the take out end of the bar. 
 
"Fallin. I called in." he told the counterman. The counterman turned to talk to 
the kitchen and
while Nick waited for the food he had ordered for himself and Lulu he
leaned against the bar to look over the room.

Burton Fallin was sitting in a booth across the room. Nick
straightened and was about to go greet his father, when he saw Jake
Straka come out of the men's room. His eyes narrowed. They narrowed
still more as Jake threaded his way through the tables and sat down
in the booth Burton occupied.

Nick drew in his breath. There was no reason why Burton Fallin
shouldn't have dinner at The Incline or anywhere else with anyone he
chose, but all the same, seeing his father at the same table with the
man who had maneuvered the Fallin & Fallin executive committee into
revoking his partnership stung. It did more than sting–it aroused the
same feelings Nick had experienced the morning he had come back from
Los Angeles with Alvin to find Jake and Burton in Burton's office,
acting very chummy, indeed. 
 
I can understand why Dad was pissed off when I begged off that dipshit retreat 
at the last minute, but he
didn't even want to hear why I went, Nick thought. Come to think of
it, he still hasn't. If he even knows about Alvin he sure didn't hear
it from me. And Jake is the one who told Dad about–-Anne. I couldn't
even tell my own father about his grandchild. Mister Suckup had to
get in there first.

"Mr. Fallin? Here's your order," came the counterman's voice. Nick
turned to see the man handing him a plastic shopping bag holding the
containers with his and Lulu's dinners. "That's $35.77." 
 
Nick paid him and took the bag. He headed for the door without looking back.


Burton had been just finishing his dinner when Jake Straka came out
of the men's room and walked over to his table. 
 
"Hi, Burton. Mind if I join you?" he asked. The question was rhetorical–Jake had 
seated
himself as he spoke.

"What do you want?" Burton asked. He lifted his head and saw Nicholas
standing at the bar. Burton's vision problems were not so pronounced
as to cause him to miss his son's body language. Shit, Burton
thought. Straka, your timing reeks.

"Burton, you know the Audit Committee meeting is coming up," Jake
said. "You know, the firm's financial position is a little shaky
lately, and I–"

As Jake was speaking, Burton slid out of the booth and stood up. "In
a minute," he said to Jake and headed toward the door to the parking
lot.

"Humph," Jake said to himself. Only one thing could make Burton
Fallin move that fast, and he knew what–or, rather, who–it was. Never
mind, he thought. He was Managing Partner at Fallin, Straka &
Marsden, and he was calling the shots. As for the Audit Committee and
the firm's finances, he could handle that–as long as Burton played
ball. He pulled the bread basket toward him and extracted a roll.
Hell, the Old Man wasn't going to eat all of it. Why let it go to
waste, especially since somebody else already paid for it?


Burton got to the parking lot as Nick was putting the bag on the
floor of the passenger side of the car. "Ah, Nicholas–" he said. Nick
looked up briefly, then closed the passenger door and walked around
to the driver's side. "Driving Lulu's car, now?"

"Can't put an infant seat in a convertible," Nick said.

"No, I guess not. She's driving your car?"

"McNeil took over the lease. They're okay with it," Nick said.

"That's good," Burton said. "Ah–are we still on for Sunday?"

"I don't know," Nick said. He, Lulu and the baby had started a ritual
of Sunday dinner with Burton when Anne turned a month old, but Burton
still asked and Nick still left the decision up to Lulu. So far they
had kept the date, but Nick had just realized how angry he still was
about the way Jake had arranged his ejection from Fallin & Fallin.
Maybe I'm paranoid, but I don't think I got all the support I could
have there, he thought. That puts a different complexion on some
things.

"Nicholas, I just finished eating when Straka showed up–I didn't
invite him," Burton said.

Well, it damn sure looked like it to me, Nick thought. "It's not my
business," was all he said.

"Nicholas–"

"I take you at your word," Nick said, knowing he was using the same
phrase with which Burton had dismissed him when he returned from the
weekend in Los Angles with the newly diagnosed Alvin. He saw that
Burton realized it, too. "Look, I've got to get back to the house–
Lulu's waiting for dinner." He got in Lulu's black Sebring Limited
convertible and closed the door. Burton stepped back from the car and
Nick pulled out of the parking space and maneuvered the car into the
street. He did not look back at his father, nor wave.

Burton watched the Sebring's taillights until they disappeared into
the traffic. Then, shoulders slumped, he walked back into The
Incline. Jake was still sitting at the booth. Burton sat and regarded
him, not attempting to hide his distaste.

"The waitress wanted to know if you want dessert," Jake said. "I told
her to come back."

"Uh-huh." Burton said. He reached for his coffee cup, and as he did
so, the waitress came over with a carafe. "Let me warm that up for
you, honey," she said. Burton nodded. "You want dessert? We got
apple, pecan, pumpkin and Key Lime pie, chocolate cake, carrot cake,
cheesecake, strawberry cheesecake–"

Burton was about to order when he suddenly remembered the last time
he had eaten a piece of pumpkin pie with his son. Pain at an
opportunity for connecting and communicating missed rose in
him. "No, nothing, thanks, just the check, please," he said to the
waitress.

"Burton, it comes with the meal," Jake said as the waitress went away
to do the final computations.

"I'm aware of that," Burton said coldly. I was eating here when you
were an ache in your father's crotch, and not only do you plunk your
sorry ass down uninvited and get my son more pissed off at me than he
already is, now you're going to tell me what "included with dinner"
means? Who the hell do you think you are, the look he aimed at Jake
clearly said.

Jake read Burton's look and shrugged it off. "What I want to talk to
you about, the audit committee is gong to make a report in about a
week," he said.

"And?"

"And it will help if I can follow up with some good news–like we're
maintaining the previous quarter's income level."

"Well, are we?"

"I thought you knew."

"You're the managing partner–you're supposed to know."

"Well, I don't know what's been going on with you and Stone and a few
of the others."

"You didn't ask us."

"But–"

The waitress came with the check. Burton glanced at it and handed her
a twenty and a five. "Keep the change," he said.

"Thanks, the woman replied, her eyes widening. Her customer had left
a tip closer to 25 percent than the 20 that would have been generous
for a weekday dinner. Burton stood up. "Jake I'll see you tomorrow. I
have an appointment at 8 a.m., so I might be a few minutes late. You
should be able to start the partners' meeting without me." He left.

I bet you'd hold Nick's hand through this, Jake thought. Well, screw
you and him, both.

"Say, you gonna order?" came the waitress' voice. "Nah. I'm outta
here," he replied and extricated himself from the booth. The crusty
old bastard hadn't even offered him a cup of coffee. Damned if he was
buying his own.
 

************
 

Nick took the plate loaded with steak, baked potato and green beans
out of the microwave, where he had reheated it, and put it in front
of Lulu. He proceeded to pile shrimp scampi and rice on another
plate, covered it with plastic wrap and "nuked" it for 30 seconds. He
took the plate out, peeled off the plastic wrap, narrowly avoiding a
steam burn to his right wrist, and took the plate to the table. 
 
"That smells good," Lulu said.

"Do you want some?" Nick asked.

"No spicy food while I'm breast feeding," Lulu said. "Reach me a
steak knife?"

"Sure." Nick handed it to her. Lulu put down the table knife she had
been using and attacked the steak with the sharper, serrated
implement.

"Your father called, just before you got in," she said.

"Oh?"

"He wanted to know about Sunday."

"What'd you say?"

"That I'd ask you. Do you want to go?"

Nick put his fork down. He had used the drive home to go over, yet
again, the SMART Recovery ABC checklist and realized that he was
still sorting out his feelings. Experience had told him that this was
the wrong time to make a decision. "Right now, today, no. but it's
what, Tuesday? There's still time."

"Okay." After a few more mouthfuls. "My mother called. She and Jerry
are coming over."

"When?"

"Tonight."

"Do you want me to stay?"

"I don't know."

"Well–"

"Oh, never mind."

"Oh, by the way, thanks for that newsletter."

"What newsletter?"

"The one from HUD."

"The one I was going to throw away?"

"Yeah, that one."

"What's so great about it?"

"It gave me an idea to save a deal and keep a client."

"Oh." Lulu pushed her hair back. "I don't know why I'm on their
mailing list, but glad it helped." Her words were mildly
enthusiastic, but her tone of voice indicated complete indifference.
There was nothing unusual about that, and Nick disregarded it.

They had finished their meals and Nick picked up the plates and took
them to the sink, where he dumped the remnants of each dinner in the
garbage disposal, rinsed the plates and put them in the dishwasher.

"You don't have to wait on me," Lulu said.

"You've been taking care of the baby all day–and getting the house
put together," Nick replied. "It's the least I can do."

Lulu reflected that it was a relief to get off her feet and have
someone put a meal in front of her. At the same time, because that
someone was Nick, a raft of conflicting feelings rose in her, as they
always did–gratitude to Nick for his thoughtfulness, apprehension for
when he would surely disappoint her, just as everyone else important
to her in her life, including Nick, always had, anger at herself for
needing what he did for her. That anger usually expended itself in
her taking everything out on Nick. She had wanted the house. Nick had
bought it for her, expecting nothing in return, but she resented his
having more money than she did. She resented his being able to give
her things, resented having to depend on him for her and her child's
very life. That he was her child's father and wanted to be part of
Anne's life and hers was a thought she brushed aside.

The sound of a car pulling into the driveway ended Lulu's musings, at
least for the moment. "Oh, God, they're here." 
 
Nick was already taking things out of a cupboard. 
 
"I'll make up some iced tea mix. It can sit in the fridge while they 
look at the baby and the house."

"Okay," Lulu said. "I got some Mint Milanos the other day. We can use
those." She reflected that her fashion-conscious mother would
probably eschew the cookies. Caroline Novak guarded her figure more
carefully than she did her business secrets.
 

************
 

"Quite a house," Jerry Novak said. "This is a great yard for a kid."

"That's one reason I liked it from the minute I saw it," Lulu said.

She, Jerry, Nick and Caroline were seated around a patio table on a
screened porch that extended out from the dining room at the back of
the white colonial house on Amberson Place. Baby Anne was observing
the party from a carrier seat on the table, having awakened from a
nap as the visitors arrived. A cloudless day was fading and the
setting sun bathed the yard in a rose-orange glow.

"You were right," Nick said. "Let's face it, my place on Ellsworth
isn't really meant for kids, and Lulu's house doesn't have much yard,
either."

"What are you going to do with that house, Louisa?" Caroline asked.

"Find a tenant," Lulu replied.

"That's sensible," Jerry, who had been offering Anne his finger to
play with, commented. He leaned back in his chair. Anne squealed and
grabbed for the finger again. "Okay," he said and offered it. "She
know what she wants, doesn't she?"

"Oh, yes," Nick said. Everyone laughed. "I'm considering renting out
my house on Ellsworth, too."

"I thought you had a buyer," Lulu said.

"So did I, but he can't get a mortgage–he called this afternoon,"
Nick said. "Anyway, renting's a good idea–keeps an income stream."

"That's right," Jerry said.

"Would anyone like more iced tea?" Lulu asked. Nick and Jerry
assented, Caroline declined. Lulu poured and stood up. "I'm going to
put her down for the night."

This time, when Jerry withdrew the finger, Anne, who was perceptibly
sleepier, did not object. "Good night, sweetie," Nick said. He kissed
his daughter on the forehead. Lulu picked up the carrier by the
handle.

"Goodnight, honey," Jerry said, Anne yawned.

"I'll go with you," Caroline said. She and Lulu went through French
doors into the dining room.

"She's cute as a button," Jerry said.

"Thanks," Nick replied.

"So what happened about the house on Ellsworth?"

"Financing fell through," Nick said. He pushed the plate of cookies
toward Caroline's husband. The two sipped their iced tea.

"They say the economy's picking up," Jerry said. "You sure couldn't
prove it by some of the real estate market, though."

"Yeah–Moody's just ranked Pittsburgh in the bottom 10 in commercial
real estate. Things are picking up in corporate law, though," Nick
said. "We're hiring 42 summer associates–kids in their second year of
law school–and if they impress us by August, we'll take them on
permanently as soon as they graduate and pass the bar."

"That's at the new firm?" Jerry asked. Nick nodded. "You like it
there?"

"Pretty much," Nick said. He realized it was true. McNeil & Hurley
had a different approach to many things that he found refreshing.
Besides, he reflected, given his salary, the perks and the bonuses,
it would take an awful lot for him not to like his new firm.

"Caroline said she wants to talk to you about transferring her legal
business," Jerry said.

"My card case is in my jacket," Nick said. "Remind me when we go back
in the house and I'll give you one."

Bits and pieces of the conversation drifted up to the open nursery
window as Lulu began getting Anne ready for bed. "Why such bright
colors?" Caroline asked. "Isn't a nursery supposed to be tranquil,
calming?"

"Down Syndrome children need as much stimulation as possible," Lulu
said. She finished changing Anne's diaper and put an infant sleeper
suit on the baby. She put a cloth diaper over her left shoulder, sat
in the rocking chair in one corner of the nursery and unbuttoned her
top.

Caroline watched briefly as her daughter began to nurse her baby and
then averted her gaze. "Who did the decorating?" she asked.

"Nick got somebody in," Lulu said. "It was all ready when we brought
her home from the hospital." She finished nursing the baby, dabbed
carefully at her nipple with the cloth diaper, rearranged her
clothing, put the baby over her shoulder and patted her back. Anne
burped. Lulu watched as her daughter's eyes, which had taken on the
blue-green cast of her father's, slowly closed. She laid the baby on
her back in her crib.

"Yes, the hospital," Caroline said. "Now, Louisa–"

Lulu hoped her mother didn't see that she had flinched. Whenever
Caroline started a sentence with "Now, Louisa," something unpleasant,
possibly distasteful, was about to follow.

"I've been giving this a great deal of thought," Caroline
said. "Don't you think it would–" She stopped. "Don't you think it
would be for the best if–she–were with–with–her own kind?"

Lulu's jaw dropped. "What?" she managed.

"Louisa, think," Caroline said. She leaned forward and opened her
purse. "I've been looking into this. There are several places for–for–
children like–like–her." She took out several brochures and spread
them on the chest of drawers that, like everything else in the room
was painted in complementary bright colors on the drawer fronts,
sides and top. "She'd be well cared for, by people who know best how
to deal with–this kind of child."

"Oh, I see." Lulu paced around the nursery, which adjoined the master
bedroom. "I don't–I'm only her mother. Thank you."

"I don't doubt you're fully capable of looking after her," Caroline
said. "But you have to consider your future."

Lulu looked at her. "I don't understand," she said coldly.

"Are you going to go back to work?"

"I don't know. Later, maybe."

"What will you do with–her?"

"Day care. And her name is Anne."

"Do you really think there's a day care center that will want–her–ah,
Anne–with–with–normal children?"

"I don't see why not," Lulu said coldly.

"Lulu," Caroline used her daughter's nickname for the first
time, "think. She'll make other children uncomfortable. They'll tease
her. And how will she feel? Watching other children do things she
can't, trying to–to–talk, to catch a ball–all those things?"

"She's seven weeks old," Lulu retorted. "At this point we don't know
what she'll be able to do and what she won't. And there's a program
at Pitt that's very good for Down Syndrome children. Burton's already
offered to pay for it."

"Burton Fallin may be a good lawyer," Caroline said. "But he never
had any sense about some things."

"If by that you mean he loves and accepts his granddaughter, then
you're right," Lulu snapped.

Caroline switched gears. "Speaking of having some sense, why haven't
you married Nick?"

"Why should I, just because he's Anne's father?"

"Precisely because he's Anne's father."

"Mother–"

"Look, Louisa," Caroline sat in the rocking chair where Lulu had
nursed Anne. "You have a scar from a caesarean across your stomach–"
"It's a six-inch `smile' incision, and it's on my abdomen. And it's
fading already," Lulu came back.

"So? It's still a scar. You are less desirable. And what other man
will look at you, a single mother with a–a–"

"Defective child? That's what you were going to say, isn't it? You're
really hitting below the belt tonight, aren't you?"

"I'm trying to help you. Nick has money, he wants to support you, he
wants to support–her. And let's face it, Louisa, who else will ever
want you?"

"I'm damaged goods?"

"Right now, you're living in a house he bought you, he buys the
groceries and everything else. There's a name for that, and like you
children say, if it walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck and
swims like a duck–Louisa, it's easier and neater to be a man's wife,
not his–kept woman."

"You should know."

"I do know." Caroline looked directly at her daughter. "Your father
divorced me–but I still got child support and alimony. His Navy
service benefits helped pay some of your way through college. Being
married, even if it ends in divorce, still has economic advantages
over not being married, especially so for someone in your position.
I'm just saying you should think about it." Caroline stood up. "Nick
is with that new firm, isn't he?"

"Yes."

"What happened there? I thought he'd be working with Burton forever."

"I don't really know," Lulu said. I do know some of what happened,
but there's no way I'm ever telling you, she thought.

"Well, I don't want to leave my business with the other place if he's
not there," Caroline said. She reflected that it was true. Like all
bullies, she respected someone who was tougher than she was and who
refused to give in to her. Nick qualified on both counts. He hadn't
caved in to her when she had gone before a federal grand jury and the
way he had prepared her to testify had probably played a major part
in her remaining unindicted. "I don't like that Straka person,
anyway," she added.

Probably because you're too much alike, Lulu thought, but didn't say.
Why pour gasoline on the fire? "You'll have to talk to Nick about
that. I'm not his secretary," she said.

"And Jerry is probably ready to leave. We both have to go to work in
the morning," Caroline said. At the door, she paused. "Louisa, think
about what I've said. She'll be happier with other children like her,
you'll be able to pick up where you left off, and don't forget about
Nick. He's there; he's available and besides, he got you pregnant."

She left the nursery, went through the master bedroom and on
downstairs. Lulu followed, shaking her head. On more than one
occasion Caroline had said or done things that strained credulity,
but this conversation would continue to sting for a very long time.
 

***************
 

Nick reclined on the double bed that had come from Lulu's old house.
He punched up the pillows so that he could sit up against the
headboard, collected the depositions he had been reading for a case
he was preparing and put them in a folder. He put the folder on the
night table, ready for him to pick up and put in his briefcase. He
reached for a battered copy of "Up the Organization" that he had
found in Alvin's office among several volumes that the LSP acting
director had been about to discard because the new bookshelves and
handrails in his office had left no room for them. Leafing though the
book, Nick had found several passages familiar–Walter McNeil had
quoted them. "Sure, take it," Alvin had said. Nick had done just that
and now it made up a good part of his send-himself-to-sleep reading.
Walter seemed to have applied a good many of its tenets and Nick,
aside from a natural desire to stand in well with his employer, had
found that much of the book meshed with the new lifestyle he was
trying to develop with the aid of the SMART Recovery program.

He smiled to himself and looked at the bedside clock–2:30 a.m.
Right about now Anne should start whimpering, in need of a change and
a bottle. Nick's door was open and he knew he would hear her. Sure
enough, there she went. He closed the book on his finger and got up,
thanking the instinct that had made him tell Lulu that Jerry and
Caroline had left too late for him to go back to 1980 Ellsworth that
night. He kept some of his wardrobe and a spare razor and
accouterments at the house on Amberson Place, gradually adding to
them against the day when he would be completely moved in, so
tomorrow–in this case, later this morning–he could shave, shower,
dress and go to work.

He padded noiselessly down the hall and across the master bedroom,
already familiar enough with his surroundings to avoid disturbing
Lulu by bumping into the furniture or turning on a light. He went
into the nursery and closed the door almost completely–Lulu left a
shaded nightlight on, but he'd need more candle power to change a
diaper without putting it on the wrong end. How the word had gotten
around at McNeil & Hurley that he was a new father he didn't know,
but several people had congratulated him and shared war stories, one
of which was a cautionary tale about the consequences of not using
enough light to see what you were doing. "The kid will go right back
to sleep if you rock a little," his new friend had advised. "But my
wife is still laughing at me."

The nursery held a small refrigerator. Lulu used a breast pump so
several four-ounce bottles were waiting. Nick took one out, put it in
the bottle warmer on top of the unit and while it heated, changed the
baby. 
 
"You know, your mommy and I were lucky–we came along after
disposable diapers were invented," he told Anne as he worked. "We
never got stuck by an open diaper pin–and you won't, either." Anne
gurgled and cooed. Nick finished the diaper change just as Anne
screwed up her face. 
 
"Okay, okay," Nick said, "I know–your tummy's empty. Let's just sit down 
over here, and let's get your bottle. It's all ready." He tested the milk 
on his wrist–despite the bottle warmer guarantee, he still trusted his 
instincts more. "Here we go."

He seated himself in the rocker and held Anne at the proper angle.
She sucked at the bottle and he opened the book. 
 
"Okay, what were we reading here? `No-Nos: Machiavellian self-promoting 
strategies. Every
success I've ever had came about because I was trying to help other
people.' Well, well, You know what, Anne? Just today, my boss said
something like that to me. He's read this book, too." Anne finished
the bottle and Nick reached to put it on the dresser, which stood
nearby. Still seated in the rocker, he sat Anne on his lap, leaned
her forward, supporting her with his right hand, and rubbed her back
with his left.

"I put her on my shoulder," Lulu said from the doorway. Nick looked
up.

"Laurie told me about this. It works, too," Nick said. Anne
underlined his remark with an audible burp.

"As long as something does," Lulu said. "What was that you were
reading?"

"It was Alvin's–`Up the Organization.' Did I wake you? I'm sorry."
 
"Sounds like something he'd have."

"Walter McNeil keeps quoting it. I don't think he'd admit that he
ever read it, though. It's that kind of book. You don't talk about it–
you just go and apply it." Nick stood up and put the sleeping Anne in
her crib. "Goodnight, sugar. Do mommy a favor and stay asleep until
seven o'clock, okay?"

"Actually, she's been sleeping through the night after this feeding,"
Lulu said.

"Great," Nick replied. He stood and picked up the bottle. "I'll take
this downst–" As he picked up the used, empty bottle, he saw the
brochures Caroline had brought, spread out across the dresser top.

"My mother left those," Lulu said. "I almost gave her some explicit
and personal instructions about where to put them." She looked at
Nick's facial expression. "Really, Nick. I would never, ever give
Anne away."

"When my mother died, my father shipped me off to boarding school
first thing," Nick said. "I think he–got rid–of me about a week after
she died."

Lulu had never cared much about Nick's emotions, being concerned
entirely with her own. Motherhood had made her aware of the needs and
wants of a child, however, and some of that awareness now extended to
Nick. She reached out to touch his arm. "That's why you'd never want
that for Anne," she said softly.

"It still hurts," Nick said. "And what happened two months ago
brought it all back." Still wary of exposing the feelings those
memories brought, he moved away from the subject a little. "This
stuff might be helpful, though."

"Oh?"

"Maybe there's somebody at one of these places who'd rather take care
of one child at a time instead of a crowd scene."

"You think I can't take care of–"

"I think you shouldn't have to do everything yourself. It hurts to
see you working this hard with no help. Please, just think about a
nanny. If nothing else, you could catch a nap when Anne does."

Lulu reflected. Since Anne was born, she couldn't remember when she'd
last gotten enough sleep. Nick's taking the late night feedings was a
precious gift, although she would never tell him so. "You sure know
the right moment to hit a girl with a proposition," she said,
yawning.

Nick turned off the table lamp under the light from which he had
changed and fed his daughter. The night light glowed as they left the
nursery. Lulu started toward her bed. "Leave the bottle. I'll take it
down in the morning," she told Nick

"Since I'm holding it–"

"No, really," She turned, took the bottle from him and put it on her
night table. She took off her robe and put it at the foot of her bed,
then sat on the bed's edge and removed her slippers. She looked at
Nick. "What my mother said about Anne and–those places–I was about–
oh, nine, I think, when my mother got very–domestic–for a while. She
did all sorts of baking, sewing–the whole Suzy Homemaker bit. Maybe
she was trying to hold on to my father. Anyway, I came home from
school one day and she'd baked an apple pie. It was really beautiful.
It tasted great, too, I remember. I had to take out the trash after
dinner, so I put this little plastic grocery bag of stuff in the
garbage can, and there was this whole other pie she'd made. It was
just as pretty as the one we ate, but it was burned a little bit on
the bottom. My mother has always discarded imperfect first efforts.
She's trying to make me do it, too."

Nick shook head. "That's your mother, I guess. But I really want you
to have a nanny or someone, Lulu. You really deserve it."

As he spoke, Lulu had moved slightly away from the edge of the bed.
The meaning of the gesture was unmistakable.

For a long moment Nick hesitated. Then he moved toward the bed and
reached to switch off Lulu's bedside light. Lulu waited. "Nick–?"

"I'll help you with your situps before I go to work." Lulu had taken
to doing some callisthenics to try to get her figure back and Nick,
at her request, held her ankles.

"I thought– " She sat up and switched the light back on. "Nick, do
you still think I–I'm–desirable?"

Nick bit his lip. "Why are you doing this to me?"

"I have a C-section scar, I weigh more than I used to. I just–I need
to know if I'm still attractive."

"Is this about–?" Nick caught himself before the name "Suzanne Pell"
could get out of his mouth. "Lulu, I'm the wrong person to ask."

"Why?"

"Because I would want you if you weighed 300 pounds, had hair that
looked like you'd been struck by lightning and wore a bone in your
nose."

In spite of herself Lulu giggled. Then she sobered. "But I have this
scar–" she began.

"A scar you got bearing my daughter," Nick said. "That alone would
make you even sexier."

"Well," Lulu said. She eyed him provocatively. "Do you want to see
it?"

"Yes, I do," Nick said. "And I won't scream and run–just the
opposite. But if I look at it I'm not going to want to stop at just
looking. And if I put my sweaty hands on you instead of on this–" he
tapped the book he was still holding, "–we'll both regret it. Now is
not the time."

"Will there be a time?" Lulu asked.

"Oh, yes. Always. But not now." He looked at Lulu's clock radio. "Its
almost four. We both need sleep as much as the baby does." He moved
toward the door. "Look, what I wanted to tell you, I got a new client
at McNeil today who has a problem connected with a case at LSP. I saw
Alvin. He wants to know if you're going back to work. I told him to
ask you."

"Is that why you want me to have a nanny for her?"

"No. I want you to have a nanny so you can get some rest. Go back to
work, don't go back to work, it's your decision. I'll still pay child
support–hell, I'll increase it if you want."

"I didn't mean that. What's the case about?"

"Lax supervision, an abusive boyfriend, prostitution."

"Oh." Lulu yawned. "The usual."

"Just about. Good night, Lulu."

" 'Night." As Nick left the room, Lulu turned out the light. She fell
asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow.

For Nick, reaching sleep took longer. The thought of
institutionalizing Anne made him clench his fists in fury. All he
could do about that was let Caroline know that her legal business
wasn't enough to make him agree with her. And then there was
Turnbull's IPO, which was a simple matter, and Turnbull's daughter,
who wasn't. And overriding them all was Lulu. His body ached with
wanting her. I know I did the right thing, tonight, he thought. But
why does it have to hurt so much?

The End of Chapter 1 and a Very Long Day In the Life of Nick Fallin
 
--+--
 
Chapter 2

"Morning, everyone," Burton Fallin greeted most of the members of the
Fallin, Straka & Marsden executive committee who were seated at the
conference room table. "Straka not here yet?"

"This is the third time he's called a meeting and hasn't been here to
start it," Barry Landsburg groused. "Some managing partner."

"Well, if he's staying overnight at Kate Shaw's, that accounts for it–
it's a long way in from Fox Chapel," Dave Marsden said.

"Fox Chapel, nothing," Madeleine Doucette, the only woman on the
firm's executive committee, snorted. "He lives in the Mexican War
District. That's pretty close to Downtown. If he's not here it's
probably because he's just waking up at his place."

"Well, whether he's awake or asleep, I don't want to step on his
toes, but I have to tell you, we've just lost another client," Burton
said.

"Who is it this time?" Clay Simms asked.

"Turnbull Coatings."

"Turnbull Coatings? That sounds–wait a minute. Didn't they want to do
an IPO?" Bill Gordon asked. It was his responsibility to review new
business.

Burton nodded. "That's what the file says."

"Whose client was Turnbull?" from Marsden.

Burton handed the file to Gordon, who opened it and skimmed the first
page. "Jake Straka has source credit. Initial meeting–Nicholas
Fallin." He looked at everyone around the table. "Looks like there
was a note in here that's gone somehow–probably a file flag. Jake
took the file back the day before Nick–left."

"Turnbull said after the–initial interview–he didn't hear anything
from anybody. That's why he decided to take it to another firm,"
Burton said.

Gordon looked through the folder some more. "It looks like Jake
didn't do anything with it."

"Let's hope not," Clay Simms said.

"Why?" Doucette asked. Comprehension dawned. "Oh. Oh, yes."

"Jake never in my hearing said anything that indicated he knew why
Turnbull came in here–just ran into the guy, Turnbull said he was
shopping for a law firm and Jake told him to make an appointment,"
Burton said. "And I know Nicholas didn't–ah–get a chance to tell him
that Turnbull wanted to do an IPO."

"Okay, then, right now we're in the clear, but let's make sure we
stay that way," Gordon said. "And that means we do some serious butt-
covering. As soon as this meeting breaks up, everybody–and I mean
everybody, this committee, all the partners, associates, paralegals,
the secretaries, everybody–make out sworn affidavits that they never
heard anything about Turnbull Coatings from Jake Straka. Copies in
the file and keep a set here. And for God's sake, don't say anything
to him. We can't afford even a hint of an impropriety."

"Will the feds accept that?" Marsden asked.

"I sure hope so," Gordon said.

"Yeah," Simms said sourly. He had been defending a client in Chicago
for the previous four months. While he had not been physically
present to cast votes at partners' or executive committee meetings,
he was able, conscientious and aware of the importance of watching
his back as well as everything else. He had, therefore, made it his
business to be familiar with all the developments at the firm where
he headed the criminal defense division, including Jake's standing–or
lack thereof– with the Securities and Exchange Commission. "Because
if they don't, all that's left is bend way over, grab your ankles and
kiss your ass goodbye." He glanced at Doucette. "Maddie, don't sue me
for harassment."

"That's all we need," Landsburg said. "Speaking of suing, what
happened to the discrimination suit? I haven't heard about that in a
while."

"Kestle dropped it," Doucette said. "It was frivolous, anyway."

"Are you saying that because you believe it or because you think you
should say it?" Burton asked.

"I'm aware of the pervasive bias against women in this town,"
Doucette said. "Frivolous suits like that one won't crack the glass
ceiling any faster. Besides, there wasn't a single thing Beth
Jacobsen cited that any of us–including me–haven't said or done to an
associate at one time or another. When I joined this firm, just out
of law school, if I remember– " she smiled at Burton, "–more than
once I was asked to get coffee or make dinner reservations. So were
the men in my associate class. And the policy about meetings and
conference calls was then and is now, you know when they're
scheduled, so be there for them. If you're not, it's your own fault.
And if you start asking irrelevant questions in a client meeting, any
partner who wants to keep the client is going to kick you out."

It sure would have been nice if you'd said that at the time, Burton
thought. All he said, though was, "All right."

At that moment, Jake Straka breezed through the conference room
doors. "Morning, everybody," he said. "Maddie, Dave, weren't we going
to have breakfast at Steel City?"

"We did," Marsden said.

"Oh. Well, I guess you're a little ahead of me," Jake said.

"Yeah, a little," Marsden said. He, Doucette and Gordon had met at
the Steel City Diner, a local breakfast-and-lunch place on Liberty
Avenue, a two-minute walk from the Frick Building, shortly after the
restaurant opened at 6 a.m. Jake had walked into the conference room
at twenty minutes to ten. The rest of the executive committee
exchanged glances that Jake was too busy looking for the envelope on
the back of which his meeting notes were scribbled to notice.

"Well, I wanted to discuss summer associates," Marsden said.

"Summer associates, right," Jake said. "They're coming in next week,
aren't they?"

"Nope," Marsden said.

Jake stopped looking in one pocket after another and stared at the
senior executive partner. "What do you mean, `Nope'?"

"Just what I said. We're not hiring a summer associate class this
year. I sent out letters rescinding the offer two weeks ago. It was
short notice, but I asked around and most of the kids will still be
able to get in at other firms."

"What the hell did you do that for?"

"Two reasons," Marsden said. "Number one, we don't have enough work
for them, and number two, even if we did, we can't afford them."

"What?!"

"We do what every other firm does, pay at the same rate we would a
first-year associate. That's 25 kids at $18,270 each–10 weeks worth
of $95,000 a year. It adds up to $456,700, and that's not including
benefits and the cost of administering them all–calculating their
withholding, temporarily adding them to our insurance, all that. It
costs us at least another $250,000," Marsden said. "As head of the
Personnel Committee, I met with the head of the Audit Committee–Clay,
here–and the comptroller and we discussed it. Given the overall
financial picture, something had to go. There weren't any good
choices; axing the summer associate class was the least painful."

"How does that make us look to every other firm in town?" Jake
demanded.

Burton stirred in his chair. "You know, Jake, I first took on summer
associates almost twenty years ago–one of the first things I did when
this firm got big enough to justify it. So if anybody should be
asking that question, I should. But I really don't give a damn what
we look like to anybody else. What I care about is what this tells us
about the financial situation we're in." Several other people nodded
and some mutterings were heard.

"And the Audit Committee report won't be final until next week, but I
can tell you this: there's not all that much in the cookie jar,"
Simms said. He looked around the table. "As if we didn't have enough
problems, the bank is calling in a note for $750,000 in ten days,
receivables are drying up and we have to look at cost recovery–what
we're charging the clients for things like photocopies and phone
calls. That's taking a bigger bite out of the cash flow than it
should. We don't have to make any decisions yet, but every division
is going to have to think about making a 10 percent cut. Don't for
God's sake let that get out–if the secretaries hear about it, they'll
start a panic."

Jake's response was a fornicatory malediction more commonly heard in
locker rooms.

"Get in line–I'll consider your application." Simms was unfazed. "It
doesn't change anything, though."

"What about our existing business?" Jake asked.

"What existing business? We just lost about 60 clients," Landsburg
said.

"What 60 clients?" Jake paused. "Oh." He turned to the Of
Counsel. "Burton, don't you have some business that you keep in
house?"

"About $3 million worth," Burton said.

"Well?"

"Only it's not in the house any more."

"It's not?"

"I transitioned it to my son," Burton said.

"You can't do that!!" Jake yipped.

"Oh, can't I?" Burton said coldly.

"Actually, he can," Landsburg interjected. "According to the Articles
of Organization governing this firm, any partner can withdraw
business he brought into the firm and which he handles himself if he
so chooses. It's in the same subsection with the articles governing a
partner's right to take any or all of his clients when he or she
leaves for any reason. "

More looks were exchanged. Without glancing at Doucette or Gordon,
Burton could read their minds. Gordon had been promised half of
Hostetler Coal, the biggest client the firm had ever had, and one
that had been landed solely by Nicholas Fallin. Doucette had been
promised Bluestone Plastics, another of Nick's clients, in exchange
for her vote to keep Nick at the firm. They and Landsburg had cast
votes in Nick's favor despite the fact that, due to a murder as he
was seeing his last two community service clients he had missed the
meeting at which his remaining with the firm was decided. At that
meeting, Jake had nevertheless persuaded the majority of executive
committee members to revoke Nick's partnership. When Nicholas left,
his clients went with him–and so had the $300,000 it had taken to buy
him out as an equity partner. Whatever Jake had promised in return
for the other committee members' "no" votes, he obviously hadn't been
able to deliver. And Burton, despite officially retiring from the
firm's day-to-day management, had still kept up with the daily
balance sheets. In almost two months, the firm's new managing partner
hadn't brought in a nickel's worth of new business himself. As he
devoted more attention to his impending nuptials, his billable hours
had dropped as well. No wonder our collective ass is scraping the
ground, Burton thought. I hope some people are pleased with
themselves.

"And that's where we are right now," Marsden said. "Unless you have
something else, Jake, I suggest we adjourn this meeting and go out
and try to hustle ourselves some new business."

Jake brought up the rear as the committee headed out of the
conference room. "Dave, I thought you were on my side," he said to
the senior executive partner, who was just ahead of him as they filed
out through the sliding glass doors.

"I'm on my own side," Marsden replied. "We made you managing partner
because you promised results. Two months and I haven't seen any." He
turned and walked away.

Smarting from the comment, Jake walked to his office. That was
another thorn in his side–here he still was, in the office next to
what had once been Nick Fallin's. All that wheeling and dealing to
move up to the managing partner slot and he still had the same
cubbyhole–or so he regarded the space– he'd started with. He'd never
even thought about, much less suggested, moving into Nick's office.
What was the point in moving next door, window or no, when he
deserved the head man's spot? When was that old fart Burton going to
move out and let him have what was rightfully his?

"You can't expect him to move out right away," a voice said.

Jake jumped perceptibly, only then aware he had spoken aloud. "How
the hell did you get in here?" he demanded of the young woman who was
sitting in his visitor's chair.

"Nobody asked for my keys back when I left," Sandra Kestle said. "Too
surprised, I guess."

"Yeah, well, what do you want?" Jake snarled as he shut the door and
closed his blinds. One good thing about this office–it was almost at
the end of a corridor and few people had any occasion to walk by and
look in.

"Now is that any way to talk to the person who made you managing
partner?"

"Oh, you made me managing partner, did you? How?"

"Don't tell me that lawsuit didn't have a lot to do with it."

"Lawsuit? Oh, that lawsuit."

"It was your idea."

"It was, huh?"

"You said it yourself–`Somebody ought to sue that bastard'–meaning
Nick Fallin."

"When did I say that?"

"A couple of months ago."

"Where?"

"Your office, my office, the Incline. I don't remember. Anyway, it's
irrelevant. You know why I'm here–I want my job back."

"Uh-huh." Jake leaned forward. "You know, that remark about suing,
that's a pretty significant statement. If I made a comment like that,
I'd sure remember where and when I said it."

"Now, wait a minute–"

"I don't remember saying it, you don't remember where or when I said
it–if I said it. Anyway, you dropped the suit, so obviously you
didn't think it was that important."

"My lawyer reviewed Nick's deposition and said it would take more
time and money to try to prove any of that than I was likely to
collect." Kestle leaned forward. "And since when does a deponent get
grilled the way Jacobsen grilled Nick in front of the executive
committee and half the partners? My lawyer said he'd never heard of
an inquisition like that in all the years he'd been in practice. Any
judge with half a brain would take one look at it and throw the whole
thing out of court. Dropping it saved us both a lot of time and
money. And you still got what you wanted–this whole damn firm. You
owe me, Straka."

"I do, huh? You're the one who can't remember conversations, you're
the one who quit, you're the one who filed a frivolous lawsuit with
no merit whatsoever. You want your job back? No, I don't think you'd
be an asset to this firm."

"I brought in 2,100 billable hours last year. I was
rated `excellent'` on almost all my performance reviews. Besides,
Burton asked me to come back when I first quit," Kestle replied.

"Yeah, well, Burton doesn't run things around here any more–I do."
Jake told her. "And I don't think I'd feel comfortable with an
associate who sued us. If any prospective employers happen to ask me
informally–like over a drink somewhere–how it is you're no longer
with us, I'll be duty bound to tell them. It's a matter of public
record, after all. And I'll have to mention that your work started to
fall off about three months before the partnership committee met."

Kestle stared at Jake. "You know why my work started to `fall off,'
Straka. And you know what the real story is behind some of
those "incidents' I cited in the lawsuit," she said. Jake was
silent. "Nick wasn't the only person who voted against me in that
partnership meeting, was he?" The silence filled Jake's office almost
palpably. "You son of a bitch," she breathed.

Jake put his intertwined fingers behind his head, tilted his chair
back and put his feet on his desk. "Yeah, I'm a son of a bitch," he
said. "I'm the managing partner son of a bitch. I'm the son of a
bitch with a job."

"I'm a single mother with a child to support."

"Too bad you didn't think of that before." Jake's air of smug
complacency became even more infuriating. "You can always try that
place where Nick did time–LSP."

Kestle's mouth dropped. Then she recovered enough to gasp, "A
nonprofit that runs on a shoestring? Do you know what they pay?"

"Yeah, 29, 30 grand. Hey, it's better than nothing. Since you quit,
you can't even collect unemployment. You quit, so you can't sue us
for retaliating against you after you first filed. LSP's the only
chance you're likely to get. And if Nick's still there, maybe you can
get him fired again."

"Oh, sure. Trying to stick it to Nick Fallin, wherever he is. That's
really what I want for a career."

Jake smiled a sharklike smile. "Get out of here before somebody sees
you and I have to call security and tell them you're trespassing."

Kestle gave him a cold look as she stood up. "Thanks for nothing."

Jake smiled some more. "Don't let the doorknob hit you in the ass."

**************

"As we know, once the International Trade Commission has determined
that American companies are being injured by below-fair-value imports
of a product, the way is open for duties to be imposed on that
product," Nick told the rest of the McNeil & Hurley partners at the
weekly policy meeting at which new business and where the firm was
heading in general were discussed. "The Department of Commerce also
operates a Trade Compliance Center that takes complaints from small
and mid-size companies. And an Unfair Trade Practices Task Force has
been formed to address the worst abuses by foreign trading partners.
But very few companies know that these resources exist."

"Our clients sure didn't," Walter McNeil said. The clients of which
he spoke comprised a group of manufacturers of THFA, a solvent used
in the electronics, wood refinishing and paint industries. The group
had come to McNeil & Hurley because their business was being undercut
by imports of the chemical that were priced far more cheaply than the
domestic product.

"That's part of the problem," Nick agreed. "A group of bedroom
furniture manufacturers learned about anti-dumping laws only after
they paid a law firm $75,000 and had to close dozens of factories and
eliminate something like 35,000 jobs. The way I see this, we can
solve the THFA manufacturers' problems in the short term and clean
them out in the process or we can help them get the answers they need
without soaking them and keep them as long-term clients–and have a
good shot at landing anybody else they tell about us. "

"Long-range thinking," Brad Fulton said. "I'm glad to see that."

"Well, I like to think we're building something here," Nick
said. "And dumping isn't the only problem companies in this state and
everywhere else in the country are facing. Just last week an
Assistant Department of Commerce Secretary went to the Zippo factory
in Bradford to see how the government can help with the rampant
overseas counterfeiting they're contending with. Zippo employs about
700 people and they won't manufacture overseas. So far, they've spent
about $10 million investigating foreign counterfeiters– with limited
success. I want to get us a piece of that. And besides, Pennsylvania
lost more than 150,000 manufacturing jobs since January 2001. If we
don't help companies like Turnbull and Zippo and the guys we saw
today keep some of those jobs here, there won't be too many companies
for us to represent."

There were murmurs of agreement from other partners. "And that leads
in very nicely to what I wanted to talk about," McNeil said. "I know
we've all had a chance to look at the American Lawyer Magazine Top
200 list." He looked around the conference table and saw nods.

"Last year, Am Law decided its 100 and 200 financial lists shouldn't
be the only standard for the profession," McNeil recapped. "Instead,
they compiled a list of four core professional values that lawyers
lay claim to: successful law practice, measured by revenue per
lawyer; pro bono performance; decent treatment and development of
young lawyers, and diversity of workplace, and assessed these four
things objectively. This is the second year they ran their Top 200
list. Two Pittsburgh firms are on it. We're not one of them. Next
year, I'd like this firm to make that list. I don't expect us to make
the top 20 right out of the box, but given the standards they set, I
think we can get in the top 200, and to me, that's a good start."

"What do we have to do?" a partner named Rosenthal asked.

"Looking over their criteria, I think we don't have to do anything
all that different, but we probably should intensify our efforts in
some directions," McNeil replied. "They think revenue per lawyer and
pro bono work are the most important of the four categories. They
maintain that RPL is both a fair measure of the success of a firm's
practice and a surrogate for client quality and satisfaction. A
firm's primary duty is to its clients, both its paying and needy
ones. Important clients can retain any firm, so their willingness to
pay top dollar is a rough measure of what they think a firm is worth.
We're bringing in a good number of new clients and hanging on to our
existing ones. Thank you, everyone, and keep up the good work.

"As for pro bono, providing high-quality, free legal services to the
poor and to organizations that serve the poor is a bedrock
professional value. Firms report their activities to Am Law each
year, and get ranked by a formula that includes both per capita hours
and the number of firm lawyers who perform at least 20 hours of
service annually." He paused. "Now, Nick, here has ties to one of the
busiest legal clinics in Pittsburgh, and some of you have said you're
interested in working with him. I gather Legal Services of Pittsburgh
can use the help, can't they?" He turned to Nick.

"Considering they took a major hit when their state funding got cut,
they certainly can," Nick said.

"Okay, Nick, besides running the corporate division, I'd like you to
handle assigning pro bono business the same way Brad here runs the
corporate gift program. We'll give you a couple of associates to
administer the program and what will happen is, people who want to do
pro bono can either take LSP cases or, if there's some other area
they're interested in, they can arrange it through your new
department."

"Sure," Nick said. "I think, though, that the time the associates
spend administering this program and assisting should count toward
their pro bono hours."

"Fair enough," a senior partner named Langdon said. Others nodded.

"Okay with me," McNeil nodded appreciatively, pleased that Nick had
exhibited the managerial trait of concern for his people as well as
himself. "As for the other two categories, Am Law holds–and I think
we all agree–that training and developing the next generation of
lawyers is one of the profession's key missions. Am Law surveys third-
and fourth-year, midlevel, associates every spring to assess how
firms fulfill that duty. I think our associates are pretty happy with
us, but I'd like to hear opinions on how we could improve in that
area, too."

Performance reviews of partners by associates, Nick thought. Now
there's a concept. I might still be at F&F–hell, F&F might still be
F&F–if we'd had something like that. "I like the idea," he said
aloud. "Of course, you have to create a system where an associate can
evaluate a partner honestly, without recriminations."

"And honest criticism has to be listened to and acted on," Fulton
said. " It won't do any good if honest, specific criticism gets
entered into the record but nothing ever happens." There were nods
around the table.

"All right, then," McNeil said. "I'd like each department head to
give me an outline for handling criticism upward by Monday. As for
diversity, all I can say is, I try to hire the best candidate for
whatever position is open, and I know all of you do the same. I don't
care about gender, race, creed or who–or what–anyone sleeps with. The
only way I discriminate is by class standing for summer interns and
new associates, mainly because that's the best way to predict how
somebody is going to perform. As for lateral acquisitions–associates
and partners from other firms–I let their records do the talking."

"We all do," Langdon said. "All things considered, it works pretty
well." He smiled at Nick, who ducked his head. There was no hiding
his pleased look, though.

"Well," McNeil said, "when we next meet we'll have something to talk
over. If there's nothing else–" he looked around the table "–this
meeting is adjourned. Thank you, everyone."

As people started to leave the conference room the telephone rang.
Nick, who was nearest the instrument, picked it up. He listened
briefly, then said, "Thanks, Ginny," and put it down, reflecting that
Ginny was better than that KidFinder thing Rob had invented for
finding him. It was uncanny how the woman always knew where he was.

He headed out of the conference room and overtook McNeil, who was a
few paces ahead of him. "Walter, if you wouldn't mind, I'd like you
to be present when I meet with this client," he told his employer.

"Whatever," McNeil said. "Mind if I ask why?"

"We were just talking about making the AmLaw Top 200," Nick
said. "Well, this is one client who'd be worth at least ten years of
litigation fees–but I may not want her business."

"So, do you want to give me a hint about who she is and why you may
not want her?"

"The firm is Travelmaster–relocated from Philadelphia last year.
Fallin & Fallin's been representing them."

"Uh-huh. And?"

"President and CEO is one Caroline Archer Novak. I–we–helped her
through an appearance before a federal grand jury in 2003. They found
no true bill, although I have to say I was ready for it to go either
way. She's my–significant other's–mother and my daughter's
grandmother, not that she'd ever admit it. She and her current
husband were visiting last night and she said she wanted to take her
business to us. "

"Okay," McNeil said. He was familiar with Nick's living arrangements,
although he scrupulously withheld comment about his employees'
private lives. McNeil & Hurley corporate culture held that as long as
someone's lifestyle didn't interfere with their work, what they did
in their off time was their own business. However, Walter McNeil
didn't hesitate to let his people know that he was there for them if
they needed his help with a problem. If he couldn't solve it for them
he'd try to point them in the direction of someone or something that
offered a solution. In this he wasn't entirely altruistic, he freely
admitted–anyone who had outside problems so intense they couldn't
function wasn't much use to the firm, but before cutting loose a
valued employee who had made a significant contribution to the firm
he'd try to help work things out. The result was, people at McNeil
and Hurley seemed to genuinely enjoy working at the firm and turned
in a high level of performance as a result. Also, there was very
little turnover and the firm spared itself the upheaval that
accompanied a key player leaving. "And that means–?"

"The price of taking on Travelmaster is institutionalizing my
daughter," Nick said.

McNeil noted the pinched look around the corners of Nick's mouth and
the sudden steely glint in his eyes. This Caroline Novak doesn't know
what she's up against, he thought. "What does–ah–Louisa–think about
it?" he asked.

"She's not in favor of the idea," Nick said.

"At least you're proceeding from a united front," McNeil said. As
they talked they had been heading toward Nick's office, where Ginny,
Nick's secretary, had informed him Caroline was waiting.

"Yes, we're in complete agreement about it," Nick said. That was one
place where he and Lulu were on the same page, he thought.

"What if someone else took on Travelmaster? That would keep the
client for the firm and get you off the hook."

"Knowing Caroline, she'd just use it as an edge," Nick said. "I
wouldn't want to put someone else in the middle." Nick stopped and so
did McNeil. "Walter, I have to tell you, this is a lot of money we're
talking about here. It might be in the firm's best interests to grab
Travelmaster, and the hell with how I feel."

"The way you've been bringing in new clients, it's pretty obvious
you've got the firm's best interests at heart all the time," McNeil
said. "I think you've earned the right to call this one the way you
want to. Travelmaster comes to us on our terms or not at all."

"Thanks," Nick said, thinking, that doesn't begin to cover it. How
did I ever get lucky enough to work for this guy? Please, God, don't
let me blow it.

Caroline Novak rose and put a cup and saucer on Nick's desk as the
two lawyers entered Nick's office.

"Caroline, this is Walter McNeil, our managing partner," Nick
performed introductions. "I asked him to be present at this meeting
so I could save us all some time."

Caroline Novak seldom allowed herself to feel–or look–discomfited,
but two trained observers like Nick and Walter McNeil had no trouble
reading and identifying her expression, however briefly it flitted
across her face. "How do you do?" she said to McNeil, extending her
hand.

"I'm happy to meet you, Ms. Novak," McNeil said. "Coffee all right?
Nick has been telling me a little bit about you and your company."

"Ever since I moved Travelmaster to Pittsburgh Nick has been very
helpful," Caroline said. She favored the younger man with what she
thought was a fond smile.

"That's what you pay me for," Nick said, hoping that Caroline Novak
would pick up on the fact that this was a business proposition being
discussed although they had seated themselves in a congenial group
around the desk. He took a breath. "Caroline, I know you've got a
full day here, so I think we should cut to the chase."

"Yes." Caroline agreed. "Nick, I'm not happy with Fallin, Straka and
Marsden. I'd like to put Travelmaster with you–with McNeil and
Hurley." This time the smile was bestowed on the firm's namesake. "I
bought a fleet of corporate jets when I moved the company here. Now
I know that a lot of the corporate community in Pittsburgh depends on
US Airways to move their employees for all sorts of reasons–
meetings, seminars, sales calls, whatever–across the country and
around the world. US Airways just filed for bankruptcy for the second
time in two years, and while I'm sorry for them, for their people,
I'd be foolish to pass up the kind of opportunity I see happening
here."

"Very sensible, and we're flattered that you think you'd like us to
represent Travelmaster," McNeil said. "But I have to tell you, Ms.
Novak, some things have changed since you relocated from Philadelphia
last year."

"Changed in what way?" Caroline asked.

McNeil nodded to Nick. "First of all," Nick said, "the Securities and
Exchange Commission implemented what's known as the Sarbanes-Oxley
rules. What they boil down to is, the client is the firm, not the
chief executive officer, the president or anyone else in management.
If we here at McNeil and Hurley find a company's management
committing or about to commit wrongdoing, we must immediately
withdraw from representing the company and disavow any tainted work
done for that client. Any attorney who doesn't can be banned by the
SEC from appearing and practicing before it. That phrase `appear and
practice' covers more territory than you might think. Just working on
the text of a company's annual report, for example, is considered
appearing and practicing before the SEC. An attorney who can't appear
and practice before the SEC is going to have some difficulty
practicing corporate law."

"That's right," McNeil said. "And there was another concern–that if
attorneys reported suspected wrongdoing, clients wouldn't be willing
to confide in them, and if an attorney called a client on something,
the client would fire them and hire an unethical attorney who'd go
along with what the client was saying and doing. We don't see that
as a problem, either. If someone else wants to risk their license
because a client won't play by the rules, that's up to them. This
firm won't. That's the ethical standard I expect from my people and
myself, although I appreciate the SEC codifying it for me with
Sarbanes-Oxley."

"That `appear and practice' business is one reason I decided to
change firms," Caroline said. "I don't feel comfortable with the–ah–
management structure at Nick's former firm. And I looked into your
background here. You have an excellent reputation among Pittsburgh
corporate law firms."

"Thank you," McNeil said.

"Well, Caroline, that's the way we do things here," Nick said. "So if
we find you haven't been up front with us, that's it. Business
considerations will have no bearing whatever."

"I don't see that as a problem," Caroline said.

"Very well," Nick said. "But family considerations come into this,
too. Lulu and I talked about that–at considerable length. Thank you
for the brochures you left last night, by the way."

Caroline moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. "Is it
appropriate to discuss this here and now?"

"That's why I asked Walter to be present," Nick said. "As I said, I
know we're all pressed for time, so I'll make this short. Caroline,
there is no way Lulu and I will ever institutionalize Anne. We will
never, never give her up. Never give her away. If that means
Travelmaster is off the table, so be it. And yes, we've thought this
through."

"Mr. McNeil, I'm sorry you have to be involved in this," Caroline
said. "I don't think you need to be bothered with this kind of–family
problem."

"Ms. Novak, I'm here because Nick asked me to be," McNeil told
her. "I'm very much aware of what the real point of contention is.
Now, I don't try to run my colleagues' lives for them, although
whenever they ask me for advice I'm always happy to do what I can.
And what we have here is two adults who are fully capable of deciding
what's best for their child and themselves. I concur with Nick–if the
price of Travelmaster is putting his daughter away, then it's been
nice talking with you and I wish you luck."

For a long moment Caroline looked very directly at McNeil. She
transferred the stare to Nick and got the same reaction–silence and
an impassive expression. Then she opened her purse and took out a
checkfold. "How much do you want as a retainer?" she asked.

"Thirty-five thousand," McNeil said. "Certified or corporate check."

Caroline wrote out a check. "Good thing I own the business," she
said. "I can carry the corporate checks around with me."

"I meant what I said, Caroline," Nick said. "Anne is out of the
equation."

"All right," Caroline said. There was a time to advance and a time to
retreat, she thought. An old campaigner, Caroline Novak knew when she
was licked, at least temporarily, and she also knew how to pick her
battles. When the novelty of a new baby had worn off and Nick and
Lulu found themselves having to deal with a special needs child all
day, every day they'd both be singing a different tune soon enough.

"I'll walk you out," McNeil said.

"That's all right," Caroline said. "My husband should be waiting for
me in the reception area. We have some other errands to run and I'm
going to stop in at Fallin & Fallin–or whatever their name is now–
either today or tomorrow and tell them I'm changing firms. I think I
owe them that courtesy."

"We'll send them a letter about it as well," McNeil said. "The
Travelmaster files should be here by the end of this week, next
Monday at the latest."

"Good," Caroline said. "I'm very glad to be working with you both."

She bestowed another smile on Nick and McNeil. Ginny, Nick's
secretary, who combined her uncanny ability to know where Nick was in
the McNeil and Hurley offices at any given moment with hostessing
abilities, appeared and escorted Caroline out.

"Well, that went better than we'd hoped," McNeil said.

"For the time being, anyway," Nick replied. "I have a strong
suspicion one part of this has just been tabled. Lulu's the same way–
nothing's ever really over."

"Sufficient unto the day," McNeil said. "There'll be time enough to
worry about it when she brings it up again."

"You're right," Nick said. "And speaking of bringing things up again,
Turnbull said he was seeing my father this morning. I really want
that file so I can get started on that IPO."

"If it isn't here by Friday I'll raise some hell with them. That's
what I'm here for, after all," McNeil said. "What about the other
problem?"

"Jonas said they might use me undercover," Nick said. "I gather
they're trying to get all the information they can before they do
anything. Of course, the kicker is, if the cops move too soon
Hathaway and his friends will disappear under another rock."

"Then again, they might disappear anyway," McNeil said
thoughtfully. "That's the hard part, I imagine–knowing just when to
move. That's why you do surveillance."

Nick looked at him. "Something tells me you're not `imagining' too
much about this."

McNeil chuckled a little bit. "You're right about that, son. I'm
speaking from some hard-won personal knowledge. I'll tell you about
it sometime."

Nick's desk phone beeped. "Guess we'd better get back to doing what
the clients pay us for," McNeil said.

"Yes," Nick said. "And that reminds me–Turnbull wants to make a
donation to LSP, so I'll set that up for him. You have to admire the
man's faith–this thing hasn't even got off the ground yet but he's
willing to shell out for it big time."

"That's the nature of faith, from what I understand," McNeil said.

Nick picked up the phone, spoke into it briefly, thanked whoever was
on the other end and put his hand over the receiver. "Jonas wants to
talk to me about the Turnbull girl. There's coincidence for you."

McNeil started lo leave Nick's office, but stopped and turned at the
door. "Nick, I don't know what the cops have in mind, but–well, we
really need you, and–we like you. Govern yourself accordingly, okay?
he said.

Nick grinned. "That shouldn't be too hard. The biggest problem I can
see is trying not to get in anyone's way."

**************

"Hi, Nick," Jonas said as Nick entered his office. "Meet Karen–Karen
Stannerd. You'll be working together. She's been working vice,
specifically sexual abuse and domestic violence, for 15 years. Right
now she's playing housemother for us."

At Nick's puzzled look Karen Stannerd, a leggy brunette, laughed a
little as she put out her hand. "You're Nick Fallin? Nice to meet
you," she said. "I see Jonas is exercising his usual talent for not
explaining anything. `House mothers' usually hang out at bus depots
and cafeterias, sit down with girls, provide a lot of nurturing, and
bring the girls home. Soon the girls are turning tricks 10 hours of
the day and more and seeing no money."

"I see–that is, I think I do," Nick said. "Are you going to play
housemother for these three girls I'm sure Jonas told you about, or
at least gave you the file on?"

"You got it," Stannerd replied. "We think Hathaway wants to expand
his operations and to do that he needs money. He can farm out the
Turnbull, Kovacic and Hulec girls and acquire others with the money
they earn or he can just turn them over to someone else–acquiring
capital for long-term gain."

"Just like any other up-and-coming entrepreneur," Nick said. "How old
is this kid, anyway?"

"Nineteen going on 47 or so," Stannerd replied.

"I wondered because he was dating–and abusing–a 15-year-old he met in
high school," Nick said.

Jonas looked up from a file he had been reading. "He seems to have
gotten started early," he said. "From what we've been able to learn,
he started playing catch `em quick and treat `em rough when he was
about fourteen."

"Wonder who his role models were," Nick said. "Speaking of role
models, Hal, the last time we talked about this you said something
about undercover."

"That's right, I did," Jonas said.

"Oh, I see where you're heading," Stannerd said. "Just looking at
him, Hal, I think he'll be great for this."

"Great for what?" Nick asked.

"Like I said, Hathaway wants to use the girls to bring in capital to
finance his expansion, to put it in business terms," Stannerd
said. "Nick, if you consent to this, you'll be the one he's selling
them to."

"You mean I'll be playing a pimp," Nick said.

"I'm sure Hathaway doesn't think of it like that–or maybe he does, we
don't know," Stannerd said. "Anyway, you're just a businessman
looking to acquire some assets for your own operation. I'm riding
along with you to take charge of the day-to-day nuts and bolts."

"We think this is the first time Hathaway's tried to move up," Jonas
said. "That means you, Nick, don't have to wear leather vests and
gold chains and all that other malarkey the lower-end types do."

Nick's sigh of relief was clearly audible. Stannerd laughed.

"I'm glad about that," Nick said. "I don't think I'd be very good at
the chains-and-leather bit."

"You're just a businessman trying to close a deal," Stannerd
said. "As a matter of fact, my experience with undercover operations
tells me the closer we keep to your everyday persona the better our
chances of pulling this off. And I do mean pulling this off–there's a
real chance we might be able to recover the girls."

"That's great!" Nick said.

"Well, there's a down side," Jonas said. "There's always some risk
involved in an undercover operation. We want to recover these girls
and bag Hathaway and anyone he's got working with him, but we think
some kind of insurance is called for." He reached in his desk drawer.

Nick stared at the object Jonas had taken out of the drawer and put
on his desk. "Hal, I don't know–" he began.

"You don't think you can use one if you need to?"

"I never have–though I've had one pointed at me a few times," Nick
said, still eyeing the object warily.

"We know–I've read your file," Stannerd said.

"It's not just that," Nick said. "I still have a week of my probation
to go. I shouldn't even be in the same room with one of these things."

The imperturbable Jonas was startled. "You sure about that week
thing?" he asked.

"I've been marking days off on a calendar since it started," Nick
replied.

"Interesting that you finished your community service hours before
your probation was over," Stannerd commented.

"Yes, it is, considering," Nick said. "I don't know how it worked out
that way, but it did."

"Well, this is too important to let something like that get in the
way," Jonas, who had been making several phone calls while Nick and
Stannerd talked, said.

Thinking the matter over later, Nick realized he wasn't altogether
surprised when the Pittsburgh Police Chief, Assistant District
Attorney Herb Connolly and Paul Tibbetts, the head of the Probation
Department, along with another officer, whom Nick didn't recognized,
but given the commendation ribbons on his badge, was obviously high
in the upper echelons, walked into Jonas' office. James Turnbull was,
after all, a prominent citizen whose business operations contributed
substantially to the Allegheny County tax base and although Turnbull
personally was a low-key, unassuming man, it was only reasonable that
he had clout, and where his daughter was concerned, was willing to
use it, although it was one of the last shots in his locker, not the
first.

"Mr. Fallin is right," Tibbetts opened the conversation. "According
to my records, his probation will be over next Tuesday."

"How did we miss on that?" Connolly wondered.

"Does it matter?" the officer Nick didn't know asked. "All I know is,
Jonas and Stannerd, here, have an operation that took an awful lot of
time and effort to set up. I really want to bag the bad guy and his
friends and there's a lot of interest from a certain direction in
recovering the girls."

"If I may interrupt," Nick said, "I really want to recover the girls–
that's what I've been asked to do. As for this Hathaway guy, I'd like
to do what I can to help get him off the street."

"I appreciate your spirit of cooperation," Connolly said. He turned
to the Chief, Tibbetts and the other officer. "It would be a shame
to let this throw a monkey wrench into the works, wouldn't it? But–"

"But, nothing," the Police Chief said. He turned to Nick, Stannerd
and Jonas. "Excuse us a minute, please." He drew Tibbetts, Connolly
and De Sica into a corner and the four engaged in an animated
conversation. All Nick caught from a great deal of whispering
accompanied by some energetic hand gestures was a comment from the
other officer: "Look, it's bad enough the guy's a virgin. I'll be
damned if I'm sending him in there naked!"

More conversation ensued. Finally, Connolly said something that drew
a nod from the Chief. "It's ironic, I'll give it that," Tibbetts said.

"All the same, I'll go for it," the other officer said.

"It's the only solution I can see," the Chief said. "Anyway, Jack, if
you think this is the way to get that Hathaway shitbird, fine. It's
your show." He turned back to Nick, Stannerd and Jonas. "Okay, then.
Nicholas Fallin–" Nick stood, feeling that the occasion somehow
called for it– "Raise your right hand." Nick complied. "Repeat after
me: "I do solemnly swear…that I will well and faithfully…and to the
best of my ability…carry out all lawful duties assigned to me…and
will do my utmost…to protect and to serve…the peace and safety…of the
people of the city of Pittsburgh…so help me God."

Nick lowered his right hand and the Chief shook it. "Congratulations."

"Thanks," Nick replied. "What did I just swear to?"

"Nicholas Fallin, you are now a member of the Special Operations Unit
of the Bureau of Police of the city of Pittsburgh," the Chief
said. "Wear it proudly." He turned to the other officer. "This is
Jack Tierney, assistant chief, special operations unit–your boss,
more properly your commanding officer."

"Welcome to Special Ops," Tierney said.

Nick's jaw dropped briefly before he recovered his self-possession,
which had admittedly gotten a jolt. "You mean–I'm a cop?"

"It's the only way you can legally carry a gun," Connolly said.

Tibbetts nodded in agreement. "Special circumstances call for special
measures," he said.

"And from what I know about the people you're going up against,
there's no way I'd ever turn you loose without one," Tierney said.

"Oh," Nick said. "That's what you meant by `naked'–unarmed?"

"Right," the Chief said. "Detective Stannerd, why don't you take your
new partner out to the range and see if he knows which end the
bullets come out of? Pass a couple of hours out there and when you
come back we'll have a shield and ID folder ready for him. Nick, by
five this afternoon you'll be a badge-carrying member of the force."

"Come on, Nick," Stannerd said. "You've got an appointment with a
computer-generated situational response testing system. In other
words, we're going to let a computer create a situation and you'll
fire simulated bullets to get used to the idea. Then you'll move on
to the real thing."

Tibbetts grinned. "I know you're a fast learner, Mr. Fallin. Now you
can prove it."

"Wait a minute," Nick said. "I've been convicted of a serious
misdemeanor. Should I even be– ?"

"We'll decide what the record is going to show about your connection
to the force," Tierney said.

Connolly cleared his throat. "And speaking of joining the force,
there's the matter of–ah–compensation."

Nick had been doing some serious thinking while this conversation was
going on. "Joining the force or not, I'm being paid by a client to
work with LSP and the city on this case," he said.. "I don't accept
payment from two sources for working on the same case. So, the city
of Pittsburgh being in the financial shape it is, I don't expect–nor
will I accept–any payment for participating in this operation."

"That reminds me–we'll need a check from you for $145.73, made out to
Fraternal Order of Police, Fort Pitt Lodge No. 1," Stannerd
said. "It's your first quarter's union dues."

Nick sat in one of Jonas' visitors chairs, took out his checkbook
and, leaning in Jonas' desk, started to write. "The firm I–used to
work for–is representing the union in talks with the city, I think,"
Nick said.

"We're looking at 100 officers retiring or being laid off. If we can
get an income tax increase on the ballot in November we can hang on
to some of them, but some of the signatures on the tax increase
petitions were ruled invalid," Connolly said. "According to the City
Solicitor, the union is supposed to go to court this week to argue
for the validity of the signatures and file follow-up paperwork."

"There shouldn't be any problem," Nick said. He remembered that he
had represented the police in negotiations two years before when his
father had first gotten the contract from the city. I wonder who's
going to handle it now, he thought. It's a routine problem, but on
the other hand, it would add weight to the cops' argument if somebody
senior is first chair. He dropped the thought. It wasn't his business
any longer, at least not from a representational standpoint, and he
had other things to think about.

"It's Wednesday–they don't have an awful lot of time," Tierney
said. "Anyway, neither do we. Special Operations Officer Fallin, the
sooner you get yourself familiar with this thing, the better off
you'll be and we'll be that much closer to bagging Hathaway and his
pals and getting this thing over with." He pushed an automatic pistol
wrapped in the straps of a shoulder holster across the desk.

Nick paused for what seemed to him a very long moment. Then he put
out his hand and picked up the gun, aware that whatever happened with
the Hathaway case, his life had just undergone a baseline shift.

"On the way out to the range, stop at supply, pick up some exercise
sweats and talk to one of the instructors at the Academy," Tierney
said. "A little unarmed combat won't hurt, either."

"Right," Nick said, grateful to Tierney for lightening the mood.

"We know you're not Superman," Jonas said. "We think we've got a four-
or five-day window before we have to move on Hathaway, so you'll
have some time to work into this."

"Yes, and besides learning to handle an automatic and some basic self-
defense, there are some other things we'll want to get you familiar
with. We may need you both to wear a wire, " Jonas said. "There's a
communications protocol involved here, too."

"And we think we're about to get a handle on where Hathaway and his
friends are hanging out," Stannerd said. "Surveillance for a couple
of nights before we move in won't hurt the operation at all, either.
We'd better get started. If you gentlemen will excuse us–"

"I just wish there was time to put you through the Civilian Police
Academy, at least," the Chief said.

"Once this is over we can talk about more training. Anyway, we've put
people out on the street with less experience and they did all
right," Jonas said.

"And we don't really have a choice," Connolly said. "I have to get
back to my office–"

"So do we all," the Chief said. The four men each shook Nick's hand.

"You'll be okay," Tibbetts said.

"Your mouth to God's ears," Nick said.

"Just stay alert, like you are now," Tierney said.

"Yeah–something happens, we'll spend the next ten years on the
paperwork," the Chief said.

"Oh, please," Connolly said."I'm the one who'll have to do most of
it. Nick, stay safe."

Nick grinned. "I'll try," he said.

**************

On the way to the police firing range, Nick caught his new partner
giving him appraising glances. "You have your doubts about this,
don't you?" he asked her.

"We bend the rules for one-shot undercover operations, but this is
cutting it a lot finer than I like," Stannerd said. "Hell, if you
were a cadet, even on a fast-track training schedule, you'd
ordinarily spend a month in the academy and six to eight months in
field training–that's the reverse of the standard course, seven
months in the academy and three months of field training. Right now,
all that's the same is you're working with an experienced officer."

"Experience," Nick said. "Is that what Chief Tierney meant when he
referred to me as a `virgin'?"

"It isn't the word I would have used," Stannerd said. "My friend,
where you're going, you were just born."
 
TO BE CONTINUED