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A fter we'd finally quit laughing and cleaned up the dishes, while Celia issued a good-natured lecture on childish behavior, I borrowed a sleeping bag and headed out to my house. Celia and Nathan had invited me to stay with them until my furniture arrived, but I wanted to spend the first night in my new rental house, actually in my new house. (Not that they were letting me pay any rent, yet, but still. I was keeping track and was going to pay it all retroactively once I got the business going.)

Thirty minutes later, I sat on the floor in my borrowed sleeping bag, surrounded by boxes, and toasted myself with a paper cup of wine and a Krispy Kreme donut.

To a new life and a new December.

In fewer than seventy-two hours, I'd find out that my old life wasn't quite done with me yet.

P olished hardwood floors are much better to look at than sleep on, so I gave up and headed for the office early. Getting in at seven would be all productive and business-owner-like. I'd have at least an hour and a half of quiet time to catch up on the paperwork I hadn't had time for the day before. Law is usually about five percent excitement to ninety-five percent paperwork, despite what you see on TV.

As I pulled into my private parking space—Max had painted my name on it in big blue letters—I smiled to myself. I can do this. Running a law firm isn't that hard.

"Are you running a law firm here or what? Where the hell have you been?"

I jumped at the first screechy word and almost spilled coffee all over my skirt. I looked up at the culprit and tried not to growl. "Hello, Mr. Ellison. Is there a problem, or do you usually lurk in parking lots trying to scare people?" I swung my car door open and stepped out, which made me about half a foot taller than him.

Always take the position of power for the psychological advantage. Lawyer 101.

"I've been waiting for you since six o'clock this morning. Don't think that you don't have to pay me for the past hour and seven minutes just because you don't have any work ethics, young lady."

I gritted my teeth. The peaceful feeling evaporated. "I think you mean work ethic , Mr. Ellison. And please call me December. Or even boss . Boss would be great, actually."

Subtle didn't really work on Mr. Ellison. "Well, I guess if you only have the one ethic, that's how you say it. I've got lots of ethics. And you'd better give me my own key, so I can get to work while you lollygag around in the morning. Where's the chickie?"

I juggled my briefcase and coffee as I unlocked the office door. "Max. Her name is Max. No girlie, no chickie. Try to keep up with what century you're in, Mr. Ellison. She usually comes in at nine, like me. How about you just come in at nine, when we do?" That way, you can't break anything .

He stomped off toward the file room. "Fine, but you're paying me for this morning. And make a different coffee today. That stuff yesterday gave me the runs."

I made a face at his retreating back. "TMI, Mr. Ellison. TMI."

He stopped at the doorway and turned around. "By the way, your butt looks huge in that skirt, boss ."

This whole boss thing isn't all it's cracked up to be.

A fter a fairly calm morning spent reviewing Charlie's file and refereeing arguments between Mr. Ellison and Max—who was back to normal clothes, thank goodness—my phone rang as I was pondering the vital decision between Wendy's and Taco Bell for lunch. Praying that Mr. Bessup was finally returning our calls and would magically appear and take Ellison off of my hands, I snatched up the receiver. "December Vaughn."

"Ms. Vaughn, this is P. Addison Langley the Third. You can call me Addison." The dulcet tones of Southern charm flowed out of the phone.

"OK, Addison. How can I help you?" Probably selling long-distance services. Perfect telemarketer voice.

"No, it is I who wishes to help you , Ms. Vaughn. I understand you filed a notice of appearance in the Deaver case this morning."

I glanced at my watch, surprised. "You've got pretty good information, Addison, because I just filed that about an hour ago, after I talked with my client. Who are you, exactly?"

He laughed. "It's been a very long time since a lawyer in this town—or anywhere in northeast Florida, for that matter—asked me who I am, young lady. Where have you been? I am the managing partner of Langley, Cowan, and Allens."

Ah, Langley, Cowan. Now that I'd heard of. Langley Cowan was a hundred-year-old white shoe defense firm that represented all the biggest companies in the area, and several from out of state. They'd been co-lead counsel for the defendant manufacturers in the latest round of diet drug litigation, and I'd heard some interesting tales of them butting heads with the New York firm that served as the other co-lead. Not to mention that they were BDC's defense counsel on the Deaver case, although Langley hadn't personally signed the pleadings I'd seen so far.

If this Langley were that Langley, I was seriously outgunned.

"Ms. Vaughn? Are you still there?" Suddenly his voice didn't sound all that charming to me. More . . . smarm than charm.

"I'm here, Mr. Langley. What can I do for you?"

"Call me Addison. May I call you December? It is December, isn't it? Curious name."

This from a man named Addison ?

"Well, then, December, as you surely know by now, we are chief outside counsel for BDC Pharmaceuticals and are defending BDC in the insulin cases. Since you're apparently taking over Charles Deaver's case, I thought I'd call you. All in the spirit of cooperation, you understand."

I understood, all right. I'd made similar calls myself, under orders, when I was a baby lawyer. First, you get the solo practitioner or generalist attorney to think you're her friend. Then you quickly offer to settle, before one of the huge plaintiff's firms that operate on the industrial model swoop the plaintiff up in the giant Hoover suction of client solicitation.

Let me back up a minute. The mass tort model was pretty simple, really. The FDA would recall a drug for what they called Adverse Events, and what the rest of us called reports of serious adverse side effects. Like cancer, or heart disease, or death.

The kind of side effect that could ruin your day.

Then, when the pixels had barely settled from the FDA's internet press release, an elite group of plaintiffs' attorneys from law firms based throughout the country would hop on their private jets and head for a central meeting place. Someplace simple, like the Four Seasons in New York or the Bellagio in Vegas.

These particular plaintiffs' attorneys are really into understatement, you understand.

They'd put an action plan into effect, based on the many, many cases they'd worked together in the past. Quickly draw up teams and designate which did what. Discovery, expert witnesses, medical knowledge, Daubert and other evidentiary challenges to the science. Then they'd drink a few dozen thousand-dollar bottles of wine and head back to their respective states to start the real work: pulling in cases.

There's a fine line between solicitation, which is illegal in most states, and advertising for cases. The line has to do with the directness of the approach. For example, an attorney can't approach a specific person known to have a specific problem and say, "Hey, I'm a lawyer. Hire me for your case."

But we can advertise and say to the public, "Hey, I'm a lawyer. If you have a case, hire me."

(If the distinction confuses you, you're not alone, trust me.)

Then, when somebody's wife or child suffers an injury that may be related to a bad drug, they call their family lawyer. Or their friend's lawyer. Or the lawyer who did their taxes or their divorce or their will.

None of these lawyers will have a clue about how to run a drug case, so they refer the case—for a fee, of course—to one of the big firms in the private jet-set group. So, basically, a handful of law firms who never, ever meet their clients run all the cases against the manufacturer or manufacturers of the drug in question.

It's efficient. It's expedient.

I'm not sure it's exactly justice .

The defense side operates with similar war-room strategies and battle-honed precision. If a few plaintiffs (or a few hundred) get crushed under the wheels of the machine, well, that's how it goes.

It's also efficient. And expedient.

I'm not sure that it's always justice on that side of the playing field, either.

Not really the time for philosophizing, though. Sometimes you're the windshield.

"Sometimes you're the bug." But I didn't intend to let Charlie Deaver be crushed.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing, Addison. Thank you for the call and for the spirit of cooperation. I'd like to talk about some of your discovery responses, which appear to be seriously past due. If you —"

"Oh, no need to get into all that, now, is there?" He chuckled warmly, all jovial-let's-you-and-me-be-buds now.

"Excuse me?"

"Well, you and I both know, no offense, that you don't have the expertise to handle this case. Your client deserves experienced counsel. You don't want his case to suffer while you try to learn your way around a mass tort case, do you?"

I leaned back in my chair, intrigued. Now that was a new tactic. Trying to get the inexperienced lawyer to give the case to somebody better equipped to handle it? It wasn't an arrow in any defense counsel quiver I'd ever used. The cynic in me wasn't buying altruism as a motive, however.

"So, you're suggesting I refer the case out?" I tried to keep the surprise out of my voice. I couldn't wait to hear how this played out.

"Definitely. And I know just the lawyer. Sarah Greenberg at Greenberg and Smithies. I'll give you her direct dial number. She's handling all the cases that have been filed against BDC to date. She's been doing this almost as long as I have, the old battleax."

I'm sure Greenberg would get all warm and fuzzy over being called a battleax. I might have to mention it when I met her around the bar some day. (That's bar association, not the beer and nuts kind, usually. But, whatever works.)

"Okay, just to get this straight, you want me to refer my client's case to a more experienced lawyer, so Mr. Deaver will achieve a better result? Against BDC Pharmaceuticals. Who is your client. Is that about right?"

"You got it. After all, we're working for justice here, aren't we, December?"

"You know, Addison, I can't seem to remember where in the Rules of Professional Responsibility—you know, the part where it talks about a lawyer's duty to zealously represent one's client—I can't remember where the part about getting your client's opponent a better lawyer was written. It sure wasn't on the Florida bar exam I took last summer."

Addison's warmth turned cold fast. "Yes, last summer. So you've been licensed to practice law for what, six minutes? Do you really think that makes you qualified to go up against me ? Lady, I've beaten the top plaintiffs' lawyers in the country. Ask around before you decide to take me on."

I decided I'd heard enough. "OK, then, Addy. Thanks for your advice and the spirit of cooperation and all that, but I think I'll keep this case. Mr. Deaver and I will do just fine on our own. Thanks for calling, though."

I slowly replaced the phone in its cradle, feeling my forehead scrunch up in confusion. I was going to look like a Shar Pei by the time I was thirty-five. Did the employee health plan cover Botox? Did we even have an employee health plan yet?

And, more important: what the hell was that all about?

The phone rang under my hand, and I flinched back a little, blinking.

"It's for YOU, girlie," bellowed my new employee from somewhere down the hallway.

I picked up the phone and punched the button for Max's extension.

"Um, Max? Any chance you could teach Mr. Ellison how to use the intercom system, or at least the inter-office extension?"

"I. Can't. Teach. That. Old. Buzzard. Anything." I'd never heard someone swallow her own tongue before, but this sounded close. Max was normally so calm she made Prozac seem hyperactive. Ellison must have been seriously pushing her buttons.

She took a deep breath. "Sorry, December. I'll see what I can do. It's Sarah Greenberg, on line one for you, by the way. Snotty voice, good diction."

"Really? I was just talking about her. Well, being talked at . The plot thickens, and all that mysterious crap. Thanks. And don't let Ellison get to you. Remember, you're better, you're stronger, and . . . um, you have more hair."

I disconnected the line quickly. That was so not covered in the How to be a Good Employer manual. Taking my own deep breath, I pressed the blinking button with the big number one on it. See, even I can learn this system. It ought to be a breeze for a retired bus driver. "December Vaughn."

". . . tell her I'm not putting up with her shit. Two point five million, and not a penny less, or my next phone call is to the press. Yes, December? Sorry about that. You kept me waiting for so long, I had to discuss something with my secretary. So, welcome to the Florida bar, yada yada. You need to transfer the Deaver case to me."