Stirred

“Name?”

“Christine. Christine Agawa.”

“How much do you weigh, Christine?”

“What?”

“Did you not hear my question?”

“Yes, I just don’t understand—”

“Your understanding is not integral to this conversation. Answer the goddamn question.”

Her eyes lower. She stares into the table.

He can practically smell the shame and the self-hate radiating off of her.

“Three hundred and seventy pounds.”

“Is that accurate? Or are you keeping a few pounds from me?”

“I haven’t weighed myself in a while. I’m probably heavier.”

“Have you been heavy all your life?”

“Since I was…” She wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. “Since I was ten.”

“What prompted this?”

“I don’t know.”

“But it isn’t some thyroid condition or anything like that beyond your control?”

She shakes her head.

He slides his chair back and stands.

“Thank you, Christine.”

“Why am I here?” she asks as he reaches for the door. “Please.” Crying now. “I’m so worried.”

“It’s okay, Christine. Quite healthy in fact. But you shouldn’t be worried.” He smiles. “You should be terrified.”

April 1, 1:30 P.M.

It was his first appointment after lunch, a “potential client” intake with a man from Champagne. Their first telephone call had gone well enough to schedule an in-person meeting. The product at issue was a glass-cutter implementing some state-of-the-art, design-around technology that Mr. Siders seemed confident would be a goldmine once brought to market. Then again, that was the trouble with inventors. Seventy-five percent of them were certifiably, batshit crazy, and ninety percent harbored delusions that their invention would make them millions. But one of Peter’s strengths—he liked to think—was his gut-check when it came to accepting new clients. Knowing whether or not to sign them up. Having that i

Peter’s phone rang.

He answered on speakerphone, “Yes, Kelly?”

“Mr. Roe, Mr. Siders is here for his one-thirty.”

“Thank you, I’ll be right out.”

He disco

Rising from his desk, he slid into the Versace jacket he wore in court and for initial meetings—had to impress on every conceivable level when you billed out at $625 an hour.

He met Mr. Siders in reception, found a tall man with long, black hair bundled up under a White Sox baseball cap, wearing dark sunglasses, black boots, black jeans, and a long-sleeved black tee from Slayer’s Hell Awaits tour. Not exactly dress-to-impress attire for that first meeting with your patent attorney, but it wasn’t unusual. In Peter’s experience, inventors were a quirky bunch, and most dressed to fit that mad scientist vibe they put out into the world like a Mace-blast of pheromones.

“Rob Siders,” Peter said with a smile he’d honed to perfection over the years—confident, comfortable, wealthy, and friendly without being too open. Important to send these subtle messages to establish the appropriate attorney-client boundaries from day one.

Roe extended his hand, and the man stood up and shook it.

Limp-wristed, cold-fish grip, and something was wrong with the man’s skin. He glanced down.

What the hell?

Siders was wearing latex gloves.

“Mr. Roe, nice to finally meet you.”

“What’s with the gloves, Mr. Siders?” He tried not to make the question sound rude or prying, but Jesus, talk about strange.

“I don’t want to freak you out.”

“You won’t.”

“I have psoriasis. It’s not contagious or infectious, but it’s not very pretty either.”

“Understood. Did Kelly offer you coffee or water?”

“Yes, but I’m fine. Just had lunch.”

“Excellent, come on back.”

Siders grabbed the black duffle he’d brought along—probably contained a prototype he wanted to show off—and Peter led him down the hallway, past the large office where his paralegal and two associates slaved away in cubicles, before arriving at the corner digs he called home.

He stood in the doorway, ushered Siders through.

“Nice office,” Siders said.

“Thank you.”

And he had to admit it was—horizontal bay windows with spectacular views of The Loop. The rent was scary, but with what he pulled in a

Instead of artwork, his wall-space was devoted to his Illinois and Mi

Siders, as most clients did stepping into his office for the first time, stopped a few feet in and sca

“Impressive,” he said, nodding his head.

“Please, have a seat, Rob.”

Peter unbuttoned his jacket and took a seat in the leather chair behind his desk. He’d never admit this to a client in a million years, but this meeting was merely a social inspection. He’d already undertaken some quick research, had one of his associates prepare a memorandum on the twenty most-recently issued patents in the field of glass cutting to get an overview of the current state of the technology. To be honest, he was hopeful. There were some holes, and with the guidance of a legal supernova like himself, Siders might actually have a shot at staking out his own piece of the market.

“Would you mind shutting the door?” Siders asked.

Roe kept an open-door policy in his office—not so much out of any atmosphere of sharing or generosity he wanted to foster, but more out of his inclination to “pop in” on his paralegal or associates at any time to confirm they were on task instead of surfing the Internet or taking personal calls. In truth, it didn’t matter—he monitored their web-browsing and had a secret program that logged their every keystroke and sent daily reports to his e-mail—but he liked to remind them that he was always watching.

“Mr. Siders, I can assure you—everything we discuss is subject to attorney-client privilege, and in fact, some of my associates may be assisting with all aspects of your portfolio if we go forward.”

“I understand, but it’s what I’d prefer. At least on the first occasion I set foot into your office.”

“Of course. But on one condition.”

“Name it.”

“You take off your sunglasses.”

Siders smiled and complied.

Strike one, Roe thought as he walked to his door and closed it. All inventors had a reasonable paranoia of having their intellectual property stolen, but distrusting your attorney was the stuff of mental illness.

“I’ve taken the liberty of performing some preliminary research,” Roe said as he eased back into his chair. “It looks promising. You told me a little about what you’d designed, but just so you know, my approach is to work with my clients from square one. If you can build something from the ground up that takes into account all existing technology and pending patents, I find that the success rate of getting a quick Notice of Allowance is much higher.”