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house inspection had been fine. There
were no termites, over-fused circuits or rotting sills. The title
was fine. There were no loan-shark lien-holders or resurrected
third-cousins-once-removed or descendants from some east coast
Indian chief waiting in the wings to attach the property. The
walk-through had been fine. Nita’s clients, the Furgesses, had not
removed the plumbing, cut down the hallway chandelier, jacked up
and carted away the garage, dug up the lilacs and roses, or peeled
the sod from the yard. The settlement sheet should have been fine.
The Furgesses had contributed the right amounts of money to pay for
their share of the real estate taxes, and the water and sewerage
bills. The only thing that wasn’t fine was that it was Dan Herlick
doing the closing.
    When Nita had learned that the Cannaldos were
using Herlick as their closing attorney, she had insisted that the
closing be scheduled for late in the afternoon—the recording be
damned. She didn’t want the heart of a day lost to the ego-puffing
ramblings of the blue-eyed, square-jawed lawyer sputtering at her
across four feet of table. Herlick opined. He insisted. He
expostulated and interpleaded and enunciated. In all of the
verbiage, the only thing that Nita felt that she need attend to was
the violent spray accompanying Herlick’s words. His considered
opinions, exploded with the force of a lawn-sprinkler, while not
reaching Nita’s brain, were beginning to reach nearly across the
table to her paperwork. As the half-moon of mist grew, first Nita
and, then, the Furgesses pushed back their chairs from the table.
After the file was safe, Nita let her mind wander.
    Herlick was the type of lawyer who always
represented himself first and his clients second. On a matter as
routine as a real estate transfer, he would expound as if he were
arguing a stay of execution in front of the Supreme Court. His
untutored clients would leave the closing impressed by his
combativeness while being unaware that he had fought a battle where
there was no war.
    As she leaned her chair further back to avoid
all chance of being spattered by some particularly explosive p or
b, Nita wondered how good a lawyer Herlick might have become if he
had redirected all the time, energy, and brain power that he
expended on theater into fighting real legal battles. Rather than
spending the extra hour engaged in his present histrionics, rather
than drinking, probably, every night, and schmoozing with other
drinkers while looking for a DUI client, rather than cozying up to
Readford’s cops for an accident report, if he had used that time
for reading digests and developing arguments on cases that
mattered, Nita guessed he might have become a decent attorney,
instead of a blowhard getting by on looks and blather.
    Nita rubbed her thumb and index finger
together to relieve the desire that was building up inside her to
reach across the table to button down the blue oxford collar point
that was impaling Herlick’s fleshy neck. She forced her eyes away
before fixing it became an idea too attractive to resist and tried
to think about the work that she had to finish before she could
leave for Clarke’s Cove on Friday night. She had three more
closings and two appearances in Family Court in the next four
days.
    Whether measured by income or caseload, Nita
Koster was a successful attorney. That she was successful as a real
estate lawyer was no surprise to her. She had been a top student at
Boston College’s law school. A bright, hard-working, well-educated
lawyer should make a success of real estate law; however the same
qualities when brought to family law gave no guarantees. In matters
of divorce, distribution of property and the rights of children,
hate, resentment, anger, threats and revenge were the standard
accompaniments to the principles and practice of the law. Never
married and childless, Nita counseled and cared for those who were
leaving spouses or trying to hang onto children. There had