Mary Grace and Wes stepped off the elevator on the twenty-sixth floor of the tallest building in Mississippi, and into the plush reception suite of the state's largest law firm. She immediately noticed the wallpaper, the fine furniture, the flowers, things that had once mattered.

         The well-dressed woman at the desk was sufficiently polite. An associate in the standard-issue navy suit and black shoes escorted them to a conference room, where a secretary asked if they wanted something to drink. No, they did not. The large windows looked down at the rest of Jackson. The dome of the capital dominated the view. To its left was the Gartin building, and somewhere in there on someone's desk was the case of Jeannette Baker v. Krane Chemical.

         The door opened and Alan York appeared with a big smile and warm handshake. He was in his late fifties, short and heavy and a bit sloppy-wrinkled shirt, no jacket, scuffed shoes-unusual for a partner in such a hidebound firm. The same associate was back, carrying two large expandable files. After greetings and small talk they took their places around the table.

         The lawsuit the Paytons filed in April on behalf of the family of the deceased pulpwood cutter had sped through the early rounds of discovery. No trial date was set, and that possibility was at least a year away. Liability was clear-the truck driver who caused the accident had been speeding, at least fifteen miles per hour over the limit. Two eyewitnesses had been deposed and provided detailed and damning testimony about the speed and recklessness of the truck driver. In his deposition, the driver admitted to a long history of moving violations. Before taking to the road, he worked as a pipe fitter but had been fired for smoking pot on the job. Wes had found at least two old DUIs, and the driver thought there might be another one, but he couldn't remember.

         In short, the case wouldn't get anywhere near a jury. It would be settled, and after four months of vigorous discovery Mr. Alan York was ready to begin the negotiations.

         According to him, his client, Littun Casualty, was anxious to close the file.

         Wes began by describing the family, a thirty-three-year-old widow and mother with a high school education and no real job skills and three young children, the oldest being twelve. Needless to say, the loss was ruinous in every way.

         As he talked, York took notes and kept glancing at Mary Grace. They had spoken on the phone but never met. Wes was handling the case, but York knew she was not there simply because she was pleasant to look at. One of his close friends was Frank Sully, the Hattiesburg lawyer hired by Krane Chemical to add bodies to the defense table.

         Sully had been pushed to the rear by Jared Kurtin and was still bitter about it.

         He had passed along to York many stories about the Baker trial, and it was Sully's opinion that the Payton tag team worked best when Mary Grace was chatting with the jury. She was tough on cross-examination, very quick on her feet, but her strength was connecting with people. Her closing argument was brilliant, powerful, and, obviously, very persuasive.

         York had been defending insurance companies for thirty-one years. He won more than he lost, but there had been a few of those awful moments when juries failed to see the case his way and nailed him for big verdicts. It was part of the business. He had never, though, been in the neighborhood of a $41 million award. It was now a legend in the state's legal circles. Add the drama of the Paytons risking everything, losing their home, office, cars, and borrowing heavily to sustain a four-month trial, and the legend kept growing. Their fate was well-known and much discussed at bar meetings and golf tournaments and cocktail parties. If the verdict stood, they would be primed to rake in huge fees. A reversal, and their survival was seriously in doubt.

         As Wes went on, York couldn't help but admire them.

         After a brief review of the liability, Wes summed up the damages, added a chunk for the carelessness of the trucking company, and said, "We think two million is a fair settlement.”

         "I bet you do," York said, managing the customary defense lawyer reaction of shock and dismay. Eyebrows arched in disbelief. Head shaking slowly in bewilderment. He grabbed his face with his hand and squeezed his cheeks, frowning. His quick smile was long gone.

         Wes and Mary Grace managed to convey apathy while their hearts were frozen.

         "To get two million," York said, studying his notes, "you have to factor in some element of punitive damages, and, frankly, my client is simply not willing to pay these.”

         "Oh yes," Mary Grace said coolly. "Your client will pay whatever the jury tells it to pay." Such blustering was also part of the business. York had heard it a thousand times, but it did indeed sound more ominous coming from a woman who, during her last trial, extracted a huge punitive award.

         "A trial is at least twelve months away," York said as he looked at his associate for confirmation, as if anyone could project a trial date so far in the future. The associate dutifully confirmed what his boss had already said.

         In other words, if this goes to trial, it will be months before you receive a dime in fees. It's no secret that your little firm is drowning in debt and struggling to survive, and everyone knows that you need a big settlement, and quick.

         "Your client can't wait that long," York said.

         "We've given you a number, Alan," Wes replied. "Do you have a counteroffer?”

         York suddenly slapped his file shut, gave a forced grin, and said, "Look, this is really simple. Littun Casualty is very good at cutting its losses, and this case is a loser. My authority to settle is $1 million. Not a penny more. I have a million bucks, and my client told me not to come back for more. One million dollars, take it or leave it.”

         The referring lawyer would get half of the 30 percent contingency contract. The Paytons would get the other half. Fifteen percent was $150,000, a dream.

         They looked at each other, both frowning, both wanting to leap across the table and begin kissing Alan York. Then Wes shook his head, and Mary Grace wrote something on a legal pad.

         "We have to call our client," Wes said.

         "Of course." York bolted from the room, his associate racing to keep up.

         "Well," Wes said softly, as if the room might be bugged.

         "I'm trying not to cry," she said.

         "Don't cry. Don't laugh. Let's squeeze him a little.”

         When York was back, Wes said gravely, "We talked to Mrs. Nolan. Her bottom line is one point two million.”

         York exhaled as his shoulders drooped and his face sagged. "I don't have it, Wes,”

         he said. "I'm being perfectly candid with you.”

         "You can always ask for more. If your client will pay a million, then they can kick in another $200,000. At trial, this case is worth twice that.”

         "Littun is a tough bunch, Wes.”

         "One phone call. Give it a try. What's there to lose?”

         York left again, and ten minutes later burst back into the room with a happy face.

         "You got it! Congratulations.”

         The shock of the settlement left them numb. Negotiations usually dragged on for weeks or months, with both sides bickering and posturing and playing little games. They had hoped to leave York's office with a general idea of where the settlement might be headed. Instead, they left in a daze and for fifteen minutes roamed the streets of downtown Jackson, saying little. For a moment they stopped in front of the Capitol Grill, a restaurant known more for its clientele than for its food. Lobbyists liked to be seen there, picking up tabs for fine meals with heavyweight politicians. Governors had always favored the place.

         Why not splurge and eat with the big boys?

        Instead, they ducked into a small deli two doors down and ordered iced tea. Neither had an appetite at the moment. Wes finally addressed the obvious. "Did we just earn $180,000?”

         "Uh-huh," she said while sipping tea through a straw.

         "I thought so.”

         "A third goes for taxes," she said.

         "Are you trying to kill the party?”

         "No, just being practical.”

         On a white paper napkin, she wrote down the sum of $180,000.

         "Are we spending it already?" Wes asked.

         "No, we're dividing it. Sixty thousand for taxes?”

         "Fifty.”

         "Income, state and federal. Employee withholding, Social Security, unemployment, I don't know what else but it's at least a third.”

  &............