LITMIR.BIZ

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Sean O’Sullivan had learned to keep his judgments to himself.

      The seventh floor was Sean’s floor. Medical malpractice. Since New York was the medical capital of the world, it followed that it was also the medical malpractice capital of the world, as well. Sean didn’t mind, the more the better. He loved the law. Loved the creativity of it, loved the structure of it, loved the fairness of it, as well as the unfairness of it. That was his job.

      After he got into the office, he wheeled around the corner, and slid a mug of coffee onto Maureen’s desk. “You got the Cannery deposition for me?”

      “Digested, indexed and in the database, Sean, just like you asked.” Maureen was a paralegal who had been at the firm for the last thirty-five years. With a diamond choker that must have cost a fortune, and elegant white hair that was styled at one of New York’s best salons, she probably didn’t need to work, but Maureen did, and Sean thanked her every day, because Maureen always knew what needed to be done and, even better, you could always count on her to deliver.

      As such, Sean brought her coffee every morning and every afternoon. Two sugars. No cream, and a sprinkle of cinnamon on top. She took a sip and closed her eyes, obviously letting the caffeine rip through her veins. Then, when the ten-second break was over, she pulled out her pad and relayed the neatly stenographed messages.

      “Katy called from the Environmental Fund, but the bossman heard the call come through, and he said that you’re not to call her back because he wants the last of Dr. Winetrapp’s affidavits completed and on his desk before lunchtime.”

      “Anything else?”

      “He wanted to remind you about the two internal medicine docs from Mt. Sinai that you’re supposed to schedule an interview for.”

      “Next?”

      “Wilson called about the Cornell case, I asked him if this was regarding a settlement offer, he wouldn’t tell me if it was regarding a settlement, but I knew it was regarding a settlement offer.”

      Sean nodded with satisfaction. The Cornell case was next up after his current trial was over. It was a botched surgery that if the plaintiff had a better lawyer than Wilson they’d win. A fat settlement was the way to go for Wilson, and Sean was glad the man could read the writing on the wall.

      Speaking of the wall, Sean checked the clock there. Nearly eleven. His boss, Bruce, would be pulling paper clips from his teeth, but Sean didn’t mind. The morning had been worth it. Getting up at the crack of dawn to watch Cleo Hollings have sex dreams, and then two hours talking to the lawyers at the hospital. Not as stimulating as Cleo, but productive nonetheless.

      His brother’s bar would be back in order soon. Cleo Hollings looked like she worked harder than anyone. She would fix it, although he’d have to stay on her case until she did. Not that that was going to be a problem. Staying on her case, riding her until she cracked.

      Man, he had always had a thing for redheads. But redheads that barked like drill sergeants? He was still carrying the extra four inches in his shorts from when she glared at him. She had the sexiest eyes.

      Maureen waved a hand in front of his face and brought his attention back to the present. “Bruce wanted to know why you’re late, but I told him you called and said the transit strike was causing problems.”

      “I love you, Maureen. What did the Environmental Fund want?”

      “You don’t want to know.”

      He slid a hip against her desk. “I want to know, Maureen.”

      “Bruce will be furious. He’s your boss. Fury is not a good thing for a boss.”

      “I want to know, Maureen.”

      “I can’t tell you.”

      “You can tell me.”

      “I shouldn’t tell you.”

      “You should tell me.”

      “Bruce will kill me.”

      “I won’t let him. You’re my favorite.”

      “He’ll make my life miserable.”

      “I’ll bring you Godiva every day,” he bribed.

      “The little mocha truffles?”

      Sean nodded.

      “Now, see, why can’t all the lawyers be like you?”

      “That’s a rhetorical question, Maureen, so what did the Environmental Fund want?”

      Maureen pulled her glasses from her head and read the pink message slip. “The West Side Ladies Botanical Preservation Group is trying to convert the half lot on 34th street into a park. The city has different ideas. They specifically requested you for representation, no surprise. I think Mrs. Ward who heads the society has a thing for you.”

      “She’s nearly eighty.”

      “Mrs. Ward told me she has a thing for younger men,” Maureen told him with a knowing glance.

      Sean frowned. “I’ll call Katy back.” He wasn’t nearly so enthusiastic anymore. Oh, well.

      Maureen wagged a finger at him. “Don’t forget. Little mocha truffles.”

      Sean tapped a finger to his brain. “Like a steel trap. No worries.”

      There were seventeen e-mails in his in-box. All from Bruce. All reflecting various stages of anxiety and neurosis. Everyone on the fourteenth floor called Bruce the Tin Man because he had no heart. Both literally and figuratively. Bruce was pushing sixty, had high blood pressure, high cholesterol and high anxiety, so four years ago, the talented surgeons at New York-Presby (McFadden Burnett clients) had given him an artificial heart. After the surgery, nobody at the firm could tell the difference.

      “Bruuuuuuuuuuce,” called Sean, cruising into his office.

      “It’s about time. Why aren’t you answering your cell?”

      Sean pulled his phone out of his pocket. “You called? What the—?”

      “Come on, O’Sullivan, where are we at?” Bruce called everyone by their last name. Apparently, calling employees by their first names indicated some semblance of humanity and a caring, giving spirit. All of Bruce’s employees understood. You could only expect so much from an artificial heart.

      Bruce, his face flushed and nervous, waved Sean in. The cause for Bruce’s anxiety was the thirty-five-million-dollar lawsuit Davies, Mutual Insurance v. New York General, the individual doctors and their dogs and cats.

      The hospital was part of America’s third largest hospital chain, and one of McFadden Burnett’s ka-ching-iest clients. The insurance company hadn’t wanted to pay for a kidney transplant, saying that dialysis was all that was necessary for the patient. After the patient didn’t recover, the insurance company was siding with the patient’s estate, blaming the hospital for the wrong treatment that had affected the outcome. Sometimes that was truly the case, but right now, the insurance company had got caught being cheap, and they didn’t like it.

      That was the beauty of the legal system. One day, the bad guys were on one side, the good guys on the other, and the next, somebody had rolled the dice, messed up the board, and though the game stayed the same, the players had all traded places.

      “Depositions are done. I got the medical report from the lead physician, and found a doc from Indiana who is a trial virgin, completely untouched and uncorrupted by the U.S. judicial system. He’ll be perfect for court. My team’s been prepping him. We’re ready for trial. The insurance company is dog-meat.”

      Bruce took a deep breath, and popped another bloodpressure pill. “Your brother called.”

      “Why are you answering phones?”

      “I thought it was you,” said Bruce in his needy voice.

      “Which brother?”

      “The

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