Final Option

the bean pit?” Bart Hexter’s son put the phone to his ear, looked up at me, and nodded his farewell.
     
    When I got back to the office Cheryl told me that I’d received an urgent summons from Herman Geiss. Herman usually worked out of the CFTC’s main office in Washington, but today he was in town, waiting to see me at the Commission’s Chicago office. I called to say that I was on my way, hopped a cab, and soon found myself at the Commission’s cramped Chicago offices.
    Herman was waiting for me in a small windowless conference room. It was furnished with a scarred conference table ringed by a disreputable assortment of battered chairs. The room smelled of other crises, acrid and sour reminders of distress.
    Around the table Herman had arrayed the first team: Gary Sanders, also from the Washington office, and Darlene McDonald, the Commission’s hot new acquisition from Treasury who was due to replace Herman when, at the end of the year, he left government for the payoff of private practice. As soon as I was seated, Herman locked the door. In one corner there was a small table set up for a stenographer, but none was present. My guess was that he wanted no record of what he was about to say.
    Herman had thinning hair, a spreading waist, and an air of perpetual irritation about him. He took up his place across the table from me, slapping his hands down on its scarred surface for effect. He leaned his pudgy, bespectacled face into mine like a gospel tent preacher trying to see into my soul.
    “What the fuck are you trying to pull, Millholland?” he demanded, his face close enough to mine that I could smell his lunch on his breath.
    “In what regard, Herman?” I inquired.
    “Don’t pull that innocent shit with me,” he screamed. “Is there a senator you haven’t called today?”
    “I might have missed one or two. You didn’t give me much choice. You made it very clear when we spoke on the phone that you weren’t prepared to be reasonable, despite the fact that I was dealing with an extraordinary set of circumstances. Whatever happened today you brought on yourself.”
    “What happened today was the worst kind of underhanded, smug, corporate influence peddling. I didn’t think you sunk to that shit, Millholland.”
    “Wait until you’re on the other side,” I answered, knowing that Herman felt ambivalently about leaving government. “My job is to do whatever it takes to further my client’s interests. That’s what I get paid for. It’s the difference between being an advocate and being a crusader.”
    One look at Herman’s face and I feared that I’d gone too far. The others watched us warily from around the table, their glances flicking from Herman’s face to mine and back again.
    “You may call yourself an advocate, Kate. But what you really are is a whore. It makes me sick to see you subvert the process for a man like Hexter.”
    “Hexter is dead, Herman,” I said. “Save your hate for the living.”
    “Don’t tell me what to do. The powers that be saw fit to give you a five-day extension. But just so that we understand each other. This one came out of my hide. In five days, I plan on taking it out of yours.”
     

CHAPTER 14
     
    On my way back to the office I made a couple of stops. First at the newsstand for a bag of M&Ms and then at Starbucks to pick up a double espresso. To say that it had been a rough day would be an understatement. Within the space of two hours I’d come within an inch of being decked by Hexter Commodities’ ex-chief trader and been informed by the head of enforcement at the CFTC that a week from Friday he planned to bum me and my client at the stake.
    Cheryl took one look at the coffee and M&Ms and said: “That bad?”
    “I should have worn my fireproof suit,” I replied. I walked into my office, kicked off my shoes, and took off my jacket. There was a lavender chiffon dress on my chair. “Cheryl?” I called. “What’s this?”
    “Sorry, Kate,” she replied, scooping up the offending garment. “I picked it up at lunch and tried it on in your office. It’s my bridesmaid’s dress. I’m in my friend Camille’s wedding this weekend.” She held it up to show me. “Isn’t it hideous?”
    “There isn’t a bridesmaid’s dress made that isn’t,” I replied. “Do you know what the three great lies of all time are?”
    “No, tell me.”
    “Number one—‘I was just about to call you.’ Number two—‘The check is in the mail.’ Number