“Arthur here’s got a bad hip, and he’s not getting out of anybody’s way.”

We went past her desk and shoved through the double doors at the end of the hall.

The main room was forty feet long, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking down on Commerce Street.

Nine people sat around a polished oak table running down the middle of the room.

Tiffany was at the head of the table in a cream blazer with silver buttons.

Chloe sat two chairs to her right with a silver compact, checking her reflection in the little mirror while three lawyers in dark suits squared up stacks of white paper.