Page 115 of A Dead End Wedding

"I would."

"You're just . . . you're . . . evil," he whispered hoarsely.

"Duh. I'm a lawyer."

He stomped off down the hall, shouting back over his shoulder. "Fine. Deal."

I laughed and shook my head. Negotiation at its finest. Next I'd be trying the Socratic method in the grocery store.

I walked out front, wondering where Max was. She was usually the first one in the office, with her unnatural morning-person personality. As I reached reception, she walked in the front door, talking on her cell phone. "I don't care what you have to do. Put out an APB on him or something. I want to know where that furniture is, and I want to know today."

I stared at her, wondering if I'd hiredtwocolor-blind people. The bright lime-green dress might have been fine by itself, but the matching lime-green heeled sandals and the complementary lime-green pillbox hat put the outfit at just a teensy bit over the top.

She listened, nodding for a few seconds, then sighed. "Well, do your best, please. Thank you. Yes, winning Miss Florida was one of my proudest moments. Thanks."

She clicked her phone shut, then caught sight of me. "I swear, some people. You'd think it was all fine and dandy that they have no earthly idea where on God's green earth your belongings are."

"Fine and dandy?"

"Oh, hush. I go all southern when I'm annoyed. And how are you, anyway?" She stopped and gave me the once-over with her eyes, probably scanning for further injuries.

"I'm fine. Nice dress, by the way. Is there a garden party scheduled today I didn't know about? Or did you have a sudden urge to look like a citrus fruit?"

She sniffed, then carefully unpinned her hat and placed it on the side of her desk. "I don't know what you're talking about, Miss Power Suit with the elastic waist."

"Hey, it's not elastic. It has a little . . . give, that's all," I protested. "And thanks for calling again about my furniture. I assume that's what that was about?"

She made a face. "Yes, but no luck. I've tried being annoyed, demanding, friendly, and commiserating. None of them work. Still no furniture. No driver."

"We're going to have to take some kind of legal action. This is ridiculous," I said.

"What kind of legal action? Don't you think it's a little early to sue?" she asked.

I threw my hands up in the air. "I don't know. Missing furniture is a little out of my area of expertise. Not that pretty much everything else isn't, too. Working at a big firm with divisions that handle everything is underrated, I think."

She shot a measuring glance my way. "Regretting starting your own practice already?"

I thought about it for a second, then touched my fingertips to the still-tender back of my head. "Nah. If I were going to have regrets, it would be over concussions, not over furniture."

Mr. Ellison walked into the room, carrying a cup of coffee. "Did you hear the one about the blonde who?—"

"Mr. Ellison!" I shouted, cutting him off. "No lawyer jokes AND no blonde jokes. Got it? Or do I have to use the 'P' word?"

He grumbled something under his breath, but he stopped. Then he looked at Max and did a double-take. "Great dress! It matches my pants."

Max moaned and started banging her head on the desk. Seemed like as good a time as any to make my escape.

22

Afew 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. Infact, 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.)

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