A Conflict of Interest Read Online Free PDF

been at Cromwell Altman for most of my adult life, I doubt that there is anyone here I’d still talk to after either I or they left the firm. The one exception is Paul Harris.
    Paul and I joined the firm on the same day, two of fifty-two first-year associates. Through the years, as the others began dropping away, either by relocating, going in-house, switching firms, or leaving the law altogether, it became clear that Paul and I would likely be the only two left standing. In the homestretch, we were both putting in sixteen-hour days, seven days a week, and spending a lot of our non-billable time together in the firm cafeteria. During the worst of it, we joked that we spent much more time with each other than with our wives. After we made partner, we continued the camaraderie, our horror stories about the unreasonable demands of the partners morphing seamlessly into complaints about the poor work ethic of the associates.
    A few times a year, Paul and I use the expense accounts we’re given to wine and dine clients to share an expensive lunch just for the two of us. We justify having the firm pick up the tab by telling ourselves we are discussing legal issues or business development, but the encounters almost always devolve into nothing more than rank gossip about firm intrigue and catching up about our kids. Today we’re at Aquavit, a toptier Swedish restaurant about five blocks from the office.
    “Sorry I’m late,” Paul says as he approaches the table. “My meeting at Taylor Beckett on that”—he looks both ways to be sure he’s not going to be overheard—“on, you know, that merger, went longer than I’d expected.”
    “No worries. I just got here myself.”
    Paul takes his seat and tucks his tie into his shirt, an affectation I’ve seen so many times I don’t even make fun of it anymore. The waiter is right behind him and asks the usual first question in a placelike this—“sparkling or still?” I have never ordered bottled water in a restaurant when someone other than a client or the firm was paying. Without missing a beat, Paul tells the waiter that sparkling would be great.
    “So, how’s everything going with you?” It’s a reference to my father, I think.
    “Okay. It’s hard to know how it’s supposed to feel.”
    “When my father died, I remember some guy telling me that it’s impossible to describe it until you’ve experienced it. Just the idea that I couldn’t talk to him.”
    “I’m a little worried about my mother. She seemed to be holding up okay, but they were married thirty-five years.”
    “I could make a comment about wanting to die after being married thirty-five years, but out of respect to your parents, I’ll refrain.”
    I smile, not at all offended by his effort at levity. “Point well taken.”
    After the waiter has returned with our sparkling water and taken our orders—Swedish meatballs for Paul and the smoked salmon for me—Paul announces that he has some news. My sixth sense has already alerted me to what he’s about to say, but that doesn’t mean I’m not hoping I’m wrong.
    “Lauren and I are expecting,” he says with pride. “Twins, in fact.”
    “That’s great,” I say, trying to hide my disappointment.
    It’s not that I’m sorry Paul and Lauren are having more children, but they are the last couple I know with a first child Charlotte’s age who have not yet added to their family. Intellectually I know there are many reasons why couples stop at one, but in our case it has nothing to do with choice or ability. Without saying it aloud, both Elizabeth and I have doubts about whether our marriage can sustain the weight of another child. My reaction to Paul’s news isn’t a matter of misery loving company, but more that I took some solace that his presumably happy marriage provided camouflage for my marital difficulties.
    “I don’t know if I told you, but we had been trying for a few years and finally went to a specialist. Now we’ve got two for