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out. We’ll demand legal costs, and an injunction to block such ‘harassment of the artist’ in the future.”
    He spoke with such lawyerly confidence, and such solicitude for me, I felt a wave of relief but also the faint incredulity of one who has expected to hear a death sentence and has heard instead that he has been reprieved.
    In the morning I’d done what I should have done as soon as I’d received the summons from the Harbourton court the previous day: I called my editor in New York City who referred me to the legal department at my publishing house and within minutes I was being reassured by a lawyer named Elliot Grossman that there was nothing to worry about, absolutely—“Don’t give this ridiculous ‘complaint’ a second thought. It won’t go any further, I predict. Andrew? Are you listening?”
    Am I listening? I was gripping the phone receiver so tightly, my fingers ached.
    “Yes, I—I’ve heard, Elliot. Thank you . . .”
    My voice trailed off in wonderment. Was the summons such a trivial matter, were my fears totally unfounded? “C. W. Haider” wasn’t a threat to my reputation? My career? My life ?
    On the phone, Elliot Grossman sounded like an eminently reasonable man. We had never met at the publishing house—we had never had any reason to confer together before this on any matter. He’d asked me to fax the summons to him and after he’d read it carefully he called me back to allay my fears. He seemed to understand that I was one of those persons who, however they know themselves to be “innocent” of any crime, are thrown into a state of anxiety at the mere possibility of a lawsuit.
    “I’ll be happy to take the case, Andrew. Of course! I’m a great admirer of your novels.”
    To this, I murmured a vague Thank you .
    Whether Elliot Grossman was sincere or otherwise, it was a courteous thing for him to say. Especially to a writer as uncertain of his worth as Andrew Rush.
    “I’ll be in Harbourton on Monday morning for the hearing, promptly at nine A . M ., Andrew. But I’ll go alone, you needn’t attend. As long as you are ‘represented’ there is no reason for you to attend, and I advise you not to.”
    “Really? I thought the summons stipulated . . .”
    “No. This is just a hearing, not a trial. The judge will be impressed that anyone shows up at all for such a frivolous suit. I seriously doubt that any ‘warrant’ would have been made out for your arrest—that’s ridiculous. The judge will be flattered that a publishing house as distinguished as ours is sending ‘legal counsel’—he’ll dismiss within five minutes. Complaints like these are not uncommon, and frivolous lawsuits against purportedly famous or wealthy persons are not uncommon. It’s a form of blackmail with which the law is well acquainted, and the Harbourton judge will recognize it for what it is. Given the nature of the complainant, as you’ve described her to me, I’d guess that she might be already known to the court—a classic crank.”
    Grossman spoke zestfully in the way of one whose profession is such speech: staccato bursts of words, and a pleasure in words that was virtually kinetic.
    “I’ve represented a number of writers, over the years, who’ve been sued for ‘theft’—‘plagiarism’—more often ‘libel’ and ‘invasion of privacy.’ With our First Amendment it’s damned hard to make a case even when there is a case —which there isn’t here, I’m sure.”
    I’m sure . This did not sound vehement enough to me.
    “Andrew, you say you don’t know this ‘C. W. Haider’—yes? You’ve never visited her home, you’ve never read anything she has written?”
    “Certainly not!”
    “Well, sometimes strangers send writers manuscripts, and it’s not advised to read these manuscripts but, if you can, return them immediately to the sender with a notification, signed and dated, that you have not read them. If you keep a manuscript, that might indicate that you’ve read