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Peterson, David. That's my advice. I've had those fellows in my courtroom for five years now. Believe me, they have the litigation equivalent of shell shock. Of all your defendants, they'll be the most susceptible to settlement overtures. You've got Ford Motor in your lawsuit. I've had them before me in a couple of cases. They can be tough as nails. Don't know about that air-bag manufacturer. Never had them before me. But Peterson, well, that's a different story.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Let's not b.s. each other, David. We both know what you're going to be up against when the lawyers for the defendants start ramping up. You're no slouch, of course. Hell, back in your heyday you were one of the best. But you're not Gary Cooper and this sure as hell won't be High Noon. You're going to find yourself outgunned once the defense lawyers arrive. You've been on the other side, and you know what I'm talking about. Just you against a pack of lawyers. They're going to do their best to grind you into the ground, and they'll try to smear you with shit in the process. Maybe you do have a lousy case.” McCormick held up his hands and shrugged. “Hell, I have no idea. But I do know that most death cases settle. Even the crappy ones. So hang in there. You mark my words. If any of those defendants are going to blink, it'll be Peterson.”

CHAPTER 5

    L ittle Walter was on the stereo but Hirsch didn't hear the music. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the harmonica as he rotated it in his hands.
    I am so pleased that you're the lawyer on this case, David.
    Two days later and the words still rang hollow.
    Not to Rosenbloom, though. He'd been waiting for Hirsch late that afternoon when he returned from his meeting with McCormick. Together, they took the elevator down to the building garage as Hirsch described the conversation and his misgivings.
    “So what?” Rosenbloom had said as he wheeled himself toward his black Cadillac. “What's so odd about knowing when the statute of limitations expires?”
    He'd watched as Rosenbloom folded the wheelchair, slid it into the back, and winched himself into the driver's seat, which had been modified to accommodate his condition. Hirsch knew better than to offer to help.
    “
Nu?
” Rosenbloom said between gasps. He wiped his face with a handkerchief. “Am I right?”
    “Maybe.”
    “Maybe? What's with the maybe? He was in the fucking car when it crashed. He may not be Felix Frankfurter, but even a knucklehead would remember that date.”
    Rosenbloom started the engine and closed the door. He rolled down the window and looked up at Hirsch. “The judge told you he was happy you filed the lawsuit, right? Even told you he was happy to find out that you were the lawyer on the case, right?”
    “Right.”
    “That means that
you're
the lawyer who gets to curry favor with a federal judge, right?” He gave Hirsch a wink. “I can think of worse things to happen in a legal career.”
     
    He turned the harmonica in his hands as he thought back again to the way McCormick had ended their meeting—the firm handshake, the earnest look, the parting words: “I am so pleased that you're the lawyer on this case, David.”
    Maybe Sancho was right. Maybe he shouldn't be so skeptical.
    But he knew enough about his standing in the legal community to know that he was on no one's short list of personal injury lawyers.
    He was on no one's list—short or long.
    Period.
    The silence pulled him back to the present, back to the small living room of his apartment. He stared at the scraped skin on the back of his right hand, where he'd slammed into the wall during the handball game earlier that night at the Jewish Community Center. Times had changed, he thought with a smile. Ten years ago it would have been squash at the country club, followed by a drink in the club's bar. Now it was handball at the JCC, followed by a drink at the water fountain on the way out. He'd learned