“Good. Keep being boring.”
Michael Reed's office sat on the nineteenth floor of a downtown Dallas tower.
He was sixty-one.
Gray hair.
Reading glasses.
The personality of a man who had watched intelligent people become stupid the moment marriage, money, pride, or inheritance entered a room.
His conference chair had been worn smooth by other people's problems.
I arrived at 7:48 Monday morning.
Michael arrived at 7:51 carrying coffee.
“Bad?”
“I don't know.”
“That means bad enough.”
I handed him the folder.
He read while I told him about the dinner.
He did not react to the insult.
Lawyers hear worse.
When I described the draft operating agreement, he turned several pages back.
When I told him about Daniel, he wrote the name down.
When I finished, he removed his glasses.
“Before we go further, I need to know why you're here.”
“To protect myself.”
“That wasn't the question.”
He leaned back.
“Do you want to punish your wife?”
I looked toward the windows.
Dallas traffic crawled below.
“I don't know.”
“Wrong answer.”
I looked at him.
Michael continued.
“If you want revenge, find a different lawyer. Revenge clients make terrible financial decisions and then blame counsel because the consequences arrive in envelopes.”
“I don't want revenge.”
“Then what?”
I thought about Laura saying, You always do.
“I want to know what I'm responsible for.”
Michael nodded.
“Good.”
His glasses went back on.
“That is a problem we can solve.”
A paralegal named Priya joined us.
Over the next several hours, they pulled records.
The warehouse deed.
Business filings.
Original purchase documents.