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victims—victims of traffic accidents, of medical malpractice, of on-the-job injuries, of defective products, of consumer fraud, of Truth-in-Lending Act violations.
    They were, to use a cliché, a study in contrasts. Neville Damon McBride III was the scion of the St. Louis McBrides—a wealthy family that had made its millions in the Missouri lead mines during the early decades of the twentieth century. Sally Wade was the only child of an itinerant carpenter (now deceased) and an alcoholic mother (remarried, divorced, remarried, divorced, and now deceased). Neville grew up in a nine-bedroom home on the grounds of the St. Louis Country Club. Sally Wade grew up in a mobile home on the outskirts of Centralia, Illinois. Neville followed the academic path of his father and grandfather: Princeton College and then the University of Virginia School of Law. Sally became the first member of her family to graduate high school, and then worked her way through Southern Illinois University and St. Louis University Law School.
    The two met, according to the article, as members of the bar association committee overseeing the renovation plans for the St. Louis Civil Courts Building. Sally served on the committee because, as a plaintiff’s lawyer who regularly appeared in that dilapidated building, it was good politics to be seen as dedicated to improving the working conditions of the judges. Neville served on the committee in part because of his firm’s sense of noblesse oblige and in part because his grandfather had donated the imposing bronze sculpture of Louis Brandeis that dominated the lobby. (Brandeis had started his legal career in St. Louis.)
    I skimmed through the lead story on the murder one more time before tossing the paper into the recycling bin next to my desk. Then I got up for some fresh coffee. As I was up at the coffee machine, Jacki came in with the morning mail.
    â€œAnything special?” I asked.
    She shook her head. “Mostly junk mail. There’s an order in the Carson case resetting the pretrial conference for early December.”
    â€œAm I okay?”
    â€œYep. I entered the new date in your calendar.” She flipped through the rest of the mail. “They served another set of depo notices in the KSLM-AM libel case. Ah,” Jacki said with a chuckle, holding up a piece of correspondence. “And another indignant letter from that lard-ass at Bryan Cave.”
    â€œWhat’s he whining about now?”
    â€œWell, it’s five pages long.” She skimmed the letter. “Seems he’s unsatisfied with some of your responses to his latest set of interrogatories.”
    â€œPoor baby.”
    â€œAre you going to respond to the letter?”
    â€œNo way.” I took a sip of coffee and gave Jacki an appraising look. She was wearing a navy cardigan sweater over a white cotton blouse, a pleated glen-plaid wool skirt, opaque white pantyhose, and navy Pappagallo flats. “Say, is that a new outfit?”
    She smiled hesitantly. “Do you like it?”
    â€œI do. It sort of reminds me of, uh—”
    â€œâ€”the uniforms the girls used to wear at Catholic school?”
    I nodded. “Exactly, except without the ugly brown brogues.”
    â€œDo you think I’m too old for it?”
    â€œNot at all,” I said with as much sincerity as I could muster.
    Jacki Brand was a former Granite City steelworker who was putting herself through night law school while working days as my secretary, paralegal, law clerk, and all-around aide. I’d call her my Girl Friday, except that anatomically she was still a he—and would so remain until the operation next summer. Jacki (née Jack) was now in her fifth month living as a woman and her fifth month as the greatest assistant I had ever had.
    As for her outfit today, imagine a Green Bay Packer middle linebacker dressed in drag as a senior at Sacred Heart and wearing a Dolly Parton wig, lipstick, and