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10 a.m. appointment, as if it mattered. This was pro bono now. Forget the clock. Forget billable hours. Forget performance bonuses. In defiance of the rest of the firm, Goodman allowed no clocks on his walls.
    Adam flipped through his file. He chuckled at the brochure. He read again his own little résumé—college at Pepperdine, law school at Michigan, editor of the law review, case note on cruel and unusual punishment, comments on recent death penalty cases. A rather short résumé, but then he was only twenty-six. He’d been employed at Kravitz & Bane for all of nine months now.
    He read and made notes from two lengthy U.S. Supreme Court decisions dealing with executions in California. He checked his watch, and read some more. The secretary eventually offered coffee, which he politely declined.
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    The office of E. Garner Goodman was a stunning study in disorganization. It was large but cramped, with sagging bookshelves on every wall and stacks ofdusty files covering the floor. Little piles of papers of all sorts and sizes covered the desk in the center of the office. Refuse, rubbish, and lost letters covered the rug under the desk. If not for the closed wooden blinds, the large window could have provided a splendid view of Lake Michigan, but it was obvious Mr. Goodman spent no time at his window.
    He was an old man with a neat gray beard and bushy gray hair. His white shirt was painfully starched. A green paisley bow tie, his trademark, was tied precisely under his chin. Adam entered the room and cautiously weaved around the piles of papers. Goodman did not stand but offered his hand with a cold greeting.
    Adam handed the file to Goodman, and sat in the only empty chair in the room. He waited nervously while the file was studied, the beard was gently stroked, the bow tie was tinkered with.
    “Why do you want to do pro bono work?” Goodman mumbled after a long silence. He did not look up from the file. Classical guitar music drifted softly from recessed speakers in the ceiling.
    Adam shifted uncomfortably. “Uh, different reasons.”
    “Let me guess. You want to serve humanity, give something back to your community, or, perhaps, you feel guilty because you spend so much time here in this sweatshop billing by the hour that you want to cleanse your soul, get your hands dirty, do some honest work, and help other people.” Goodman’s beady blue eyes darted at Adam from above the black-framed reading spectacles perched on the tip of his rather pointed nose. “Any of the above?”
    “Not really.”
    Goodman continued scanning the file. “So you’ve been assigned to Emmitt Wycoff?” He was reading a letter from Wycoff, Adam’s supervising partner.
    “Yes sir.”
    “He’s a fine lawyer. I don’t particularly care for him, but he’s got a great criminal mind, you know. Probably one of our top three white-collar boys. Pretty abrasive, though, don’t you think?”
    “He’s okay.”
    “How long have you been under him?”
    “Since I started. Nine months ago.”
    “So you’ve been here for nine months?”
    “Yes sir.”
    “What do you think of it?” Goodman closed the file and stared at Adam. He slowly removed the reading glasses and stuck one stem in his mouth.
    “I like it, so far. It’s challenging.”
    “Of course. Why did you pick Kravitz & Bane? I mean, surely with your credentials you could’ve gone anywhere. Why here?”
    “Criminal litigation. That’s what I want, and this firm has a reputation.”
    “How many offers did you have? Come on, I’m just being curious.”
    “Several.”
    “And where were they?”
    “D.C. mainly. One in Denver. I didn’t interview with New York firms.”
    “How much money did we offer you?”
    Adam shifted again. Goodman was, after all, a partner. Surely he knew what the firm was paying new associates. “Sixty or so. What are we paying you?”
    This amused the old man, and he smiled for the first time. “They pay me four hundred thousand dollars a year