Final Option

tie.
    Firm legend has it that, once, while defending a large corporation against serious, but highly technical, charges of stock price manipulation, he responded to the prosecutor’s lengthy opening remarks by slowly rising to his feet, scratching his head and declaring: “Yeah. But you can’t prove it.” He then went on to win the case. I hear him sometimes through the thick plaster of the wall that divides us, shouting out arguments and objections to an imaginary judge and jury, wearing out the carpet in front of his desk as he prepares for trial.
    Howard’s door is, as usual, open as I pass.
    “Heard you shot one of your clients, Kate,” he called out.
    “Never underestimate the power of a woman,” I replied.
    “I’ll keep that in mind next time I think of pissing you off,” he chortled as I rounded the corner to my office.
    I tossed my briefcase onto my desk, took my jacket off, and draped it over the back of my chair.
    My office is my refuge, the place where the bitterness and sorrows of the past are crowded out by the constant flow of work—the phone calls, files, and dictation that constitute the relentless grind of corporate practice. There are crises and catastrophes, of course, but ultimately they belong to someone else. I deal with them from a delicious distance, billing my time by the tenth of an hour.
    As I glanced at my typed agenda and the mail, opened and arrayed in presumed order of importance on my desk, Cheryl, my secretary, appeared with a thick stack of pink message slips and a pot of coffee. I was very lucky to have been assigned Cheryl when I first arrived at Callahan, and I have clung to her ever since with the fierce instincts of survival. She is the youngest of eight children and is the first person in her family to have gone to college. At night she attends Loyola Law School. By day she keeps my professional life from crashing down around my ears.
    She plunked herself down in her usual chair, poured out two cups of coffee, and flipped open her steno pad.
    “Do you want to tell me your bad news first,” she asked, “or do you want to hear mine?”
    “Let me guess,” I answered. “My mother called.“
    “Lots of people called,” replied my faithful secretary.
    Your mother was the nicest one.”
    “Oh, God. Then you’d better go first.”
    “Let me see, there’ve been calls from eleven different reporters. Everyone from Crain’s Chicago Business to the Daily Star. The guy from the Star offered me five hundred dollars if I’d get him an interview with you. When I told him that he was a cheapskate, he said he’d talk to his editor and see if they could offer me more.“
    “I’m so glad you have such high standards.”
    “Thank you. Ken Kurlander has called no fewer than six times. He absolutely, positively has to speak to you the very moment you arrive.”
    “So now tell me the bad news,” I demanded, knowing that Cheryl inevitably saved the best for last.
    “I have here in my hand a subpoena from the Lake County District Attorney’s office. Some guy was here to serve you, but I got Skip Tillman to come down and accept service on behalf of the firm.”
    She handed me the document, and I scanned it quickly. It required me to produce all of the documents in my possession pertaining to Hexter Commodities. I groaned. When Bart Hexter hired me, his old law firm had sent his files over in a truck. It would take weeks to make the copies.
    “This is awfully quick,” I commented. “He died yesterday morning. See if you can find me the phone number of the D.A. who signed this. I want him to understand the volume of paper this involves. Maybe he’d be willing to narrow his request.” Cheryl bent her head over her pad and made a note.
    “Isn’t this whole thing creepy?” she commented as she wrote. “I was reading about it in the paper. He must have been shot right before your meeting.”
    “I know. I was practically the first person who found him.”
    “How awful for you.”
    “Not as bad as it was for Hexter. The people who are really suffering in all of this are his relatives. Not only have they lost a family member, but the media circus is only just beginning. All of a sudden Hexter’s son, who has no interest in futures, is responsible for Hexter Commodities. Meantime, no one knows who pulled the trigger or why.”
    “How can you be sure that none of them know?” inquired my secretary.
    My phone rang. While I chewed on that one, Cheryl rose to answer