Dead Man's Rule by Rick Acker

they pulled out of the driveway. Eleven messages waited for him—and there probably would have been more if his mailbox hadn’t filled up. All were from Dr. Ivanovsky. The first one had come at 6:43 in the morning, when he had presumably gotten Ben’s message from the night before. The last one had arrived at 7:32. They were all agitated variations on the same general theme: “I am much dismayed and confused by this news. You said we would win, but now you say maybe we lose! Why this change? It is very, very important to win! Call me quickly!” Around 7:00, he started adding things like, “Why do you not call? I will come to your office and speak to you. You must win today!” Ben was very glad he had never given this client his home or cell numbers.
    Listening to the messages took half the trip to the office, and the other half was ruined by the prospect of dealing with an upset and demanding client the moment they walked in the door. By the time he and Noelle arrived at the office, they both thoroughly resented Dr. Ivanovsky.
    Once again, they found him in the hallway, wearing clothing that looked like rummage-sale rejects. He paced back and forth, muttering to himself and resembling a deranged vagrant.
    “Hello,” Ben said as they approached, a polite smile firmly planted on his face. “I just got your messages. You can come in if you like, but I really should spend the next hour preparing for the hearing.”
    To Ben’s surprise, Dr. Ivanovsky did not protest. “Okay. I will wait. We will speak on the way to this hearing. May I have a copy of Mr. Simeon’s motion to read?”
    “All right. I’ll set you up in the conference room. You won’t be needing it this morning, will you, Noelle?”
    “No, no, that’s fine,” she said quickly. Ben guessed that she also didn’t want Dr. Ivanovsky sitting and talking to himself in the lobby, on display for any visitors who might come during the next hour.

    Dr. Ivanovsky didn’t disturb Ben, but it wasn’t easy for the old scientist. He didn’t completely understand the motion—though he understood enough to be very anxious. Losing the case was unthinkable, but now he was forced to think about it. Ben had said in his voice mail (which Dr. Ivanovsky had listened to five times and had largely memorized) that the situation did “not look positive.” How bad was it? And what exactly would happen if they lost—would the Brothers get immediate access to the box? Dr. Ivanovsky desperately wanted to go into Ben’s office and get answers to these and dozens of other questions, but he knew that would be counterproductive and he restrained himself with an iron will.
    Finally, he got up and walked around the conference room. He stared at the paintings without seeing them. He fidgeted with the office supplies that sat neatly organized on the credenza at the back of the room. His lack of knowledge and control of the situation weighed heavily on his mind.
    At all critical points in his adult life, Mikhail Ivanovsky had been in control. He had made a point of it. When he’d caught pneumonia and had to be hospitalized, he’d argued with the doctor about his treatment even though he could barely breathe. When his condition worsened, he took over his own treatment—feverish and weak as he was—and managed to cure himself. And when some bureaucrats in the collapsing Soviet Union had tried to keep him and his wife from emigrating to America, he had stormed past a host of protesting functionaries and into the office of the passport-control officer and refused to leave until the man reversed his decision.
    Ivanovsky had even guided the lives of those around him at crucial times. When his wife was diagnosed with cancer, for instance, he had researched the type of tumor and its treatment in depth, had handpicked her doctor after several rounds of interviews, and had even stood watching in the operating room during her surgery.
    He had decided long ago that even people of goodwill