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times, they were pompous jerks who believed that associates should be able to divine precisely what they needed without a lick of direction.

      Tanner Hornsby fell into that second category, and so working for him, as I did, required lots of late nights in the office. But that first time I spoke to Forester, it wasn’t even late. It was about five o’clock, and I’d just run downstairs to the lobby and bought myself a massive green tea with a shot of vanilla syrup to keep me sharp for the next few hours. Tanner had already left for the day. With the weather warming up, I’d heard him on the phone earlier making plans to sit outside at Tavern on Rush, where he and his buddies would no doubt ogle women and drink themselves silly.

      I was jealous of Tanner that night. Jealous that he already understood the law, that he had the money and time to hit the town on a Tuesday night.

      In my office, I sipped my tea and tried to focus on an option agreement Tanner had asked me to finish.

      But it became hard to concentrate because of the ringing phone in Tanner’s office, which was a few doors down from mine (and on the side of the building that actually had windows). Closer to me was the desk of Tanner’s assistant, Clarice, and I could hear her phone chiming, too.

      Finally, I got up, walked to Clarice’s desk and picked it up. “Baltimore & Brown,” I said in a quick, what-the-hell-do-you-want kind of tone.

      “Tanner Hornsby, please.” The man’s voice was melodic, with a slight Southern accent.

      “Mr. Hornsby is gone for the day. May I take a message?”

      “Gone for the day? It’s only five o’clock.”

      I thought of Tanner, probably already well into his second Bombay Sapphire. “Mr. Hornsby is in a meeting.”

      “Is this Clarice?”

      “No, it’s Izzy McNeil, one of the associates.”

      “Forester Pickett here.”

      I coughed involuntarily. Everyone at Baltimore & Brown knew Forester, at least by name, but the associates were typically kept away from the clients. “Hello, Mr. Pickett. May I help you with something?”

      “Well, I’m calling about Steven Baumgartner, and I need some assistance ASAP.”

      Steven Baumgartner, commonly known around Chicago as “the Bomber,” was the morning shock jock on a radio station Forester owned. We’d been working on his new contract, which he had been expected to sign for millions more dollars than before, but after a recent stunt that resulted in over a hundred listeners jumping into the Chicago River to win concert tickets (many of them ending up with a waterborne virus), the station had considered letting him go.

      “I’m familiar with Mr. Baumgartner,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

      “I’m at Baumgartner’s house. I’ve told the guy he’s got to tone it down on air, and he’s willing to do it. He’s also willing to take a lot less money than we thought. But he wants to sign tonight. He thinks the bad press is going to lose him listeners, and he wants to turn it around as quickly as possible. His agent is on board. So I need you folks to get me that contract in the next two hours.”

      I felt a charge of energy. I’d always thrived under deadlines. “No problem, Mr. Pickett. I’ll find Tanner, and we’ll get this to you right away.”

      “I’ve tried his cell phone a number of times already.”

      “I know how to reach him.”

      I hung up the phone and called Tavern on Rush. I spent ten long minutes describing Tanner to the maître d’, insisting they find him, asking him to look again, all to no avail. I tried his cell phone, but he didn’t answer. Maybe they’d gone to Lux Bar? Or Gibson’s? Or Hugo’s? I tried each one. No one at any of these establishments matched Tanner’s description.

      Finally, I called Forester back, taking pains not to reveal my panic. “I’m having a hard time reaching Tanner, but I’m sure we can get this done first thing tomorrow.”

      Forester lowered his voice. “His agent is here now. They’re in talks with stations in L.A. But if we get this done tonight, they’ll sign with us. And I’ll have just saved my company a truckload of money.”

      I thought about the contract. It was essentially ready to go. All I’d have to do was insert the new salary. “No problem, Mr. Pickett. What are the new contract terms?”

      Forester named an amount, hundreds of thousands less than the original. I pulled up the contract on the computer, typed in the new salary term and printed it out. Now I’d have to proof the thing. If I made one mistake, I’d be collecting unemployment in a week.

      Thirty minutes later I called Forester. “Does Baumgartner still get a signing bonus?”

      “Ah!” he said, sounding pleased. “Excellent point. No. No signing bonus anymore.”

      “I’ll take that out. And what about the bonuses if he reaches certain ratings?”

      “Keep in the ratings bonuses.”

      “May I have your fax number? I’ll send the contract to you in five minutes.” I took down the fax, gave Forester my direct line and told him I’d stay in my office for the next few hours in case any additional changes were needed.

      I went back to my office with a pleased smile on my face. Making the changes to the Bomber’s contract, although simple, had been the first time I’d felt any proficiency with the law.

      Forester called back in an hour and a half. “So you said your name was Isabel McNeil, is that right?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “How do you spell McNeil?”

      I spelled it for him. I could hear Forester murmuring, as if he was writing this down, and the notion that Forester Pickett—media mogul, founder and CEO of Pickett Enterprises—was writing down my name was thrilling.

      “Well, Ms. McNeil, you saved Pickett Enterprises today.”

      I blushed. I couldn’t help it. As a redhead, the blush is impossible to control. “I think that’s overstating it, sir.”

      “It’s the truth. That’s all there is to it. Now, tell me, how long have you been a lawyer?”

      “Only about a year. I’ve been working here with Tanner Hornsby most of the time.”

      Forester grunted at the mention of Tanner’s name. I interpreted this as a derisive grunt, which made me love him even more.

      He asked me where I’d gone to law school, and I described Loyola University in Chicago. He asked about college, and I told him about the University of Iowa. And soon, I was talking about high school in the city and grade school before that and how we’d lived in Michigan before that. Forester was one of those great listeners. He chuckled at all the right times, and asked for clarification about this and that. He told me a few stories, too, like how he’d started in the business by buying a radio station, but how he’d gone to the University of Chicago at age fifty to get his college degree.

      By the end of our conversation I felt, oddly, as if I was becoming friends with the man. The fact that he was a bizillionaire and I was a relative pauper didn’t matter, nor did the fact that he was one of the firm’s biggest clients and I was merely a peon associate.

      When we were about to hang up the phone, Forester said, “You did well today, Izzy.” It was the first time he’d called me that, and I blushed again, but this time with pride.

      The next day, Forester sent a new case to the firm. The lawsuit wasn’t anything big, just a simple torts case, a slip-and-fall accident at a theater Forester owned, and it arrived at our offices the same way all Pickett cases did.

      The only remarkable thing was that the letter of retention wasn’t directed to Tanner. Instead, it was made out to Isabel McNeil.

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