the rear of the office were familiar. Amy parked next to Mr. Phillips’s silver Mercedes. Brick pavers formed a path around the side of the house to the front door. The law firm had maintained the landscaping of the old mansion, and Amy always enjoyed the sights and smells of each season. Early winter meant beds of brightly colored pansies smiling upward from beside the walkway. Today the pansies danced in the wind.
The name of the law firm was engraved on a square brass plaque beside the large wooden front door. Nelson Jones, one of the original founders of the firm, had been dead for twenty-five years. Bill Barrington, the second named partner, retired shortly before Amy was hired. Now in his eighties, Mr. Barrington and his wife spent most of the year at their beach house on the Outer Banks. That left Mr. Phillips as the only named partner practicing law with the firm. There were four younger partners, but the law firm name never changed. Amy suspected ambition by the other lawyers to have their names at the top of the letterhead and engraved on a new brass platewas quickly squelched by Mr. Phillips. He believed keeping the same name for decades communicated stability and prestige to clients and the community at large.
Amy was slightly nervous as she pushed open the front door but much less fearful than when she’d arrived years before for her initial interview. At that time, she was trying to convince Ms. Kirkpatrick, the firm administrator, that a year and a half of experience working for a CPA firm in Jacksonville qualified her for employment at a law office.
The firm reception area was the foyer of the house. There wasn’t much space for seating; however, there were three conference rooms adjacent to the reception area, and clients were efficiently funneled into the conference rooms for meetings with the lawyers. An attractive young woman in her twenties sat behind a shiny wooden desk in the foyer. Amy looked at the familiar grandfather clock to the right of the front door. It was 1:58 p.m. Mr. Phillips valued punctuality and didn’t like to be interrupted early or kept waiting. Amy introduced herself to the receptionist, who gave no indication she knew about Amy’s former association with the firm.
“I have an appointment with Mr. Phillips at two o’clock,” Amy said.
“I’ll let him know you’re here.”
Amy sat in a leather side chair. There was a collection of regional and national magazines on a low table along with the current edition of the Wall Street Journal . Amy sat with her hands folded in her lap. She knew she wouldn’t have to wait long. As the clock struck the hour, Mr. Phillips entered the reception area. Sixty-two years old with white hair and rugged good looks, the lawyer was comfortably perched atop the legal community in Cross Plains. The local judges gave Mr. Phillips an extra measure of respect when he appeared in their courtrooms. He greeted Amy with the smile he reserved for people he wanted to persuade or influence.
“Nice to see you,” he said, extending his hand. “We’ll talk in my office.”
Amy saw the receptionist watching them as they left the foyer. Amy steeled herself for whatever important matter justified beingsummoned to the law firm. When in full-manipulation mode, Mr. Phillips almost always got his way.
The senior partner’s office was in the former dining room. Entering the office, a visitor faced a bank of six tall windows with an expansive view of the side yard. The lawyer’s desk was to the right with a small sitting area at the opposite end of the room. Amy’s workstation had been behind Mr. Phillips’s office in a converted butler pantry that led to the dining room on one side and a hallway on the other.
“How does it feel to be back in the office?” Mr. Phillips asked when they were seated.
“Fine,” Amy replied, then stopped. She didn’t want to say more than necessary.
Mr. Phillips sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. “I was
The name of the law firm was engraved on a square brass plaque beside the large wooden front door. Nelson Jones, one of the original founders of the firm, had been dead for twenty-five years. Bill Barrington, the second named partner, retired shortly before Amy was hired. Now in his eighties, Mr. Barrington and his wife spent most of the year at their beach house on the Outer Banks. That left Mr. Phillips as the only named partner practicing law with the firm. There were four younger partners, but the law firm name never changed. Amy suspected ambition by the other lawyers to have their names at the top of the letterhead and engraved on a new brass platewas quickly squelched by Mr. Phillips. He believed keeping the same name for decades communicated stability and prestige to clients and the community at large.
Amy was slightly nervous as she pushed open the front door but much less fearful than when she’d arrived years before for her initial interview. At that time, she was trying to convince Ms. Kirkpatrick, the firm administrator, that a year and a half of experience working for a CPA firm in Jacksonville qualified her for employment at a law office.
The firm reception area was the foyer of the house. There wasn’t much space for seating; however, there were three conference rooms adjacent to the reception area, and clients were efficiently funneled into the conference rooms for meetings with the lawyers. An attractive young woman in her twenties sat behind a shiny wooden desk in the foyer. Amy looked at the familiar grandfather clock to the right of the front door. It was 1:58 p.m. Mr. Phillips valued punctuality and didn’t like to be interrupted early or kept waiting. Amy introduced herself to the receptionist, who gave no indication she knew about Amy’s former association with the firm.
“I have an appointment with Mr. Phillips at two o’clock,” Amy said.
“I’ll let him know you’re here.”
Amy sat in a leather side chair. There was a collection of regional and national magazines on a low table along with the current edition of the Wall Street Journal . Amy sat with her hands folded in her lap. She knew she wouldn’t have to wait long. As the clock struck the hour, Mr. Phillips entered the reception area. Sixty-two years old with white hair and rugged good looks, the lawyer was comfortably perched atop the legal community in Cross Plains. The local judges gave Mr. Phillips an extra measure of respect when he appeared in their courtrooms. He greeted Amy with the smile he reserved for people he wanted to persuade or influence.
“Nice to see you,” he said, extending his hand. “We’ll talk in my office.”
Amy saw the receptionist watching them as they left the foyer. Amy steeled herself for whatever important matter justified beingsummoned to the law firm. When in full-manipulation mode, Mr. Phillips almost always got his way.
The senior partner’s office was in the former dining room. Entering the office, a visitor faced a bank of six tall windows with an expansive view of the side yard. The lawyer’s desk was to the right with a small sitting area at the opposite end of the room. Amy’s workstation had been behind Mr. Phillips’s office in a converted butler pantry that led to the dining room on one side and a hallway on the other.
“How does it feel to be back in the office?” Mr. Phillips asked when they were seated.
“Fine,” Amy replied, then stopped. She didn’t want to say more than necessary.
Mr. Phillips sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. “I was
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