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along the plastic runner over the carpet into the living room.
    â€œSuch a tragedy,” she said, shaking her head, “and a shanda for her poor father.”
    Jerry and I were seated on a brown plaid couch that was entirely enclosed in a clear plastic cover that made crinkling noises whenever one of us shifted position. We were facing what Stanley apparently referred to as the Hall of Frames, which included framed photocopies of his brother Harold’s diploma from Harvard Medical School, his brother Martin’s diploma from the Jewish Theological Seminary, and Stanley’s framed Mensa certificate. From the dates on the documents, it was clear that Stanley was the baby brother.
    When Stanley appeared in the hallway, he had donned his usual law firm outfit: a short-sleeved dress shirt buttoned all the way to the neck, black pants belted high enough on his waist to expose his argyle socks, and thick-soled black shoes, which he kept buffed to a high shine.
    I dropped them off in front of their building. As they came around the front of my car, I rolled down my window.
    â€œJerry?”
    He lumbered over to the window and bent down.
    â€œYes, ma’am?”
    â€œWhen do you two break for dinner?”
    â€œUsually around 5:30.”
    â€œWhere do you go?”
    â€œSt. Louis Bread Company.”
    â€œI’ll meet you there.”
    â€œAlright.”
    â€œBe sure to tell Stanley I want to see his proof. He needs to bring it with him to the restaurant.”
    â€œYes, Miss Gold.”

Chapter Four
    Barry Kudar had earned the nickname Barracuda inside the courtroom. This was why he’d been elevated to partner at the venerable Reynolds Price just six years out of law school. It was why, at age thirty-nine, he was on every St. Louis corporate general counsel’s short list of litigators for bet-the-company cases. It was why Jimmy O’Brien, the white-haired dean of the plaintiff’s bar, had told him in open court last year, “You are one nasty little prick, Barry, and I mean that as a compliment.”
    I am quite certain the Barracuda took that as a compliment. Indeed, he acted as if “nasty little prick” was an essential element of his persona. Just check out his photo on his law firm’s website. The typical range of lawyer expressions on headshots of law firm bios runs from avuncular smiles to contemplative gazes. In Barry Kudar’s photo, he frowns into the camera defiantly, as if channeling Robert DeNiro’s Travis Bickle in Taxi Driver : “You talkin’ to me? You talkin’ to me?”
    My professional relationship with Barry was hardly collegial. He was an aggressive and obnoxious jerk who turned every conversation into a confrontation. The simple courtesies you expected from opposing counsel—such as consent to a short extension of time due to a family illness or planned vacation—you’d never receive from Barry. You learned early on in a lawsuit with him that every telephone conversation had to be documented with a letter reciting the points discussed, and that your letter would trigger a nasty response disputing your recitation.
    A flurry of those back-and-forth letters had brought us today to the afternoon motion docket in Division 2 of the Circuit Court of the City of St. Louis. We were here on my motion to compel the deposition of the Barracuda’s client, a prominent heart surgeon that I’d sued for sexual harassment of my client, a nurse at the hospital.
    Entering the courtroom, I spotted Barry seated at counsel’s table to the left of the bench, scribbling furiously on a legal pad. As usual, he was immaculately attired—today in a navy pinstriped suit, crisp white shirt, navy-and-crimson-striped tie, and gold cufflinks that sparkled in the afternoon sun coming through the courtroom’s high windows. His black hair was slicked straight back, which accentuated his angular features and the prominent