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for twenty years, and my father trusted Roger with his life. Since he doesn't have his life anymore, here I am.
    The purpose of this visit is to go over matters of the estate and learn the terms of my father's will. I arrive ten minutes early and start reading one of the ancient magazines from the rack in the waiting room. For some reason, every doctor's, dentist's, or lawyer's office I am ever in only has magazines more than four months old. Where do the magazines go when they first arrive? Is there a publication purgatory that they are required to inhabit until their information is no longer timely?
    I pick up the current one in the office, a six-month-old
Forbes.
It predicts that the stock market will go up, a prediction which has turned out to be wrong. I'm glad I didn't read it six months ago.
    The door to Roger's office opens and he comes out to greet me. Roger is a very distinguished-looking man, with a kind smile and smooth manner. He is the definition of “unruffled,” a neat trick to have pulled off since he's been married five times. I've had only one troubled marriage, and I am thoroughly ruffled.
    “Sorry to keep you waiting, Andy.”
    Roger shakes my hand and then hugs me, just like he hugged me at the funeral. I'm not a big hug fan, but I hug him back.
    “No problem.”
    We exchange pleasantries about his wife and children, all of whom I vaguely know, and he inquires about my practice. I talk briefly about it, at which point his eyes start to glaze over. Criminal law is not Roger's thing.
    We go into his office and he suggests that I sit on the couch. He goes to his desk and starts to gather the paperwork he is going to show me. He handles legal papers like a Las Vegas dealer handles cards … smooth, with no wasted motion.
    “Roger, before we start, there's something I want to ask you. Did my father ever mention knowing Victor Markham?”
    He seems surprised by the question. “Of course, don't you remember? He prosecuted that murder a few years ago … when the young woman was murdered in that bar. I believe the victim was Markham's son's girlfriend.”
    “I know. I'm handling the appeal.”
    “Really? Did your father know that?”
    I nod. “Definitely. He encouraged it.”
    “Anyway, as far as I know, that's how Nelson knew Victor Markham,” he says.
    “I was talking about much earlier. Almost forty years ago. I'm pretty sure he was one of the people in a picture I found up in the attic. Dad was in the picture as well.”
    “He never mentioned it to me. But there was apparently a great deal about your father that I didn't know.”
    Roger has just lit a fuse; and all I can do is wait for it to reach the dynamite and explode. He doesn't make a comment like that unless he has something significant to tell me. I get a strong feeling that I'm not going to like it. I know for sure that I'm dreading it, so I take a breath so deep it sucks most of the air out of the room.
    “What do you mean by that?”
    He looks me right in the eye. “I was very surprised by the amount of money in your father's estate. Very surprised.”
    It's exhaling time; I'm relieved to hear that it's about money. I'm comfortable enough, and I really have no need to live off an inheritance. But I'm still surprised.
    “Really? Dad was always so careful with his money.”
    He nods. “That he was.”
    “How much is left, Roger?”
    He takes a deep breath and presses the detonator. “Twenty-two million dollars.”
    “Twenty-two million dollars!”
I choke.
    “And change.” He reads from the papers. “Four hundred thirty-two thousand five hundred and seventy-four dollars’ worth of change.”
    My mind immediately registers three possibilities, listed in order of likelihood. One, Roger made an error. Two, Roger is joking. Three, I'm rich! I'm rich! I'm rich!
    I find myself standing up, though I'm not sure why. “Can't be, Roger. It's an appealing thought, but it's simply not possible.”
    “You had no idea he had this kind of