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Tales of the Windy City Collateral Damage By The Professor Living in Chicago is not for the faint of heart. That was the first thought that ran through my head the blustery March morning my life began to change. I didn't know it was about to change, but maybe most of us aren't truly cognizant of that moment where everything either comes together or goes to hell. If we did, we'd do something about it before it got out of hand one way or the other. The sidewalks were still fairly deserted that morning, and the less hardy of the morning pedestrian commuters were ducking from doorway to doorway to avoid the blustery March winds coming off the lake. In a few weeks, the winds would shift, coming from a more westerly direction, but the warmer spring winds were still winds. Chicago wasn't called the Windy City for nothing. Even guys like me were tightening our topcoats at the neck, our expensive scarves hiding our hundred dollar ties but keeping us warm nonetheless. While there were workers of all sorts battling the morning wind, the expensive suits and topcoats and stylish scarves ruled the day. Many of us shared the same profession - law - and nearly all of us were the lowest of the low within our firms - the Junior Associates, fresh (or nearly fresh) out of law school earning our chops so we could join the vaunted ranks of Senior Associates or whatever the various firms called their less-junior people on the eventual path to a partnership where the big bucks lay. That's why we were out on the streets of Chicago so early in the morning, while most people in other jobs were still reading the Trib or Sun-Times over a cup of coffee before leaving home. When your firm expects you to bill two-thousand hours a year just to keep your job, you have to put in a lot of hours. And for those of us who had visions of advancing in the ranks, twenty-four hundred hours were absolutely necessary. Given that there were a lot of other duties - meetings and such which could not always be billed to a client - it meant at least sixty hours a week in the office - seventy if you could manage it, and I could and did. I was thankful I lived only a few blocks from the office. Rent in the Loop was murder, but I saved commuting time and the money it took to ride Metra or drive. It meant I could swing by the office on weekends and holidays just to get a few more hours in. I felt sorry for the poor slobs who had families and lived outside the Loop. There was no way they'd ever get the billable hours they needed. Five years from now, my contemporaries who fell in that category would be out in the suburbs working their asses off a sole practitioners doing divorces and the sort of contract law a first year law student could handle with ease. Not me, though. I already had a nickel's worth of experience - five years if you will - at Benedict, Hobbs and Lewis - one of the oldest and more prestigious law firms in the Midwest. I was up for Senior Associate at the next Partners' meeting in early April, and from the rumors around the office, I was a shoo-in. Every law firm is structured a little differently. At Benedict, Hobbs and Lewis, you only had two real shots of making Senior. That meant your name would be brought up at just two of the annual meetings. Needless to say, advancing the second year after being passed over before was much more difficult. There were exceptions, but not many - and those were usually guys who managed some big coup against all odds. Once a Senior, five more years could make you a Non-Equity Partner. About one in five Seniors managed that feat. Then another five years and you'd be up for Equity Partner - the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, where an income of close to a million a year was not out of the question. Given our firm's gold-plated client base, word was the Equity Partners had hit seven figures for each of the last five years. Now that was a goal worth striving for. Frankly, I had been striving for it as long as I could remember. I had pissed off my dad when I had decided to not stop with a business degree and a turn at helping to run the family business. I had parlayed a sterling undergrad grade point at the University of Iowa into an admission to the University of Chicago Law School - one of the top in the nation. Top marks there, including editor of Law Review, had landed me a slot with Benedict, Hobbs and Lewis. Along with fifteen other "chosen few", I had striven to make the name of Ash Conroy well-known throughout the firm. Of the fifteen of us who had started five years ago, only eleven were left, and of that eleven, three or four of us would move up to Senior Associate. By my own count, there were only six viable candidates. As for the rest... well, there was always the suburbs. "Good morning, Mr. Conroy," Jennifer, our group's legal secretary, called merrily when I stepped into the oak-lined walls of the firm. Jennifer wasn't your typical receptionist. She only filled in early in the morning until our regular receptionist got in. Then the rest of the day, she was the legal secretary for the Mergers and Acquisitions Group - the group I worked for. She had been with the firm twenty years and was an employee whose support was cultivated by the rest of the staff. Word was that in her younger days, she and Mr. Benedict had enjoyed a short but meaningful relationship, and to the present day, she could walk into the offices of any of the Senior Partners easier than the NEPs. At forty - or thereabouts - she looked like a very sophisticated model - sort of like Renee Russo in her later modeling days - even down to the red hair. She was married to a mid-level banker, so she was able to dress more like the few female Associates than the typical receptionist or legal secretary. "Good morning, Jennifer," I called out, stopping for a moment to chat her up - but just for a moment. Any longer would have been bad form. Jennifer was usually all business. God only knew what time she got into the office, but she always seemed to be there when I got in. "You're looking particularly lovely today." She smiled. Even though it was true, she knew I was just schmoozing her. "Mr. Lewis asked you to see him as soon as you came in." My heart did a flip-flop. When one of the Senior Partners asked to see you, it was usually very good news or very bad news. Since I had no warning of the meeting, I had been caught unawares. "Did he say what it was about?" I asked, trying unsuccessfully to mask my nervousness. Jennifer gave me an indulgent smile - the sort of smile reserved for slow children. "You know he never tells anyone what's on his mind." "Yeah, okay," I said, scurrying down the hallway where each of the Senior Partners had their offices. Mr. Lewis's secretary wasn't at her desk, but Jennifer had said immediately. So I knocked crisply on the solid oak door to his office, to be rewarded with a gruff, "Come in." I suspect there were throne rooms in Europe less intimidating than Cleveland Lewis's office. It wasn't that it was exactly huge, but it was imposing - every stick of furniture and every office accessory was something that could have been auctioned at Sotheby's for a tidy sum. "Come in, my boy," Mr. Lewis boomed. The friendliness in his tone made my blood pressure drop about twenty points. There was a wide smile on his chiseled features. Cleveland Lewis looked like my perfect example of a Senior Partner - about sixty, iron gray meticulously styled hair, and wearing a suit which cost enough to feed a family of four for the better part of a year. As I entered the office, slowly walking over the expensive Persian rug, I could see that he wasn't alone. Sitting in one of the red leather wing chairs was my boss, Carter Allen, and next to him was another Equity Partner, Dalton Wilcox. "You know Dalton Wilcox, I presume," Mr. Lewis said after shaking my hand. I turned to take Dalton's hand. "We've met." That was about all - we had met. Dalton headed up a small but lucrative group of lawyers in Family Practice - wills, trusts, divorce, and all the other little personal matters which sometimes plagued our gilt-edged clients. When I say "divorce", I'm not talking about the storefront kind of law of "fill-in- the-blanks" divorce that most people see or experience for themselves. Dalton Wilcox had handled divorce settlements for some of the biggest names in Chicago - politicians, sports and entertainment figures, business executives. In fact, his clientele was nothing short of a Who's Who in Chicago. "We have an assignment for you," Mr. Lewis announced once I had been seated in a similar wing chair facing the others. "You are familiar with the situation at Ralston Lakeshore, I believe." "Yes, sir." Ralston Lakeshore Industries was one of the largest clients for those of us in Mergers and Acquisitions. We were handling their multi-billion dollar acquisition of McDonald Ohio, a competitor in several of the electronic lines Ralston Lakeshore was engaged in. Negotiations had reached a very critical point where the price per share for Ralston's stock used to purchase McDonald Ohio was still in question. Since news of the acquisition had been leaked - possibly by David Ralston's estranged wife - the price of Ralston stock had fallen while McDonald Ohio stock had soared, making the proposed acquisition considerably more expensive. "Ash has been invaluable in putting the McDonald Ohio deal together," Carter said proudly. I could feel my own personal stock rising as he said it. Good old Carter. I couldn't have asked for a better mentor. His vote for my promotion was as solid as rock. "As you know," Mr. Lewis continued, "David Ralston is currently involved in a very sticky divorce." I nodded. That was one of the main reasons a value hadn't been placed on the new stock issue. Ownership of Ralston Lakeshore stock was in question until the divorce decree was final. While any settlement would leave David Ralston as the largest single stockholder in his company, any significant transfer to his wife under a divorce settlement might shift the balance of power since there was a large dissident block of stockholders seeking to back away from the acquisition of McDonald Ohio. "Negotiations with Mrs. Ralston have reached a very sticky point," Mr. Lewis explained. "Given that Mrs. Ralston is a powerful magical practitioner - a Whisperer in fact - and has a number of contacts in magical circles, we have become quite concerned that she might try to unduly influence the final negotiations, and it's essential that our client is able to control the stock currently in her name." Uh-oh, I could see where this was going. "We want you to be with Dalton's group for the final negotiations," Mr. Lewis said crisply. "With your own abilities, you should be able to Sense any magical shenanigans Mrs. Ralston and her people may try." "Mr. Lewis," I began hesitantly, "I don't know that I'm entirely qualified." He frowned. "You're a Sensor, aren't you?" "Well, yes..." He waived his hand to dismiss my concerns. "I know what you're worried about, Ashley..." I grimaced at the use of my full name. "Ash" sounded so much more masculine. I knew women named Ashley. I silently cursed my parents for saddling me with the name of my English grandfather - Ashley Martin Conroy. "Don't worry, my boy," he continued. "Yes, we here at the firm have considerable distaste for magic, but as you are surely aware, Sensors are not considered to be users of magic. They don't carry the right gene." That was true. While Sensors could detect magic in use, they could not wield any magical powers themselves. In fact, Sensors had absolutely no magical powers, but could only "feel" it being used - sort of like when someone with an allergy to dogs and cats enters a pet store. The very lack of magical ability made Sensors far more aware of when it was being used. "I just thought that the firm has the services of a Sensor agency with far more sensitive practitioners," I backpedaled. Mr. Lewis nodded. "That's true, but a licensed Sensor must be identified in any legal negotiations by law. At your level, you are, shall we say, a talented amateur. In addition, you know what is at stake on the McDonald Ohio acquisition. We have word that her attorneys have a new proposal regarding the stock, since that's the only remaining issue in the divorce settlement. You should be able to advise Dalton on the fly as it were." I looked over at Carter. He was nodding his head slightly to tell me I should shut up and agree to this. The more I thought about it, it did put me right at the center of the storm. If I made a positive contribution to this case, there would be no doubt about my promotion. I straightened up in my chair. "Of course, sir. I'll be pleased to help out." "Good for you!" Mr. Lewis grinned. "We'll meet to brief you at two today," Dalton added. "You'd better clear your calendar until the end of the week." I looked at Carter, who again nodded. "Don't worry," he assured me. "We can pick up the slack. And don't worry about your billings. This is all billable time - even this meeting." I smiled. That made me feel even better. "This is a great opportunity for you, Ash," Carter told me once we were alone in his office. "You think?" I challenged Carter. He and I had become about as close as any Associate ever gets with an Equity Partner. In his mind, I had earned the right to challenge him, so I did - sparingly, of course. The fact was that in spite of the chance to impress two more men who would be voting on my future. I was upset with being shunted off to something as tawdry as a divorce case. That was amateur law in my book. Hell, some couples even got the forms themselves out of a book and filed for divorce - not that I would ever recommend anyone be that na?ve. And while I knew a divorce case such as Ralston vs. Ralston was much more complex than the average one, this seemed to be a waste of my talents at a very critical juncture in my career. Carter settled back in his chair. "I know what you're thinking, but it really is important that someone be in the proceedings to represent our position. Otherwise, this whole takeover of McDonald Ohio could go up in smoke." "What am I missing?" I asked. "Sure, we could use the voting proxies for the stock Emma Ralston has a potential claim on, but we can still push through the acquisition without the votes on those shares. I need to be here to start working on the stockholder lists of both companies." "Maybe," Carter allowed, "but there's something you aren't considering. Mrs. Ralston has considerable influence with the dissident group who are trying to stop this acquisition. If she loses that stock, she loses that leverage." "Why doesn't Ralston just offer her a premium in return for the stock?" I asked. "It would get her out of our hair. Besides, why does she want to hang onto it so badly if she doesn't like the direction the company is headed? It seems if her husband offered to sweeten the deal, she'd take the money and run." "You'd have to ask Dalton about that," Carter replied, "but I can make a pretty good guess. Emma Ralston comes from a very wealthy family, so money isn't as important as it might be if she were just some little trophy wife. Her reasons may be more vindictive. After all, it was her father's money that got David Ralston started. Her father owns a very successful company that develops shopping centers all over the world. In the last couple of years, Ralston has been getting it on the side - a cute little redhead who works as a financial analyst in his office." "So keeping the stock is all about getting even," I ventured. Carter nodded. "Exactly. That's why she leaked the info of the acquisition in the first place. Now she wants to stand in the way of completing the transaction. A number of Ralston Lakeshore's larger stockholders are friends of her father, so her influence cannot be underestimated. Now do you understand why we need someone from our team in the next session with her lawyers?" "I suppose..." I allowed cautiously. "It's absolutely true," Carter insisted, showing the flair for pressing home a point that had made him one of the top attorneys in his field. "Besides, Dalton Wilcox is an Equity Partner, too, you know. He's going to be voting on your promotion, too. Another vote for you couldn't hurt." "Yeah," I agreed, "but damn! The man smells of stale coffee and cigarettes." Carter grinned. "He'd smell of booze too if he didn't favor vodka at lunch. I'll admit he's no prize as a human being; ask any of his ex- wives. But he knows his business. All you need to do is watch and keep him informed of our interests. He can take care of the rest." I was silent for a moment. "Do you really think I'll need his vote?" I finally asked. "Ash, if I had to lay odds on your promotion, I'd say it's practically a done deal. But every partner had his favorite candidate, and sometimes a less qualified candidate rises above the others just because of who his mentor is. We both want this promotion for you, and the more votes we can muster for you, the more secure your promotion will be." So I left my boss's office feeling much better about my new assignment. Of course, what management builds up, my coworkers were quick to tear down. By lunchtime, everyone knew about my new tasks, and the three other Junior Associates I shared a table with at Papa Marco's were quick to offer their opinions. "They dumped on you," Gil Doniphan opined between generous bites of his gyros. "Why do you say that?" Stephanie Martin asked as she daintily took another dainty bite of her Greek salad in stark contrast to Gil. "Easy," Gil replied, his mouth still full. "Talk to any of the Associates in Wilcox's area. He's an ass to work for. He's only got one Junior up for Senior this year, and that's the first one in three years. Nobody wants to work for him." "What's with all this Junior and Senior crap anyway?" Stephanie changed the subject. "It doesn't make much difference if you're a Junior or a Senior. The pay scales are very close and the requirements for the position are the same. Hell, all of our business cards just read 'Associate' anyway. There's really no difference." "It's the way management differentiates those who will someday be Partners and those who won't," Doug Hale explained over a plate of... I don't know - something very Greek and unpronounceable. "That way, a talented Associate gets the idea he's moving up and doesn't jump to another firm or go into corporate law." "In other words, it keeps the successful candidate slaving away with a promise that they'll be taken care of in the future," Stephanie returned smugly. She could afford to be smug. We all knew she was just getting her ticket punched at the firm before going into corporate practice as her husband had her husband out in the burbs. "Somewhat negative but essentially correct," Doug admitted. "Well," I sighed, pushing back my own plate of dolmades only half eaten, "I suppose I'd better head back to the office. Wilcox wants to meet with me at one." It was a meeting I wasn't looking forward to. The afternoon meeting with Dalton Wilcox was as long and unpleasant as I thought it would be. He looked sloppy, seven in expensive clothing, and it was obvious that he didn't take care of himself. He was in his mid forties, but he looked as if he was old enough to draw Social Security. His suit smelled of smoke and judging from the slovenly appearance of his suit and shirt, along with a poorly tied tie, caused me to imagine his lunch hour had consisted of more than one drink and an even larger number of cigarettes. But there was no doubting his ability as he walked me through the divorce action to date. Every imaginable fact was at his yellowed fingertips. After three hours of excruciating details on the case, it was my turn. "Let's see what you've learned," he demanded. "Give me a one-minute thumbnail of the case." I had had professors in law school who made similar demands. The object was always to see if the student understood the core issues in the case. Details could be referenced later, but without a firm understanding of exactly what was at stake, an attorney could easily blunder into his opponent's trap. "Everything pretty much hinges on the disposition of the stock Mrs. Ralston holds," I replied carefully. "Everything else has been settled. But Mrs. Ralston's attorneys think they can shake loose some of the already-agreed-upon assets in return for the stock. You aren't so sure, though. You think she wants active control of the company and hasn't told her attorneys that. But, Mr. Wilcox, why would she hide that from her own attorneys?" Wilcox looked at me with the disdain a Torts professor reserves for beginning law students. "Really, Mr. Conroy, and Carter said you were his brightest star." He shook his head dramatically. "Your question is the key to the case, and yet you don't understand why." I remained silent. He was right; I had no idea why. "It's because," he went on pompously, "Mrs. Ralston is a very bright woman and knows her attorneys have no confidence in their ability to keep our client from getting control of the stock. And they're right. Mr. Ralston has no intention of relinquishing any of the control he feels he need to complete the merger with McDonald Ohio. The only way she could manage it would be utilizing her Whispering talent during the negotiations - something which is, of course, illegal in the state of Illinois. That's where you come in. As a Sensor, you will be able to detect if magic is being used. That is your primary purpose in being with me." So that was it. In spite of Carter's stroking and Mr. Lewis's assurances, the real reason - the only reason - for me attending the negotiations was to act as a Sensor - something they could have hired off the street of fifty bucks an hour. Of course, as Mr. Lewis had suggested, Mrs. Ralston's attorneys would never have allowed a licensed Sensor in the room during negotiations, and by law, that was their right. However, as the firm's one and only Sensor, I could attend so long as I didn't "officially" act as a Sensor. But in spite of what Carter had told me, I wasn't expected to do any advising in the room. The negotiations continued the next morning bright and early. The conference room at Huffington and Meyers, the firm Mrs. Ralston had retained, was nearly as large and well-appointed as ours, but it felt crowded given the number of people in the negotiating session. On our side, in addition to Mr. Wilcox and me representing the firm, were Brad Jacobs, one of Mr. Wilcox's associates, and Sandra Pellington, one of his paralegals. Our client, David Ralston, sat immediately to Mr. Wilcox's left while I was at his right. I was pleased I didn't have to sit next to Mr. Ralston, since I had plenty of experience dealing with him on the McDonald Ohio deal. Frankly, I was happy to be separated from him. From the moment we had meant that morning, he had been browbeating Mr. Wilcox, determined that his soon-to-be ex-wife would not get her hands on one share of Ralston Lakeshore stock. The other side of the table was even more crowded, with Cedric Huffington himself leading the team flanked by three of his own people on one side and Mrs. Ralston and her two children on the other side. Mrs. Ralston was a handsome woman, about the same age as her husband, who was fifty. Like her husband, she didn't look her age, her hair still dark and her skin youthful. Granted, she had enough money to retain her youth through expensive hair care and plastic surgery, but she appeared to come by her looks naturally. Seated at her side were her daughter, Jessica, and her son, Rick. They were twins, both in their mid-twenties, and both appeared to favor their mother with their dark hair and perfect skin. Of course, given the side of the table they sat on, it was obvious they favored their mother in this case as well. "We've come up with a plan we think may break this deadlock," Cedric Huffington began after the preliminary introductions and remarks had been made. He passed a packet to each of us while he explained, "The major problem appears to be the control of the stock in Ralston Lakeshore. Mrs. Ralston has requested an even split of the outstanding shares held as community property." "No fucking way!" David Ralston barked out, endearing himself even more to everyone at the table. Mr. Wilcox managed to quiet him with a hand to his arm and a quiet, "Let's see what Mr. Huffington is proposing, shall we?" "To break this deadlock," Mr. Huffington continued as if the outburst had never happened, "Mrs. Ralston proposes that half of the stock she has laid claim to be sold to Mr. Ralston in an exchange for the family's mountain home in Vail while the remaining stock she has claimed be put in a trust for the two children of the marriage with the voting rights of the trust assigned to Mr. Ralston." Dalton Wilcox sat back in his chair, tapping his fingers together. "Well, sir, I think we may have something to talk about." Ralston was still steaming when we adjourned to a private conference room to discuss the offer amongst our team. Things didn't start out very well. "No fucking way!" Ralston began once the door was closed. I was beginning to wonder if it was the only phrase he knew. "It's a reasonable offer," Mr. Wilcox said calmly. "It breaks the deadlock and allows you to get on with your life and your business. It's really a very good deal. The house in Vail is worth a fraction of the price of the shares. You'll be maintaining control for pennies on the dollar." "And," I pointed out, "it will allow the acquisition to go through quickly. If this case drags on, the price of your stock may continue to fall and the McDonald Ohio people may ask for a renegotiation." Ralston's face was red, right up to his high forehead. "That's why I'm paying your firm a fortune - to keep that from happening." I didn't back down. "The longer this case goes on, the less we can control the situation - and the more the stock price will fall." Mr. Wilcox nodded; Brad Jacobs sycophantically followed his boss's lead. "All right," Ralston growled, rising from the table. "You leeching bastards work out all the details and I'll sign it. But I'm not happy about it!" With that he stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. "What an asshole!" Mr. Wilcox muttered. The rest of us could only smile in agreement. The details were hammered out by the next day, much to my relief. I had visualized this case going on for weeks, marooning me in the backwaters of Family Practice where my own contributions would be miniscule. I had sensed no trace of magic in our meetings, and I was only able to corroborate Mr. Wilcox's analysis of the deal, so in essence, I had the least to do of anyone on our team. To my relief, Mr. Wilcox was graciously complimentary of my work. "You were a big help," he told me that last afternoon as we turned Ralston's signed documents over to the court for consideration. Since Mr. Wilcox was well acquainted with the judge in the case, he had little doubt that the deal would be approved. Brad Jacobs had been dispatched to personally deliver the documents to Mr. Ralston for signature, and had told us that our client had signed them with only a smattering of profanity. It was the perfect ending to a perfect day. "I didn't do all that much," I insisted modestly. "Nonsense!" he laughed. "When you told Ralston the stock price would keep falling unless he signed, you got him right where it hurt. He may be an ass, but he knows you were in agreement with Carter on that. I pity you and Carter having to work with him." "The price we pay," I sighed. Mr. Wilcox reached inside one of his desk drawers and pulled out a bottle of single malt scotch - a very expensive single malt, I might add. "I keep this around for special purposes. I believe this settlement qualifies. Let's have a quick drink to celebrate the settlement and your upcoming promotion." Had I heard him correctly? "My promotion?" Mr. Wilcox grinned. "You have my vote, and you have Carter's and Mr. Lewis's votes. That's half the votes you'll need right there, and I have it pretty good authority that you have at least four other votes as well." He produced two glasses from his drawer and poured a liberal amount of the single malt into each, offering one to me. I beamed. I had been certain only of three votes, including my boss. Six of the ten voting Partners - a simple majority - were required for my promotion. If Mr. Wilcox was right, I'd have at least seven - maybe more. Gratefully, I accepted the proffered glass. "To your promotion!" he said ceremoniously, raising his glass to me. I clicked my own against his and smiled as I sipped the wonderful liquor. It was as smooth as anything I had ever put in my mouth, but suddenly, something about it didn't seem quite right. "Drink up!" Mr. Wilcox commanded, and I noted he had already downed his drink. He was already pouring himself another one. "It's too good to drink quickly," I protested, but there was more to it than that. It felt... wrong going down, but I could see he expected me to drink it. Heavy drinkers are always like that, I realized. They don't feel comfortable unless others are drinking around them. Against my better judgment, I took another sip. Whatever felt wrong the first time was missing with the second sip. I must have been imagining things, I thought. I did limit myself to one drink, though, while Mr. Wilcox downed three. After a socially-acceptable interval, though, I excused myself, and to my relief, Mr. Wilcox seemed satisfied. We even walked together to the lobby. "Good work, Ash!" Mr. Wilcox called out to me merrily as he hailed a cab to take him to his apartment on the Gold Coast. "I'll see you in the morning." "Thank you, sir," I called after him, never for a moment realizing that it was the last I would ever see of him. I was tired by the time I got back to my apartment. In fact, I could never remember ever being so tired before. To make matters worse, rather than being invigorated by my walk home, my heart was pounding and my body seemed to be tingling, almost as if my entire nervous system had gone tilt. I knew I should get something to eat since I had eaten nothing since a working lunch with Mr. Wilcox, but the thought of food turned my stomach. I was beginning to regret the shot of scotch I had taken, since it only upset my empty stomach even more. I took a quick shower, and that seemed to help. My heart rate had slowed down and the tingling had subsided, but I was still tired in spite of the shower. Exhausted, I got ready for bed, still not bothering to eat anything. I picked up a Clancy novel that I never seemed to find time to finish and read about twenty pages in bed before falling into a deep sleep. The next morning I awoke feeling out of sorts. Considering the fact that I had only had one drink the evening before, I felt almost as if I had a mild hangover. I didn't exactly have a headache, but my thoughts were a little fuzzy. My stomach felt as if it was ready to do flip flops, and I suddenly regretted not eating when I had gotten home. Nothing felt terribly bad, but I was just a little off center. Whatever it was, it wasn't enough to keep me out of the office. I was looking forward to getting back to Mergers and Acquisitions instead of grungy Family Law. I felt a little better after my shower. At least I was a little more awake. My skin actually tingled a little from the warm water, so I stayed in the shower a few extra minutes. I was going to get to the office significantly later than usual, but I'd just stay late to make up for it. A bite of breakfast helped as well. It wasn't anything fancy - just a couple of slices of buttered toast and a glass of juice, but it calmed down the churning in my stomach. I thought about making more toast but decided instead to get a sweet roll in the break room later in the morning. When I walked into the office, I knew at once something was wrong. Everything was unnaturally quiet, and Jennifer looked absolutely devastated. "Oh, Mr. Conroy, I'm so glad you're here. I was going to call you. Mr. Lewis said for me to try and reach you right away." I set my briefcase down. "What's wrong, Jennifer?" "It's Mr. Wilcox," she replied, bursting into tears. "He's dead!" My mouth fell open. "Dead? But he was fine when I saw him last night..." "He was supposed to have an early breakfast with a client," she told me between sobs. "When he didn't make his meeting, they checked his apartment and found... found him lying in bed. He died during the night. They say it was a heart attack." Well, he was the right age and condition for one, I thought to myself. Overweight, a heavy drinker, a smoker, even the stress of his job - any one of those things would have been enough to kill him. As for all of them, it was a miracle he had survived this long. Still, I felt badly about his death. As much as I disliked Family Law, I begrudgingly had to admit that my short time working with him had taught me some small measure of respect for that area of the law. I also couldn't help but think selfishly that I now had one less vote for promotion. I hurried on down to Mr. Lewis's office, thinking to myself that the last time I had done that was when he had assigned me to work with Dalton Wilcox. Before knocking on his door, I straightened my tie and pushed my hair back, realizing suddenly that it was a little long, touching the ears. I made a mental note to myself to schedule a haircut later in the day. "Come in!" came the reply to my knock. Mr. Lewis wasn't alone. Brad Jacobs was sitting in front of his desk. I supposed Brad would be in line for Wilcox's job. As a Senior Associate, he was Dalton Wilcox's number one guy, so he'd probably move up to Non- Equity Partner status. While short of the big bucks, it would put him on the fast track to become an Equity Partner. He looked pretty upset, though, so either that thought hadn't occurred to him yet or he really had liked the old guy. I suspected it was a little of both. After all, Dalton Wilcox, for all of his faults, had been a likeable guy. Sitting in one of the other chairs in front of the desk was a man I hadn't met before. He was slim, wearing a rumpled gray suit. I guessed him to be in his forties, and the hard expression on his face told me those forty some-odd years had not been a bed of roses. It didn't take a genius to realize the newcomer was a cop, and in a moment, my analysis was confirmed. "Ah! Ashley. Thank you for being so prompt," Mr. Lewis said, motioning me to a chair in between his other two visitors. "Of course you know Brad. This other gentleman is Lieutenant Carpenter of the Chicago Police." Lieutenant Carpenter nodded but didn't offer to shake hands. His expression told me that as far as he was concerned, everyone in the room had to be guilty of something. And, of course, lawyers and cops are often at odds with each other. I nodded back and took my seat. "I assume Jennifer told you about poor Dalton," Mr. Lewis began. "From what we've been able to ascertain, you may have been the last person from the firm to see him alive." He looked at me hopefully. "We left together about six last night," I replied, trying to look directly at Mr. Lewis, but I could feel Lieutenant Carpenter's eyes burrowing into me. "He took a cab home." "Yes, the police have verified that," Mr. Lewis confirmed. "What were you and Mr. Wilcox talking about?" the police office demanded suddenly. "Just about the case we wrapped up." I didn't mention anything about our discussion of my probable promotion. "The Ralston divorce?" "Yes," I said, turning to face the policeman. "What's this all about? I understand he died of a heart attack. Since when do police investigate heart attacks?" Jacob and Mr. Lewis sat there frozen, as if waiting to hear the answer themselves, but the police office ignored the question. "You're a Sensor, aren't you, Mr. Conroy?" he asked, catching me off-guard with the change of direction. The lawyer in me kicked in. I snapped, "Now before I say anything else, tell me why the police are investigating Mr. Wilcox's death." "The lieutenant thinks Dalton may have been murdered," Mr. Lewis began after he and the policeman exchanged looks. "Mrs. Ralston became quite heated in one of the earlier negotiating meetings and made some threats against her husband and Dalton - something to the effect that she wished they were dead. An attempt was made on Mr. Ralston as well, but he survived. He is under police protection as we speak." "Mrs. Ralston?" I asked incredulously. "How in the world could she murder Mr. Wilcox in his own apartment?" My question was met with silence. Suddenly I realized what was going on. Mrs. Ralston was a Whisperer. That was the principal reason I had been brought into the case - to Sense her. The lieutenant probably suspected not only that Mrs. Ralston had had a hand in Mr. Wilcox's murder, but that magic had been involved as well. He didn't dare come right out and say it though, or he'd have to turn the case over to the FBM - never a popular course of action for the police, who saw it as an incursion of their turf. Of course, assuming that Mr. Wilcox had been murdered by non-magical means, I was one of the last people to see him alive. Only the taxi driver and his doorman might have seen him after me, and they had no reason to kill him. Neither did I, but I could see the wheels turning in the lieutenant's mind, and it was very possible he was trying to determine if I had some motive to either kill him myself or help Mrs. Ralston to do the job. That way, he'd have a tidy little arrest and the FBM would be out of the picture. "I'll ask the question again," the lieutenant said, breaking the silence and ignoring my questions. "You are a Sensor, aren't you?" "Yes." I thought about asking to have an attorney present, but at that point, it would just increase the lieutenant's suspicions. I decided to keep my answers as short as possible, though. "Yet you detected no magical influence from Mrs. Ralston during your meetings with her?" "It was only one meeting," I clarified, "and no, I did not Sense any magical activity." Strangely the answer seemed to please him. Then I realized that if there had been any magical activity, he would have had to turn the case over to the FBM immediately. I was a little relieved, too. If he thought for a moment that I Sensed some magical influence and had said nothing, I would have fallen under suspicion of helping Mrs. Ralston kill Mr. Wilcox, even if the case had to be turned over to the FBM. I was dismissed without any other questions. Relieved I went immediately to Carter's office and told him what had happened. He was as relieved as I was. "Thank God," he muttered, pointing to the pile of papers on his desk. "They took you away just when I needed you most. The McDonald Ohio acquisition is reaching a critical point." I sat down across from Carter. "Yeah, and now that Mrs. Ralston is under suspicion, that could screw up the transfer of voting rights. Does our client have enough proxies to approve the acquisition?" Carter shook his head. "No, we don't have enough votes yet. But Mrs. Ralston's proxies aren't a problem. We're pushing her signed documents through the courts this morning. Since no charges have been filed, the timing should work out. Brad Jacobs is hustling them into court as we speak." So that had been why Brad had looked a little antsy in Mr. Lewis's office. He hadn't had anything to say, but he had looked nervous. Once the judge approved the papers, our client would be a substantial amount of votes closer to the merger. "Your desk is pretty full, too, Ash," Carter grinned. "You'd better get started. We've got to get information out to the stockholders of both companies before we can take this proposal to a vote." I nodded and rose. "Oh, and by the way, Dalton said you did well," Carter called out after me. "Thanks," I called back, anxious to get started with the work that had been piling up on my desk for the last couple of days. I would have worked right through lunch, but my stomach was still roiling, and I thought a little food would help settle it. The sweet roll I wolfed down in the break room mid-morning hadn't stayed with me very long, so I had to get something to eat. So when Gil Doniphan popped in with an invitation to join the usual group for lunch at Papa Marco's, I was more than willing to leave the mountain of paper that had gathered on my desk. It was just Gil and I in the elevator on the way down, so he used the time to pump me for information. "Do they really think old Wilcox got murdered?" he asked me the moment the doors were closed. I shrugged. "I think they're just fishing," I replied honestly. At least I hoped they were just fishing. A full-blown murder investigation could cast a pall on everything we were working on. "But Mrs. Ralston swore she'd get him," Gil insisted. "Where did you hear that?" He shrugged. "It's all over the office." Great, I thought. I knew from my morning meeting that Gil's statement was something of an exaggeration, but I kept still about it. The elevator stopped two floors down where Doug and Stephanie got on. They both worked in the Tax Department while Gil worked on my floor in Bankruptcy, but we had all gone to law school together. "Hail, hail, the gang's all here," I muttered. "Foul mood today, pal?" Doug asked as the elevator started up again. I didn't answer him, but I looked over at him. He seemed a little taller than usual. Maybe it was his shoes. In any case, I stood a little straighter as I looked him in the eye. "I got a lot to be in a foul mood about, buddy," I shot back. I didn't have to say anything more. Everyone knew I had suddenly been thrust into the middle of a criminal investigation at a very critical point in my career. Fifteen minutes later, we had ordered and I had given them a brief summary of my adventures in Family Law. Gil hung on every detail, Doug seemed amused, and Stephanie was downright shocked. "You mean they think Ralston's wife did it?" Stephanie gasped. "Not all women are as sweet as you," Gil offered derisively. "Not all women have a husband with a good job in corporate law and a big house in the suburbs," Doug added. Stephanie just flushed. It was pretty well known that she had gone to work for Benedict, Hobbs and Lewis just to get her ticket punched before joining her husband in corporate law out in Wheaton. Of the four of us who chummed around together, she was the only one who wasn't sweating the coveted promotion. Stephanie turned to me, changing the subject. "Hey, you need a haircut." "Getting one at three," I replied. "Speaking of promotions, Brad Jacobs will move up now," Gil chimed in just as our food was delivered. "Maybe he killed his boss," Doug suggested. "Yeah, right," Gil snorted. "He doesn't have the balls to do it. He's been Wilcox's gofer for years." "Maybe he just died of a heart attack," Stephanie offered. "Besides, I really can't believe Mrs. Ralston would have Dalton Wilcox murdered just because she was pissed at the way he represented her husband in the divorce." I nodded at that. "I think you're right." Or at least I hoped she was. The last thing I needed in my career right then was to be involved in a lengthy, sordid murder case. "Well, nobody's going to miss the old lush," Gil said. But he was wrong about that. I was going to miss him. I had one less vote in my quest for a promotion. And if that Lieutenant Carpenter kept on my case, I might lose some other votes. Benedict, Hobbs and Lewis was very old line and very conservative. Any scandal whirling around me might be enough to spoil my chances. After lunch with my friends and an unscheduled haircut, I decided it would be best to stay late and work my way through the pile on my desk. Carter still showed great confidence in me, and I wanted to make sure it wasn't misplaced. If that meant staying late, that was what I would do. Unfortunately my body wasn't cooperating. I felt lousy. My stomach was starting to do flip-flops again, in spite of the fact that I had taken the time to go out for a light dinner. My muscles were twitching, as if I had just played a couple of games of handball. My skin was sensitive - almost as if I had been out in the sun too long, and my neck was sore, probably from hunching over my computer for most of the day. I reached back to massage the aching muscles in my neck and touched hair that was still too long. Damned stylist. I had been so preoccupied that I hadn't really looked at myself after he had finished. He must have left it too long in back, I thought. Great. Now I'd have to visit him tomorrow and have him trim it up better. Tired and feeling like crap, I called it a night at a little after eight. I dragged my sorry ass out of the building. I was too tired to walk home, so I hailed a cab - a rare extravagance for me. Figuring that I was coming down with something, I made my mother's remedy for oncoming illnesses. I brewed up a batch of hot tea and threw in a little cinnamon and a liberal dose of honey. That little concoction was followed by a warm shower. Usually I would have treated myself to a hot shower, but my skin seemed far too sensitive to take too much heat. As it was, my nipples actually stung when the spray hit them. I usually slept in a t-shirt and boxers, but as touchy as my skin had become, I opted to sleep in the nude that night. I paid top dollar for sheets with a very high thread count, so they felt better on my skin than my normal attire would have been. I didn't have much time to dwell on that, though, because I was out cold practically the moment my head hit the pillow. I felt a little better in the morning. My stomach had settled down, and the aching in my muscles had abated. I was still a little tired, but a couple of extra hours of sleep had obviously done me some good. I was feeling pretty good... at least until I looked into the mirror. One thing about being raised in an era when magic is a known factor: you know when you're being messed with - not that it ever helps a lot. I had to say I was definitely being messed with. All it took was one look in the bathroom mirror to confirm that. The first clue was my hair - it was definitely getting longer. The color was the same - a medium brown - but I looked as if I were about two weeks overdue for a haircut, with the hair tickling the back of my neck and touching the tops of my ears. I looked down at my naked body, not exactly knowing what to look for, but I was relieved to see that everything looked normal. My chest hair was still in place, my hips were narrow, and little Ash was still swinging along. Yeah, okay, I realized after my inspection exactly what I had been looking for. I read the papers and followed the news. I knew that the government cover-up was pretty much over and it was now common knowledge that some men had been magically changed into women. When I saw my hair getting longer, I felt suddenly as if I had been plopped into one of those sleazy movies where some guy gets his sex changed and goes wandering around making a fool of himself while he tries to act like a girl. I put my hand on my cheek as one more proof. Yep, sure enough; I needed a shave. Thank God. That meant my unexpected hair growth had to be nothing more than a practical joke. Hair-growing spells were pretty cheap, and Sensors like me couldn't detect them if a spelled potion was slipped into my drink. Probably one of my lunch chums did it. Gil was a definite suspect, since he had a reputation for doing crap like that. Back in law school, he had spelled one of our more prudish classmates into dancing every time she heard music. The spell wore off in a few hours, as this one probably would. Once I got dressed and gulped down a quick breakfast, I started off for work, happily walking in the brisk morning air. Spring was on the cusp of breaking out, I was feeling better and back at my regular work, and everything seemed right with the world. Funny how quickly all that can change, though. That's the problem of living in a world without magic. I can recall when I was a kid - and on better terms with my parents - how they would tell me about how when they were my age, magic was almost nonexistent, and then my grandparents would chime in and remind them that when they, in turn, were young, magic was just something found only in fantasy stories. I almost envied them, I thought as I sat at my desk reviewing the McDonald Ohio acquisition. It must have been a simpler world when you didn't have to worry about impotency curses from former girlfriends and sneezing incantations from your practical-joking friends. Lately, it seemed that as magic became more sophisticated, it also became more dangerous. Just as health could be restored by magic, darker souls were finding ways to inflict maladies on their enemies. It seemed for every good application of magic that was found, an equally malicious one reared up as well. I supposed the first inkling that my problems were really just beginning was when Carter came into my office. "You look like you could use a haircut," he observed. His chastisement was mild, but I knew the firm took impeccable grooming seriously - clothes of a conservative cut, ties and suits for the men and skirts and heels for the ladies. And no long hair, beards, or moustaches were tolerated. It was as bad as the military on that count. I brushed a lock of hair out of my face. "Sorry, Carter, but I just got one yesterday. I think someone has put a little curse on me as a joke." "Well Mr. Lewis won't find it funny," he reminded me, sitting down across from me. "You'd better get it cut again until the curse wears off." "I'll do it this evening," I promised. I planned to just hit one of the cheap quick-cut places. No sense in spending a fortune with my stylist when it would just grow out again. I hoped it only lasted another day or two, and I suspected that would be it. Longer curses cost serious money - money practical jokers were reluctant to pay. "So how does our deal for Ralston look?" he asked. "It could look better," I told him. "Someone is really stirring up stockholder opposition to this deal." Carter nodded. "That's my take, too. I've tried to get Ralston to hold off going to the stockholders until we've shored up support, but he says that will impact our window of opportunity on this deal." "He really thinks McDonald Ohio is poised for big growth?" "Absolutely. And I think he's right, but some of the stockholders have lost confidence in Ralston since the Byington Hill acquisition lost money for Ralston Lakeshore. They think our boy has lost his touch. Besides, since somebody made a half-assed attempt to break into his house the other night, he's been even more determined to see this deal go through." "I heard about that," I said. "What happened?" Carter shrugged. "Nothing much. It turned out it was probably just prowlers who triggered an alarm. Someone thought he heard shots, but that's unconfirmed. The police, of course, want to link it to Dalton's death, but I doubt if there's any real connection. Ralston, though, thinks his wife killed Dalton and tried to get at him, so he wants to get this proxy situation handled before she tries again." "It's going to be a tough battle to win," I agreed, "even after Ralston got those proxies from his ex." "We'll just have to do our best," Carter sighed as he got up. "And don't forget that haircut." It was four in the afternoon when my world really fell apart. Jennifer informed me that I was wanted once again in Mr. Lewis's office. I gulped, knowing that my last two trips into his office had not resulted in anything positive. I was starting to wish I had gotten that haircut over the lunch hour instead of working straight through with lunch at my desk. I didn't feel any better when I entered Mr. Lewis's office. I saw a quartet of long faces - only three of which were familiar. Mr. Lewis had opted to have everyone sitting at his conference table, and I could see that the seat at the head of the table had been reserved for me. On one side of the table sat Mr. Lewis and Carter. They looked as if someone else had just died. Their faces were somber and their shoulders slumped. This wasn't a good sign. On the other side of the table, Lieutenant Carpenter looked as if someone had just crapped on his ice cream cone. Sitting next to him was a man several years his junior, but the man appeared much more poised and confident. I was pretty sure who he represented and why the lieutenant was so unhappy - in all likelihood, the Feds had just taken his case from him. I was starting to get the distinct feeling someone was about to crap on my ice cream cone as well. "Sit down, Ashley," Mr. Lewis said, indicating the chair at the head of the table. I sat, my body beginning to perspire as I tried - unsuccessfully - to steel myself for the bad news. "Joining us today is Special Agent Crenshaw," Mr. Lewis indicated the newcomer. "I'll turn things over to him." He didn't bother to introduce me, but it was obvious the agent knew exactly who I was. "Mr. Conroy," the agent began, studying me with cold blue eyes, "the FBM will be taking over the investigation into the death of Mr. Wilcox." The FBM - the Federal Bureau of Magic. It could only mean that Mr. Wilcox's death was caused by magical means. This was a very serious turn of events, indeed. Magical powers were limited and unevenly distributed amongst the population, so the general public had come to consider crimes in which magic was involved to be the most heinous crimes of all - and the law reflected that, granting wider powers to the FBM than to other crime-fighting agencies. For one of the few times in my life, I was sincerely happy that my Sensor abilities were not considered to be magical talent. "What can I do to help?" I asked, trying to remain calm and hoping the FBM agent couldn't hear the beating of my heart. Don't laugh. From what I've heard, some of them actually could do so. Agent Crenshaw leaned forward. "We need to know about this." He pulled something from his suit coat pocket and slid it down to me. It was a photograph. I took it in trembling hands and looked at it. Once I recognized it, I felt a shudder all the way down to my toes. "Yes..." I managed to whisper. "I recognize it." It was a photo of a bottle of single malt whiskey. Very little of it remained in the bottle, but I knew where the bottle had come from. "This was found in Mr. Wilcox's desk drawer," Agent Crenshaw explained, telling me what I already knew. "Did you see Mr. Wilcox drink any of this whiskey?" I nodded slowly. "Yes." I was at least relieved to see no look of disdain on Mr. Lewis's face. Drinking in the office was a no-no, but I supposed he knew Wilcox well enough to know about his little celebration ritual. "How much did he drink?" "Three drinks." "How large were the drinks?" I shrugged. "About the size you'd get in a bar, I guess." Knowing glances were traded around the table. What did they know that I didn't know? Agent Crenshaw leaned forward even more for the next question. "Did you drink any of the whiskey?" As I've said, technically speaking, drinking in the offices was forbidden, but I wasn't too concerned about that. I was certain Mr. Lewis and Carter both realized that if Dalton Wilcox had wanted me to have a drink with him, I would have had little choice in the matter, so I wasn't too worried when I replied. "Yes," I admitted. "I had one drink." Carter closed his eyes and sighed. Mr. Lewis was just shaking his head. The lieutenant looked at me as if I was some sort of a lab experiment while Agent Crenshaw said formally, "Mr. Conroy, I'd like you to come with me." "Am I under arrest?" "No, of course not," he assured me. "I just want to take you to our medical facility for a few tests. We'll keep you overnight and release you in the morning." Whatever was in the whiskey must have been the cause of Dalton Wilcox's death, I reasoned. I, too, had taken a drink of it. Did that mean I was going to die? Maybe whatever had killed Wilcox would do the same thing to me, just taking longer because I had drunk less. I should have gone with my first impulse when I tasted something odd in the drink. The problem is that a Sensor can detect magic in use, but technically speaking, spells contained in potions are not exactly "in use". What I had Sensed must have been a death spell, but because it was passive until ingested, the warning had been too weak to register as danger. I only hoped I hadn't drunk enough of it to end up like Dalton Wilcox. "What do you think is wrong with me?" I asked once Agent Crenshaw and I were on our way to the FBM offices just a few blocks away. We were seated together in the back of a government sedan as we crawled through rush hour traffic. The driver had said nothing to me, but I noticed him stealing glances at me in the rear view mirror. "I'd rather wait until we have the test results," he told me. I could tell from the way he said it that I'd get nothing more from him. Once we got to the State Street high rise that housed (I found out later) four floors of FBM offices and labs, I was taken directly to a section that looked suspiciously like a hospital emergency room. I was seated in an uncomfortable guest chair and given a questionnaire to fill out. The questionnaire alone took me an hour to fill out, but it wasn't just the questions. I'd have to stop every few minutes when some nameless lab technician shunted me off for a blood sample, a urine sample, a hair sample, a skin sample, and finally a fingernail clipping. The questionnaire itself was probably more detailed than any other personal document I had ever filled out. I suspected I would have been handed a shorter questionnaire if I had been applying for a top secret clearance. In addition to the standard questions I had filled out on dozens of applications before, there were questions I figured were probably designed to determine both my magical abilities (none as far as I knew) and my susceptibility to magical activity - which covered my Sensor abilities. Suddenly the frantic activity abated. I had handed my completed questionnaire to a lab tech and was left alone in the waiting area to worry about what they might find. There wasn't a TV or even any magazines in the room, so I had nothing to occupy my time but worry. And worrying is exactly what I did. Dalton Wilcox had been magically killed. That was obvious or the FBM wouldn't be on the case. Killing spells weren't common, and killing potions were really unnecessary. After all, rather than pay big bucks for a potion, why not just use strychnine or some other common poison? It would be cheaper and easier, right? Well, not exactly. Magic was sometimes used to enhance common poisons to make them more lethal. That was what I was afraid of. What had killed Wilcox within a few hours might be strong enough to kill me in a few days, given that I had consumed less of it. That was my principal worry at the time. To make it even more troublesome, I had to believe my poisoning had been an accident. After all, the whiskey had been in Wilcox's desk drawer. There was no way of predetermining that I would drink from the bottle. Even magical talents of predetermination were far too uncertain to bring my participation within the realm of probability. So I was nothing more than collateral damage - I had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time... So who would want to kill Dalton Wilcox? Please, no bad lawyer jokes here. Yes, lawyers could be very unpopular -particularly with those people they had defeated in court or bested in negotiations. Also, lawyers involved in Family Law are often at greater risk than other attorneys. Emotions run high in divorces, child custody disputes, and other family conflicts, so my question was not rhetorical - who would want to kill Dalton Wilcox? "Mr. Conroy?" I looked up at the professionally-smiling face of a forty-something woman in a conservative cream blouse and below-the-knee brown skirt. She had short brown hair with no trace of gray, and she looked to be very fit. She could have been an agent, I suppose, but her demeanor and our location made her out to be a doctor. Sure enough, "I'm Dr. Allyson," she said in a friendly tone, offering her hand. "Please call me Marge, though." "Ash Conroy," I returned, rising and taking her hand, relieved to be talking to a real human being after my interminable wait. Her handshake was womanly but firm. "Let's go someplace a little more private," she urged, ushering me into a small conference room. I had expected her to take me to an office, but a thought suddenly occurred to me. Once we were seated across from each other at a small government-issue conference table, I asked, "Are you on staff here, Marge?" "No," she laughed, "I consult with the Bureau. I just help out when the situation calls for it." Situation. So that's what I was - I was a situation. I didn't like the sound of that. I decided to be blunt. "Am I dying, Marge?" She looked a little surprised. "Dying? Of course not. Whatever gave you that idea?" "Well, I thought with Mr. Wilcox's death..." I trailed off as I saw the look of confusion on her face. "You do know about Mr. Wilcox, don't you?" "Mr. Conroy - " "Call me Ash." "All right, Ash. To answer your concern, Mr. Wilcox apparently died from an overdose of a very powerful potion. I must emphasize the word overdose. Had he ingested only one drink as you did, he would have most likely survived. I was asked by Agent Crenshaw to explain just what has happened to you and a recommended course of treatment." Well at least I wasn't going to die, but all was not well, either. Otherwise, we wouldn't be having this conversation, I reasoned. "Okay. So exactly what did happen to me?" She gave me a sympathetic look. "You were exposed to a potion - a very powerful potion. Over the next few days, it will change you into a woman." In retrospect, I realize that most doctors feel the best way to break bad news to a patient is to just spill it all out: "You're dying.", "That leg needs to come off.", or: "You're changing into a woman." My earlier fears had come back to haunt me. I had been right to believe my sex might be in the process of being changed. I suppose I should have been thankful that I wasn't dying, but in some ways, becoming a woman was equally as bad - it meant the end of my life as Ash Conroy, just as surely as death. Oddly, in those few moments, I thought not so much about the physical issues I would be facing as a woman - periods, potential pregnancy, PMS, breasts, a vagina, and what all. In fact, I wasn't think about those items at all - yet. Instead I was more concerned about how it would affect my career and my relations with family and friends. As far as my career was concerned, the news was disastrous on two fronts. In the first place, the firm disliked controversy. Having one of its Associates changed from a man to a woman would be far too sensational for the Partners to tolerate. It was the stuff of supermarket rags. My only hope was that I could somehow keep all of this quiet. Maybe I could be transferred to another office. The firm had offices in seven major cities as well as one at the state capitol in Springfield. If I were quietly transferred, perhaps the controversy could be lessened. Of equal importance though, was the firm's attitudes toward women. While there were a large number of female Associates, only one had made it to the Partner level so far. Darlene Masters headed our Intellectual Properties Group - partially because she was very competent,