Bitter Business

obligation to her bankers is a personal one. On the other hand, your father’s chairman of the board and CEO, so no matter what Lydia’s legal obligation may be, if he says pay it, I don’t see that you have much choice.”
    “Isn’t that the story of my goddamned life,” spat Philip. I actually couldn’t help agreeing with him.
    “Maybe this is actually a step in the right direction,” I ventured. “I mean, after he’s finished shelling out the money for Lydia’s investment bankers, it should be hard for him to delude himself about her not really wanting to sell her shares. Forty-seven thousand dollars is a whole lot of serious.”
    “That’s not the way he sees it. He thinks once the bill is paid she’s finished with it. He actually asked me this morning if Arthur had reported for work yet. I guess I have no choice but to face up to it,” he said in a tone of bitter disbelief. “My father is a demented old fool and my life is turning into the final act of King Lear .”
     
    In the cab on the way back to the office, I reflected that there was probably enough hatred in the Cavanaugh family to motivate a dozen murders. Who knows how Philip would have turned out if his older brother hadn’t died tragically before his eyes? But it was clear that after decades of trying to earn his father’s respect, he’d succeeded only in becoming his whipping boy—emotionally truncated and stripped of self-esteem. I felt sorry for him despite myself. Left hanging in the limbo of indifference by his father, publicly humiliated by his little sister; even his pathetic stab at extracurricular romance had found its conclusion not in the tearful recrimination of parting lovers, but in the tawdry inquisition of a police interrogation room.
    I arrived back at my office with a headache only to find Cheryl in the midst of exasperated negotiations with two messengers about where to put a waist-high pile of dusty boxes, the kind the firm used for dead-document storage.
    “What the hell is all of this?” I demanded, dropping my briefcase and shrugging off my coat.
    “Back volumes of the Superior Plating file,” Cheryl replied, brushing the dust from her hands.
    “What are they doing here? Why aren’t they in storage where they obviously belong?”
    “Mr. Tillman’s orders, miss,” Mr. Jackson explained apologetically. He was the head of the mail room and had learned to deflect all manner of lawyerly abuse with the cheerful firmness of a kindergarten teacher. “All the files in storage that used to be Mr. Babbage’s have to be hauled out and sent to the new lawyer who’s assigned to the case.”
    “There’s a memo that goes along with it,” added Cheryl, searching on her desk for the copy. “You have to go through each box and inventory it before it’s allowed to go back into storage.”
    I opened my mouth to protest.
    My secretary cut me off. “I already called his secretary and she says he’s serious.”
    I looked at the six-by-eight cubicle that composed Cheryl’s work space. Every available inch of space was already filled. I motioned Mr. Jackson to follow me.
    To a stranger, my office looked less like a place of professional employment than a cry for help. In terms of sheer volume of paper, my office alone probably accounted for the decimation of a small forest. One thing was certain: I needed either less work or a bigger office. I made a mental note to twist Skip Tillman’s arm for more space.
    In the meantime Cheryl and I succeeded in shifting some files around in order to accommodate the boxes. Unfortunately it meant that I had to climb over them every time I wanted to get up to go to the bathroom.
    That accomplished, Cheryl disappeared to get me some coffee. She reappeared a few minutes later with a fresh cup and paper towels for wiping the outside of the boxes, some of which apparently dated back to the fifties.
    “Anything urgent while I was out?” I asked, taking advantage of my first chance of the day to look at my calendar. “What’s this at seven o’clock?” I demanded. “Dinner with Chelsea Winters. Who in God’s name is Chelsea Winters and why am I having dinner with her at Ambria?”
    “It’s a recruiting dinner. She’s an editor of the Yale Law Review who has also interviewed with Barker & West. Jim Swain is very hot to have her come to Callahan.”
    I sighed. Jim Swain was the head of the committee that hired new lawyers every spring and Barker & West was our chief rival in