Prologue
My name is Brett Rogers, and I’ve wanted to practice law since I was old enough to understand it. My mother and father were both lawyers, and their parents were all lawyers. Law is in my blood.

My parents made me watch Law & Order for hours, to embed in my head that I as well must be a lawyer. They are both Harvard grads, so I was getting an earful on Harvard being much better than Yale. I went to Harvard for undergrad, and was accepted to Harvard Law School. But I fell in love with Yale and decided to go there for law school. I haven’t talked to my parents or grandparents since without hearing about my decision.











1

I, Brett Rogers, have officially raised enough money. I am going to law school.

For three years, I’ve slaved away as a paralegal at a mega-firm in Boston. I make 80 grand a year.

The Law Offices of Brown, Pierce and Schultz (BPS as it was also known) had flatly refused to fund law school for me, a paralegal that has billed more hours than most of the lawyers. I’ve been forced to pinch my pennies and pay for myself.

I walk around the block, thinking of my bright future. If I can survive three years of law school, pass the bar exam and keep up with work at BPS, they’ve promised me a place in the litigation division of the firm.

I have a few jobs along with the one at BPS. I work at McMeaty’s, which is near Fenway. I also work as a librarian at the public library. Both jobs don’t require much attention, and I’ve given some major thought into quitting the job at McMeaty’s, a butchers’ shop that had been rumored to keep live pigs in it’s back room.

But I could never quit the job at the library. I love to read and often read and reread books at work, so often that at work I am known as the “firm bookworm”.

I stroll over to the office, eager to tell my employer. It’s a Sunday, but I know that many if not all of the lawyers will still be there. I have to tell everyone the good news.

When I arrived at the office, I realize that all of the attorneys are watching the Red Sox-Yankees game.

“Hello, Bernie!” exclaims an intoxicated Brad Gray.

Brad Gray is one of the partners at BPS. He has a dirty mouth and is an avid Celtics fan, but also watches the Sox, the Pats and the Bruins.

It is secretly believed around the office that Brad Gray had followed Paul Pierce home one night and begged for an autograph until the superstar reluctantly agreed. Other rumors occasionally swirl around the office about him, and I get the impression that Gray is not the person to go to sporting events with.

The room gets quiet except for the cheering fans on the television. Alex Rodriguez blasted a home run into the upper deck of Yankee Stadium. Gray sent expletives flying.

I leave to go find Roscoe Pierce, the main partner of the Boston location of BPS and one of the co-founders. He too has the game on.

“Knock, knock,” I whisper.

“What?” Pierce asks.

“Slow day?”

“Like cold molasses. What brings you here?”

“I finally got in.”

He looks up from his newspaper. “Lemme guess.”

“I’ll give you a hint: Ivy.”

“Columbia?”

“No!”

“Harvard?”

“Closer.”

“Dartmouth?”

“It rhymes with Fail.”

He appears to be shocked. “Really?”

“You bet. I gotta stay somewhat close to home.”

“Yeah, I hear ya. Listen, I got a meeting at five thirty, so I gotta run. How ‘bout lunch tomorrow? Marcela’s?”

“Sure thing.”

“Okay, see ya then.”

I walk out of Pierce’s office, and when I pass the coffee room, I hear Gray cursing up a storm.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Darn Yankees,” Gray replies. “Throwing at Varitek.”

I laugh.