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other than the baldest facts of their wealth, their brilliance, their aspirations?
    In the back of the massive sixteenth-floor conference room Donald Burdick heard the grandfather clock chime and begin its ringing climb toward 11 A.M . The partners were arriving. Most carried foolscap pads or stacks of files and their ubiquitous leather personal calendars.
    Over the years I’ve seen men like this, women now too,display stubbornness and brutality and brilliance and cruelty.
    And generosity and sacrifice.
    But those are the mere
manifestations
of their souls; what’s truly in their hearts?
    The partners took their places around the table in the dark conference room. Some, the less confident, the younger ones, examined the dings in the rosewood and traced the pattern of the marble with their fingers and eyes and made overly loud comments about their Thanksgivings and about football games. They wore jackets with their suits. Others, the veterans, were in shirtsleeves and had no time for chatter or the administrivia of meetings like this. They appeared inconvenienced. And why shouldn’t they? Isn’t the point of a law firm, after all, to practice law?
    They’re my partners … but how many are my friends?
    Donald Burdick, sitting at the apogee of the table, however, understood that this was a pointless question. The real one was: How many of my friends will stab me in the back? If the tally that Bill Stanley had showed him earlier was accurate the answer to this question was one hell of a lot.
    To Stanley, Burdick whispered, “Nearly fifteen’ll be missing. That could swing it one way or another.”
    “They’re dead,” Stanley replied in a growl. “And we’ll never find the bodies.”
    Wendall Clayton entered the room and took a seat in the middle of one leg of the U. He wasn’t particularly far away from Burdick and not particularly close. He busied himself jotting notes and, smiling, chatting with the partner next to him.
    At eleven-fifteen Burdick nodded for a partner to close the door. The lock mechanism gave a solid click. It seemed to Burdick that the pressure in the room changed and that they were sealed in, as if this were a chamber in the Great Pyramid.
    Donald Burdick called the meeting to order. Minutes were read and not listened to, a brief report from the executive committee on staff overtime went ignored. Committeereports were recited at breakneck speed, with uncharacteristically few interruptions and little debate.
    “Do you want to hear about the hiring committee’s schedule?” asked a sanguine young partner, who had probably stayed up half the night to prepare it.
    “I think we’ll postpone that one,” Burdick said evenly, and—seeing several partners smile—realized that the royal pronoun was an unfortunate slip.
    There was silence in the room, punctuated by the popping of soda cans and papers being organized. Dozens of pens made graffiti on legal pads. Burdick studied the agenda for a moment and then it was time for Wendall Clayton to make his move. He slipped his suit jacket off, opened a file and said, “May I have the floor?”
    Burdick nodded in his direction. In a rehearsed baritone Wendall Clayton said, “I’d like to make a motion relevant to the proposed merger of our firm with Sullivan & Perelli.”
    Burdick shrugged. “You have the floor.”
    Sipping had stopped. Doodling had stopped. Some partners—like the aging, oblivious Ralph Dudley—were confused because the final vote on the merger wasn’t scheduled until January. They were terrified that they might have to make a decision without someone’s telling them what to do.
    “I’m moving to change the date of the ratification vote regarding the merger to November 28, one week from today.”
    Clayton’s trim young protégé, Randy Simms III, whom Burdick detested, said quickly, “Second.”
    There was complete silence. And Burdick was mildly surprised that Clayton’s bid caught some people off guard. But then Burdick