Miranda's War by Howard; Foster Page A

building where she had seen Anthony Zenni, parked in the $20 valet line and went up to the plush lobby of Adams & Threlkeld, the 350-lawyer powerhouse where Ted McFarland was a litigation partner. Archer was already there, seated on a coffee-colored leather couch and reading The Boston Globe . She sat down near him but far enough down so that he could not see what was on her laptop screen.
    â€œHe’s running a little late, tied up in court,” he said.
    â€œWho’s paying for this?”
    â€œNobody, he’s a friend.”
    â€œHe’s sent us bills in the past.”
    â€œNominal, just to appease his managing partner.”
    â€œI see, so he’s kept it informal.”
    â€œVery.”
    â€œI’ll remind him of that when he starts to threaten litigation.”
    She picked up one of the firm’s glossy pamphlets from the coffee table.
    There was a full-page profile for each partner, and Ted had a decade-old photo of himself above his career chronology:
    1982 - Enters Harvard Law School
    1985 - Graduates magna cum laude, editor of The Journal of Law and Economics
    1985 - Clerkship for the Hon. Joseph T. Rubin, Third Circuit Court of Appeals, Philadelphia
    1992 - Becomes partner at Adams & Threlkeld
    2002 - Argues Federated Industries v. Kellerman, landmark securities case in the U.S. Supreme Court
    She pulled out her red pen and wrote “AND LOST 7-2” beneath it. Then she added:
    2000 - Joins A.A. (Wellesley Hills chapter)
    2004 - Misses his father’s funeral for a deposition
    2007 - Leaves wife for twenty-four-year-old graduate student
    2008 - Finalizes merciless divorce decree after threatening ex-wife with disclosure of her manic depression
    Then she put the pamphlet down and discreetly picked up another one so as not to draw Archer’s attention. She had introduced her point of view in four pamphlets by the time she saw Ted, six foot four, dressed in a loose-fitting poplin suit, show up at the other end of the room and wave. He wore rimless glasses hooked over steel-gray temples and had a dashing but diplomatic aura of strength. Had she met him twenty years ago, she would have been drawn to him, as other women still were.
    â€œHi folks, I’m terribly sorry, court, you know. Lateness comes with the job.”
    â€œNo problem, old boy,” said Archer.
    â€œCan I get you something? We’ve got Starbucks’ new blonde roast, you know, less potent.”
    â€œI’m fine,” he responded.
    â€œI’ll take a cup,” she said, wondering if he would fetch it himself. He ignored her request and simply led them down a spiral staircase and a hallway to his office. He sat at a chair across the room from his massive desk and motioned for them to take seats at the couch. Miranda reached into her handbag and touched her cell phone, starting the voice notes recording function.
    â€œThis seems like a more seemly place to talk to old friends.”
    He made small talk about the boys and golf. His son was nine, already enjoying the game. He confessed to hitting a ball into a pond at the twelfth hole in Brookline.
    â€œYou used to play a decent game,” he said to Archer.
    â€œNot anymore,” said Archer. “Tennis and our boat, that’s enough. I spend more time writing now.”
    â€œAnd I help with the economic analysis of urban development,” she said.
    â€œI didn’t know that. What exactly do you do?”
    â€œRegression analysis on data to find the missing links in the reasoning. For example, data on the development of sewer systems in Brooklyn is sketchy. It was an independent city back then and it just didn’t keep the records. I told Archer how statistics could predict how long it would have taken for the second and third stages to be built. Once he had that, the rest of his thesis fell into place.”
    â€œIt’s true, she runs circles around me in statistics.”
    â€œAnd economics,” she