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the price of one.”
“That’s great,” I say again. “When is Lauren due?”
“March 9, but the doctor told us that second children come early, and with twins it’s more likely to be late February.”
“Which flavor?”
Paul chuckles a little. “One of each.”
“That’s great,” I say for the third time. “How’s Ryan taking to the idea?”
“Very excited about a little brother, but could take or leave the sister part.”
I stop myself from telling Paul that this, too, is great.
“And what about you guys?” he asks.
I shift in my seat. “We’re talking about it.”
“I assume you know this, but given that it’s been a few years since Charlotte was conceived, let me remind you that you need to do something more than talk for it to happen.”
“Really? Maybe that’s been our problem.”
I wonder if there is too much melancholy in what I intended to be a joke because Paul segues quickly. “So, I hear congratulations are in order for you as well. Word on the street is that you bagged a big one, my friend.”
“Thanks. Although I think it means a little less when you’ve bagged your father’s best friend.”
“Is his money green?
“It is indeed.”
“Then it makes no difference at all.” We both laugh, and before I’ve stopped, he adds, “But, even better than that, I hear Fleming gave you Abby Sloane.”
News travels fast, apparently. I think about calling Paul on his terminology—that Fleming gave Abby to me, as if she’s property—but instead I play dumb.
“And I’m to be congratulated for that why?”
“I’m sorry, but did you go blind recently?”
“And here I thought you were congratulating me because she’s the best associate in the firm. If you recall, she won that insider trading case last year even though no one thought she had a chance in hell ofgetting an acquittal, and then she second-seated Aaron on that enormous environmental disaster thing.”
“Yeah, that too,” Paul says sarcastically, emphasizing the point with a roll of his eyes. “So tell me, what’s the new case about?”
Paul’s practice is mergers and acquisitions, which means he’s more of a banker than a lawyer. He’s never set foot in a courtroom or taken a deposition. My guess is he probably knows more about criminal proceedings from watching
Law & Order
reruns than from his legal training.
“The client ran a boutique brokerage house down in Florida. Apparently a hot stock he was promoting went south, and now the investors want his scalp.”
“I see you’ve already drunk the Kool Aid,” Paul says with a laugh.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that I worked at one of those”—and he air quotes—“boutique brokerage firms between college and law school. They’re the ninth circle of hell. I lasted about four months and by the time I left, I was the second most senior guy in the whole place. I swear to you, they handcuffed—actually handcuffed—some poor schmo to his desk until he made a sale. They wouldn’t let him go to the bathroom or eat or anything. Sixteen hours. Imagine the worst frat house you can think of, and then imagine stealing money from senile retirees, and you’re about halfway there.”
“My guy says his shop wasn’t like that.”
“Of course not. How could I forget, all of your clients immediately admit whenever they’ve done something wrong.”
“Wait just a second,” I say with a laugh. “He’s not just
my
client. Mike Ohlig and OPM are clients of Cromwell Altman Rosenthal & White, which makes them your clients too.”
“OPM, huh?”
“You’ve heard of them?”
I’m not at all happy that Ohlig apparently has a reputation that precedes him. I had googled Ohlig, as I do with all my clients, but the search provided only hits to charity functions he attended and somecampaign contributions. The legal databases confirmed what Ohlig told me—OPM had only a handful of complaints against it, and none was within the last five