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I ask. He looks at me over the top of the paper. "Clients needed a f@jri@ privacy to talk; figured you wouldn't mind." He starts to M: UP. ,‐Stay there," I say.
    Harry and I have become increasingly close in the months
    "I 'my
    banishment from Potter, Skarpellos. Hopelessly out different bow tie for each day of the week, we seem to ,Tr, the same route to court each morning. Twenty years ago Harry was one of'the foremost criminal 7p1w;, attorneys in town. Tried no more than four cases a year, I front‐page felonies. That was before he found courage and rxiwiop. in a bottle. Now his days are filled trying to keep other T,nx.' from the clutches of the DA and the angry machinations MADD. For variety, his life is punctuated by the occasional T I hang up my coat and open my briefcase on the couch, then through a couple of files I took home. "Fuckin' Congress,"
    says Harry. He's finished reading the arti‐ "First they allow their friends to steal all the money from the @J&, then they want us to pay it all back." He follows this with Lv@jil sigh as if conceding that it is something over which Harry 1: no control. b)avery time I vote, I have the same feeling," he says. "Like @, a I , put a bag of‐dogshit on my doorstep and set it on fire. 7,7‐W know whether to just stand there and hold my nose, or to stamp it out." mental picture drawn by this little vignette leads me to 7rror.‐ that Harry has probably seen these images, up close and ZM at some youthful point in his life from behind a wicked at the edge of some poor soul's front porch. : trust government," he says. 4 know," I say. "I used to work for 'em.". rr."

    " s office is half the size of my own, He's taken to camping *te W n clients and family need a private conference‐a hit to money for his fees, or to square the details of an alibi .‐Vthe story is locked in stone with their lawyer. They don't '‐'ihow flexible and creative Harry can be. @, @JM by the soles of his shoes, the surface of my desk f‐7777‐@ confusion. I've taken to hoarding the most important case files in my own office, a defense against Dee‐saster. There are a score of files piled here, marshaled in term that only its maker can fathom‐two ti@,Igg‐Iqm cases that may settle, but only on the courthouse ‐4MM
    criminal appeal with seven volumes of transcripts, me by the district court as part of the )Ori el‐an economic hedge I'd taken before 615"n'tlsmwa,117@;" Propagating like the poor is a stack of files requiring and correspondence, a chore that would involve a noon's work dictating to a competent secretary, but will no doubt spend endless evenings stroking out on keyboard. I paw through my mail, which Dee has stacked on the my d6sk‐a few bills, letters in a couple of cases, a report in a sentencing matter, and an announcement 11 Feinberg will speak at the next meeting of the Capitol Gff@ yers Association: "Probate and You‐The Lawyer's .Vol the Hereafter."

    I fli the announcement to Harry. p
    "Tasteful," he says, "You and I said
    it, we'd be MT,7' "Half the judges in the county will be there to there to take notes," I add. "What for?"

    I tap a thick file that sits looming on the center of alone, solitary, like‐ some ancient tome written in MMM' waits to be deciphered. "Probate file," I say. "Only one I have. Only one take."

    Harry looks at the tab on the file jacket and then single word: "Oh."

    With all of his warts, Harry Hinds at times displays i7r a French diplomat. He has heard about Sharon Cooper. This file is one of those objects in life, the sight chums acid in my stomach. Sharon's probate sensations of creeping, escalating uneasiness. I have iv'@ file a dozen times, to the credenza, the floor, and

    "Mr‐, desk again. It lies there,
    a testament to my ignorance c, and my inability to say no to a friend, in this *V Cooper. I have spent hours poring through the loose‐leaf lawyers' self‐help books, that forest of publications 4' rennial subscriptions and annual pocket