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A few hours later, I was the one ready to bang my head on a desk. The timeline wasn't making sense. The first report of any possible adverse reaction, a doctor from Orlando reporting in on one of her patient's illness, was pretty clearly documented, as was the company's internal response, in a heavily redacted kind of way. Redact means to take a couple dozen black markers (in the old days) or a couple dozen yards of white redacting tape (today) and block out anything that might be helpful to the other side's case or harmful to your own.

This is not how the rules of civil procedure — the rules that courts used to run civil lawsuits — define it, but I'd seen it in action enough times to paraphrase.

Technically, you're supposed to have a good reason to redact part of a document. Like attorney-client privilege, which is a fancy way of saying that you have the right to private communications with your lawyer. Otherwise, nobody would confide in us, and if you can't tell your own lawyer the truth, the justice system can't work.

There are exceptions, of course. My client can't tell me "I plan to murder John Smith" and expect me to keep it confidential. In fact, in that case, I'd have a duty to report my client's murderous plans.

But if my client tells me he knows he messed up somewhere, and shipped defective insulin to consumers, that communication between us doesn't have to be disclosed to the other side. (Again, there are loopholes and exceptions even to this, but we're lawyers. We live for loopholes.)

Boring legalese explanation over, though, my problem remained, as a single sheet of paper. An invoice, to be precise. I picked up the phone and called Max. "Will you and Mr. Ellison please come in for a quick huddle?"

They'd been working their way through boxes, too. Mr. Ellison, annoying sense of humor aside, had a nearly savant set of organizational skills, and was charting and arranging our new landslide of documents with amazing precision. When I'd mentioned it, he'd looked at me, bristling. "Forty-five years as a bus driver; damn straight I'm organized," was all he'd said, but I'd caught him grinning to himself when I left the file room.

They walked through my door, momentarily blinding with me with green and pink. I squinted my eyes. "Maybe I should wear my sunglasses for this meeting," I said, only half joking.

Max daintily arranged herself in a chair, while Mr. Ellison plopped himself down on the other one. "Hilarious," he said. "Ha, ha. Now what's up? Some of us are working around here."

I ignored him and held up the invoice. "This is a clerical error or a problem."

Max reached for it, but he got to it first, grabbing it out of my hand. "What is it? Invoice for film production, 1-800-BAD-INSULIN. I don't see . . . Wait! This can't be right."

He stabbed a finger at the date listed as "date of service," on the invoice. "This is, what? Three weeks before that, Dr. Kuebler woman reported the first reaction. I got a calendar going back in the file room."

I nodded. "Exactly right. I was going to ask if either of you have come across any reports of earlier adverse events."

Max took the invoice from Mr. E and studied it. "No, everything I've seen has pointed directly to Dr. Kuebler's report as the first one that alerted BDC to any problem. Faith Deaver's reaction was seventeen days later."

"Yeah, plenty of time to notify people and get that product off the shelves and out of use," I said, scowling again. "Anyway, this must be a typo. How could Orange Grove Productions be filming commercials three weeks before anybody even knew there was a problem?"

I pointed at the client's name and address on the bottom left corner of the invoice. "This is even more interesting: Sarah Greenberg hired this company to film these commercials. It's put as ATTENTION TO: M-somebody Ziggeran at her firm. The first name is a little hard to read."

"Damn vultures, those kinds of lawyers," Mr. Ellison muttered.

Max and I glared at him. "Don't even go there," she said. "People have a right to know about legal services that may be available to them."

I held up a hand to cut her off. "Not that I don't appreciate a spirited defense of the legal system as much as the next person, but is anybody else wondering why an invoice from a video production company to Greenberg and Smithies is in with Langley, Cowan's production of BDC discovery documents?"

Max narrowed her eyes. "That makes no sense at all, does it?"

I shook my head. "No way. And there's also no way that a firm like Langley Cowan didn't have half a dozen slave-labor associates go through this production page by page over and over. How could it get in there?"

Mr. Ellison looked back and forth between the two of us. "Will somebody explain what the heck is going on here? Don't they have to give you all the paper about the case?"

I picked up my mug, made a face at the smell of stale coffee, then put it back down. "Sorry. Yes, they do. All the paper we requested . Which is why those requests the other lawyer wrote – and you made fun of – are so thorough. But we can't ask BDC to give us documents they don't have. We can't ask them for Greenberg and Smithies' communication with their film company, for example. So why would this even be in here?"

Max shrugged. "It's a mistake."

"Right. Except why would Langley Cowan even have it in the first place? And if the date on the invoice is one mistake, then this would make two mistakes." I shook my head, getting that tingly feeling in my head that I always got when puzzle pieces didn't fit.

"It's too weird, and I don't like weird. Max, will you call Orange Grove Productions and figure out a way to ask about this date? Maybe even get a copy of the correct invoice faxed over? This is going to bug me until we figure it out."

Mr. Ellison folded his arms across his bony chest. "I betcha it's a conspiracy. The government is running bad drugs and trying to make guinea pigs out of us citizens."

Max and I both stared at him. I was the first to figure out something to say. "Um, well, how about we go with 'clerical error' for now and leave 'government conspiracy' as a future theory?"

"Sure, that's what they said about that Area 51. Then the anal probes started happening."

A fter a quick sandwich (Max had stocked our tiny kitchen with the essentials, like a giant jar of peanut butter, a jar of strawberry jam, and a loaf of honey-wheat bread), I was ready to dive back into the Deaver documents, but Max buzzed me. "December? I think you'd better come out here."

"What—"

Click.

Even my staff hangs up on me. That is just so wrong.

I trudged out to reception, the invoice still niggling at me. Then I reached our little lobby and all thoughts of invoices vanished at the sight of a dozen of Aunt Celia's casserole brigade, all clutching papers and files and, in one case, a precarious pile of about four shoeboxes.

"Hi! It's so nice to see you again! Um, may I help you?"

The shoebox woman – I couldn't remember her name for anything, but I think she was one of the tuna casseroles — spoke up first. "Well, we certainly hope so! Otherwise we wasted our Monday bus ride, and Designer Shoe Warehouse is having a sale on those purple velvet heels I've been wanting."

I glanced down at her chunky white orthopedic shoes and support hose. "Um, yes. Well. I'm delighted to see you, of course, but maybe somebody could tell me?—"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, shoes, shoes, shoes. That's all you think about," an elegant woman in a snazzy gold tracksuit (she was definitely the apple cobbler; totally yummy!) spoke up. "We're going to call you Imelda, for heaven's sake."

Tracksuit woman stood up. "I'm Daribelle Dohonish, as I'm sure you remember, since you ate three pieces of my cobbler. We're here to help you get your law practice off the ground. We all have various legal matters we've been putting off and, well, we're not getting any younger. I'll go first, then."

I watched, speechless, as she marched down the hallway toward my office. The shoebox woman grumbled a little, but the rest of them smiled at me and nodded. I looked at Max and she shrugged, smiling.

I turned back toward my new clients. "Okay, then. Thank you all – again — for coming. I'll find Mr. Ellison and ask him to get coffee or cold drinks for everyone. Um, well. Thanks."

Then I followed Mrs. Dohonish down the hall, wondering at what magic age pink and green pants or gold tracksuits looked like good fashion choices.

T hree hours and eight new clients later, I was tired but happy. Straightforward legal issues, for a change. I'd be able to help each of my new clients with a little research, all except for one who needed a referral to a good estate attorney. Which reminded me I really needed to make it to a local bar association meeting and start building up my referral network. For now, I'd ask Aunt Celia. She knew everybody in a three-county area.

I watched out the window as the seniors' minibus drove off with my new clientele, only moderately embarrassed that my Aunt Celia was sending me all of my clients. Referrals are the only way to build a business. I would work really hard to provide the best legal representation possible and help them with actual solutions.

Tuna casserole optional.

"December? Take this one in your office," Max said, holding the phone to her shoulder. "It's Mike. Your Mike," she added, as though her expression didn't give it away.

"More like Brenda's Mike," I muttered. Then I nodded and headed back to my office at a trot, wondering if he had furniture news and also wondering what I was going to say to him about dating Brenda.

"Hey Mike, how are you?"

"I'm fine. Why are you out of breath?"

A wave of loneliness, homesickness, or plain old-fashioned longing washed over me at the sound of his voice. No matter how sure you are that a divorce is a good idea, there is some part of you – the part that envisioned being eighty years old together and playing with your grandchildren – that aches with the loss.

At least, that's how it worked for me.

"I jogged down the hall to get the phone," I said past the lump in my throat. "How are you? Any news on my furniture?"

"What? You still don't have it? Let me know if you want me to contact an attorney and take some kind of action. This is ridiculous!"

"Mike?"

"Yes?"

"I am an attorney, remember?" I twirled the phone cord in my fingers, smiling. He'd always been the one to handle the little details of our lives, while I flew around the country being a hotshot trial lawyer. Looking back, I couldn't even tell you where the dry cleaners' shop was located.

He laughed. "Right. Of course. Sometimes I forget you're doing general practice now. I guess you can handle this on your own."

"Yep, no problem," I said, not mentioning that I hadn't the slightest clue when I'd ever get my furniture.

"Well, I have fabulous news, and I wanted you to be the first to know."

"You got the grant! Mike, I'm so happy for you! I know how hard you worked on that proposal, and?—"

"No, no, it's not the grant. Although it looks like I might have an excellent shot at that. No, it's much better than that. I asked Brenda to marry me, and she said yes!"

After the phone fell out of my numb fingers, it occurred to me I didn't have to worry about answering the "can I date your secretary" question.

Somehow, that didn't make me feel any better.