Dead Certain

going to drive a hard bargain no matter what. I’m sure they’ll wring the same concessions out of whomever they decide to go with.”
    “Then what are they interested in?”
    “People.”
    “We’re talking about a computer system,” Millman shot back.
    “Not entirely,” I ventured. “I don’t know the first thing about this other group—”
    “There’s only one other company it could be, and they’re a bunch of snot-nosed kids from Seattle who don’t know their asses from—”
    “Don’t tell me,” I said as I wrote down Elliott’s office phone number for him. “Tell him.”
    “Who’s he?”
    “A private investigator. He has people who will find out everything there is to know about these guys in Seattle. In the meantime I need to know who Delius has working with him on the input driver.”
    “Nobody really, just a bunch of kids. He picks his top students and lets them work on the project in exchange for credit as an independent study.”
    “Is there any student in particular who stands out? Anybody who’s been with him a long time?”
    “There’s this kid Felix, or maybe it’s Fernando, who’s been his research assistant for a couple of years...,” Millman offered uncertainly.
    “Then I need you to find this young man whose name begins with F and tell him that I need to see him right away.”
     
    I spent the rest of the day holed up at my parents’ house with Denise and her public relations minions planning Mother’s assault against HCC, while security guards patrolled the perimeter and kept the minicams at bay. I had to admit that I found the whole thing interesting. Besides her usual staff, Denise had brought along the public relations equivalent of a SWAT team: a video coach, a “content” specialist, and a wraithlike young man dressed from head to toe in black who was in charge of hair and wardrobe.
    Like the theater inherent in the courtroom or at the negotiating table, the battle for public opinion was an effort to influence the point of view of others. However, in this case, the stage was not only much bigger, but the rules were much less clearly defined. Instead of constructing arguments and interpreting precedent, Denise was trying to influence events by creating the appearance of being right. It didn’t take long to figure out that appearance was the operative word.
    While my father retreated to the library with his bottle of gin and whatever sporting event was on television, Denise and the video coach set up operations in the music room. Having never seen my mother so much as take a suggestion from anybody, much less an order, I stood at the ready to smooth ruffled feathers, but to my surprise there weren’t any. Mother was an apt pupil, intelligent and intent on getting it right on the first try. She was also indefatigable, keeping at it until she was polished and perfect on every conceivable issue relating to Prescott Memorial, nonprofit medical care, and the future of charitable institutions in Chicago.
    Of all the people in the room, I was the most impressed.
     
    The next morning Mother and I were at the courthouse early. The time had come to file our suit against HCC. We were not alone. Callahan Ross employed four full-time docket clerks whose job it was to file documents and keep track of court appearances. The most senior of them, Libbert Pinto, a barrel-chested man with elaborately brilliantined hair, walked ahead of us at a decorous distance. The truth is I was a stranger to the courthouse and didn’t have the first idea of where to go to file a complaint. Indeed, my presence and more importantly that of my mother had less to do with administrative necessity than with the TV cameras waiting for us on the other side of Daley Plaza.
    The paperwork took only a minute, and by the time we were done, the news crews had finished setting up. One look at them clustered together expectantly and I had to fight the urge to bolt, but Mother fixed her most winning smile on her face and prepared to face her inquisitors. Even I had to admit that she was nothing short of amazing.
    Coached by Denise, Mother distilled our reasons for wanting to block the sale of Prescott Memorial Hospital into snappy sound bites, which she dispensed with the poise of a professional. Without any sense of irony, Denise had convinced Mother to sell our legal challenge as a David versus Goliath story with the small and determined Prescotts and Millhollands pitting themselves against an