Chapter 7 · The Golden Cage

Two hours in the glass box, and my phone was still in his pocket.

I could see the corner of it through the wool — a hard little rectangle where his jacket hung off the back of his chair. Forty-one years old. Named partner. Twenty-three straight guilty verdicts. And I was counting pixels like a kid in detention.

The door had a thumbprint reader. I'd tried it eleven times. Mine didn't open it. Neither did the fire exit, which gave onto a stairwell that only let you down if you had a badge that worked.

So I sat down at his desk and read my own contract.

He came in at 6:40 with his sleeves rolled and a glass of ice water he set down in front of me instead of himself. No greeting. No apology. Like I was a document he'd already signed.

"Page four," he said. "You've been on it for twenty minutes."

"Section 4.3." I didn't look up. "Change of control. Every attorney on the letterhead gets ninety days to walk with their book intact. You didn't file the notice."

"I filed it."

"You filed it wrong. You used the holding company that closed Tuesday.