the job done. “Review the science. Find me a link between SuperSoy and kidney damage. Give us something we can argue beyond Dale’s pet argument about proximity in time to injury.”
Caroline’s fingers ached with the effort of scribbling notes. She’d known that in leaving tech, she’d be leaving the twenty-first century. But the reality of it still surprised her. And hurt her hand.
As if reading her thoughts, Louis gestured with his chin toward her legal pad. “Please take your notes on the scientific literature in longhand. It’s an old discipline but one that I find quite useful. Something about forming words on a page creates links in the mind.”
He paused for any objections.
Resisting the urge to wince, Caroline gave him none.
“Dale, too, is going to want to see everything in hard copy,” Louis said.
“Understood,” she said, still battling her dismay. Just because the Magna Carta had been written on sheepskin parchment didn’t mean it wouldn’t be way more searchable if loaded onto an iPad. But she held her peace. She knew that lawyers loved their paper.
“Depending on how you do with your review of the science, I might let you take on additional responsibilities,” Louis said. “Otherwise, I can pull in one of the partners working on the Telemetry Systems matter. That case goes to trial in two months, and we still have much to do, so I’d prefer to leave things as they are . . . but if I need to . . .”
“I can handle it,” Caroline said quickly. She didn’t like hearing her boss making contingency plans in case she failed.
“Good. We don’t have much time.”
“How about I come by your office by five to tell you what I find?” Caroline offered, not knowing whether what she’d promised was actually possible, but determined to make it so.
“Perfect,” Louis said.
“Hey, Silvia,” Caroline greeted her assistant, who had a pierced nose and hair a shade of red only seen on fire trucks. “Can you tell me where the war room is?” The term felt ridiculous in Caroline’s mouth. As if they were soldiers heading into battle instead of paper pushers ensconced in an office building.
Silvia nodded, looking serious. “It’s in the basement. Load the doomsday machine down there with lots of Diet Coke and paper, then set it off. No one will live, but we should win this war.”
Caroline smiled. She liked her assistant. She could tell they’d work well together. Just as soon as she figured out what to do with an assistant.
“It’s on the thirty-third floor, across from the kitchen,” Silvia said. “It’s just a conference room. No weapons in there. Just a bunch of boxes full of scary-looking text and diagrams.”
Thanking Silvia, Caroline hurried toward the elevators.
As she speed-walked toward the war room, her eyes skated across the scene before her. Dark-wood credenzas separated the assistants’ workstations from the outer ring of attorney offices. Assistants sat in cubicles formatting documents or playing Solitaire. Attorneys paced their offices, talking on phones with clients or friends. In every respect, Hale Stern presented just another mundane law firm tableau. Same as every other office. Same as every other building.
Except for the walls.
There, hanging on tension wires spaced ten to fifteen feet apart, were canvases. Farmers laboring in fields. Salisbury Cathedral at dusk. Renaissance portraits of old men in floppy hats. The placards beneath the images read like a who’s who of old masters. Rembrandt. Cézanne. Goya. These weren’t the artists’ top-shelf paintings. These were the sketches and studies the masters had used to produce their great works. Still, Caroline knew that any one of them was worth more than she’d earn in a lifetime.
She came to a stop before a small canvas depicting men wielding swords. In the foreground, a woman in a billowing ivory dress held her hands up to the heavens, beseeching the watching angels for help. The lighting seemed especially designed for the image, the red blood on the soldier’s silver swords vibrating against the dirt-brown tones of the battlefield. The placard beneath it read: MASSACRE OF THE INNOCENTS, PETER PAUL RUBENS, 1611 (STUDY FOR 1613 CANVAS AT LOUVRE, INVENTORY NO. 22344).
Out of the corner of her eye, Caroline saw someone stop beside her. Silvia.
“They’re Louis’s,” the assistant said, answering Caroline’s unspoken question.
“Where does he get them?” Caroline asked.
“Auctions, mostly. Sometimes from his clients’ private collections. He’ll take art in trade instead of fees. It isn’t like he needs the money,” Silvia added with a sideways glance.
Caroline nodded. She, like everyone else at Hale Stern,