Chapter 1

The building stood tall and proud on Manhattan’s handsome West End Avenue. Though it was quiet and understated on the outside, between the old walls that kept the bricks and mortar standing, emotions ran high.

I shut my front door, turned the key, and walked toward the worn marble staircase. Grasping the wrought iron railing and starting down the stairs to the lobby, I heard rapid steps from above, getting louder as they drew near.

“Hey, Sammie, congrats again!” Jesse tossed over his shoulder, passing by in a rush of books and bags.

“What happened to you last night? We missed you,” I said.

“Explain later; I’m late.” His voice echoed as he reached the landing below.

I’d moved into the building two years ago, after a recommendation from my closest friend, Becca Lewis, who had enjoyed living there for a year. I was still trying to understand the appeal. It was decent but nothing exceptional.

My apartment shared the third floor with five other apartments. Although supposedly “refurbished,” the halls couldn’t mask what lay under the newly hung fleur-de-lis-patterned wallpaper. The crackled moldings and doors were painted a sickly mauve, adding to their unmistakable “past its prime” appearance. Apartment 3C was mine, as evidenced by “Ross” on the downstairs rows of mailboxes. It was as good as any in New York City for what I was paying in rent, with its single bedroom, tiny bathroom, and galley kitchen. It had decent natural light, and if I looked out my bedroom window and stretched as far as I could to the right, when the weather was clear, I could catch a glimpse of the Hudson River. So, if I were being charitable, I guess I could say that the advertisement for the apartment wasn’t completely bogus. I tried to make it cozy, continually adding decorative pillows and tassels to any vacant spot, but all it did was highlight the emptiness of another spot across the room. It was what it was: a prewar building unsuccessfully disguised as a renovated luxury rental. The one bright spot, literally, was the huge triple-wide window in the living room. So much sunlight streamed through that oversized window that until the sun went down, I hardly ever needed to turn on a light in the front of the apartment. That was a cheerful plus. Working for a prestigious Manhattan law firm had its perks.

On days like this, Harold would send a car for me, and today was no exception. The wind was howling as I walked past the doorman, and the snow fell in fat, wet flakes. He jumped to get the door for me, fighting against the wind while ensuring he maximized his holiday gift. Christmas 1985 would be here in two weeks, and he had already told me at least three times that he had four kids to feed at home, with one suffering from asthma.

I slid into the back seat of the black car, turning the heat vents toward me. “Morning,” I said, greeting the office driver.

“Morning, Ms. Ross. How are you this morning?”

“Cold!” I laughed, rubbing my gloved hands together. “Heard congrats are in order,” he said, looking in the rearview mirror.

“Thanks. I’ve got big heels to fill!”

“Are you kidding? You’re a star in the office.”

Promoted at thirty-two, I was the youngest female to make partner in the firm’s history. Indebted to Claire Simpson, who left to go in-house as general counsel of a Fortune 500, I knew I was a female quota filler, but I didn’t care. I’d take it any way I could get it, and I knew my recent multimillion-dollar verdict hadn’t hurt.

As I walked the cube-lined hall to my newly acquired windowed office in my Italian kid leather Manolo Blahnik’s (I had to look the part), I was greeted from left and right with “Morning, Ms. Ross,” replacing last week’s, “Hey, Sammie.”

Closing the door behind me, I leaned against it, hugging myself as I took in my new cushy surroundings. Midtown Manhattan stared back at me from my floor-to-ceiling windows. The mahogany credenza, running the length of the side wall, was bare but soon would be filled with pictures of my parents; my brother, Jamie; my sister, Billie; and of course, Dusty, my cream- colored, gray-eyed Ragdoll cat. You could tell we were family, but we each looked different. Billie had dark hair, Jamie had dirty blond hair, and I was a ginger with a mass of fiery red hair and freckles that thankfully missed my face except for a sprinkling across my cheeks and nose. We all shared green eyes but sported different shades. I had the lightest, almost sea-glass color, while Billie’s and Jamie’s eyes were closer to emerald. We were close- knit as far as siblings went, but we lived nowhere near one another. Jobs and school kept us separated, at least for the present time.

There was a knock on the door. Scurrying to take a seat behind my polished mahogany desk, I sang, “Come in!” Despite the nonstop internal smile that filled every inch of me at my new status, I tried to maintain a “business” face.

“Anything I can get or do for you?”

I looked up to see Lynn, my secretary, who had been with me for the last five years. She was in her early fifties, thin as a rail, with a pretty face and shiny brunette hair that she almost always wore tied back in colorful velvet ribbons. She was quiet around others but not with me, and her undying loyalty was priceless.

“Nah, I’m going to start sifting through all these boxes right now. I’ll let you know when I’m ready for your help. You all settled in?”

“Almost. Not much to set up. Computer, phone, and a green plant so that I can breathe. That’s all I need, and I’m ready to go!” She announced excitedly, her glasses sitting low on her nose, sliding down farther with every animated gesture.

“You’re a godsend.” I exhaled, hanging my overcoat on the wire hanger left behind my door. I made a mental note to bring in a wooden hanger.

Turning around, I was struck by the breathtaking panoramic view from the wall of windows. The room was filled with tall mahogany bookcases (matching the desk), grass-cloth walls, muted gray-blue carpeting, and my oversized masculine-looking desk with a navy leather executive chair. Although it reflected the pinnacle of professionalism, I felt like I was in someone else’s office. I needed to splash some color onto these plain-Jane (actually plain- Joe) four walls. I readily and happily accepted my newly appointed membership into the gray flannel suit club, but that didn’t mean I had to wear the uniform.

***

“How’s it going, partner?” Zane said, sticking his head through my doorway.

“Very funny,” I said.

“Whaaaaat?” he whined, stretching the single-syllable word into three. “You’re a legend around here. Partner at thirty-two, pretty impressive!”

“It’s 1985—it’s not that extraordinary! You made partner at thirty-three, so stop with the deferential BS. It doesn’t suit you,” I snapped.

“C’mon, Sam. You know your picture is hanging on the walls of every young, aspiring female associate in this office.”

“Get out of here. I’ve got work to do.”

“Oh, excuse me! Too busy for your old friends? The title already going to your head?”

He dodged the sticky pad I threw at him and disappeared down the hall, his laugh echoing off the narrow hallway to his office. Zane Green and I had had an on-and-off romance for the last two years, and it had been off for the last three weeks. He was crazy good-looking and couldn’t help but be cocky from all the professional and personal doors that had been open to him throughout his life. I didn’t fit his typical female prototype: tall, lean, and blond. To the contrary, I stood five feet three and a half inches (always included the half), was of average weight, and as I mentioned earlier, had red hair. I was an anomaly. Perhaps it was the chase, my independent nature, or the fact that we were competitors for the same trophy. I didn’t know, but try as we might, we couldn’t stay away from each other.

Lynn buzzed, “Mr. Taylor’s here for his ten o’clock appointment.”

“Okay, put him in the little conference room. Thanks.”

Grabbing my suit jacket from behind my chair and reaching for a legal pad, I checked my reflection in the glass window and left my office.

Mike Taylor was the CEO of CyPlay, a midsize tech company that developed and marketed state-of-the-art software, services, and hardware to individuals and businesses. He had heard about my recent verdict and wanted to talk to me about possibly representing his company in a case exhibiting similar facts. Rounding the corner, I eyed an attractive-looking man who looked to be in his early forties. He had a full head of salt-and-pepper hair styled to cover the tips of his ears and collar and was dressed impeccably. He was sitting at the conference table, looking through a file of papers and sipping from an Epstein & Littleton firm mug. As I stepped into the room, he immediately stood and held out his hand. His handshake was firm. I couldn’t stand a limp handshake. We briefly exchanged customary greetings. I sat, and he followed.

“So . . . Mr. Taylor, we spoke briefly on the phone, and I have a general idea of why you’re here. CyPlay’s largest client, Timewerks, walked from a multimillion-dollar contract claiming material breach, and you want to go after them for every penny. Is that correct?”

“First, please call me Michael, and yes, it’s our position that Timewerks was illicitly courted away by our largest competitor, Jenfem, and is now making bogus claims to try and get out of their contract scot-free. Until Jenfem entered the picture, we had a solid relationship with Timewerks—we even used them as a model for potential clients. They were high profile, and we treated them with kid gloves, investing a lot of time, money, and manpower to keep them happy. Their system and support were airtight, and their file is full of great reviews and commentary that backs that up. This is bullshit—excuse my French—and we want to go after Timewerks for the contract balance, totaling somewhere in the 4.5-million range, and Jenfem for tortious interference, corporate disparagement, and fraud, plus whatever legal penalties or fees you can come up with. Oh yeah—before I forget, I know you trounced Jenfem in the Technosonic case, which is a large part of why I picked your firm and, more specifically, you for this case. I want to rip these guys to shreds in open court, and I’m counting on you to make that happen.”

His jaw clenched as he laid out his version of the facts. Every plaintiff came to the table wanting to win, but Michael Taylor had an intensity about him that was different; he brimmed with emotion when he spoke, and I had a feeling his involvement in this matter would surpass that of a typical CEO. He made it clear that he wanted to be called “Michael, not Mike.” I made myself a note; I needed to be sure to remember that.

Within ninety minutes, the meeting was wrapping up. We had addressed most of the primary issues, and I had enough information to send my initial demand letter, which I usually did before hitting my adversary with a lawsuit. Although litigation was my bread and butter and my first love, I still believed it should have been a last resort. I liked to think of myself as a litigator with a conscience.

When I returned to my office, my hand was still stinging from Michael’s forceful goodbye handshake, which had pressed my ring painfully against the side of my middle finger, making it all I could do not to scream. I didn’t want to embarrass my new client or, worse yet, show what could be perceived as “female weakness”—especially when he was hiring me for my reputation as a pit bull.

As I rubbed the blue marks where the baguettes of my ring had dug in, I chastised myself for not fixing the ring. It caught on everything and had ruined several sweaters with pulls in visible spots. I hesitated to touch that ring. It was my mother’s, and I had worn it daily since she’d passed last June. I wanted to slip my finger into it without washing it—to feel her skin again. She’d loved that ring, and I remembered when she’d gotten it. My father had given it to her to “make up” for something he had done. Although I’d asked several times, I’d never gotten the real story. It had diamond baguettes all around, so perfect in color that their sparkle could light up a room. She’d picked it out herself and worn it like a crown.

Six months had passed since the day I’d walked into her house and saw her watching television with her back to me. When I called, “Ma? Ma? I’m here,” and got no answer, I walked around to the front of the couch and saw her face. I called 911 immediately. It took them eleven minutes to get there. She was gone that night. The world changed for me that night, and it would never be the same. I felt numb. I couldn’t cry. Not one tear would come out.

All my life, my mother had been my best friend. What I felt for her was so much more than the word “love” could describe. How could the same word be used for how one felt about a movie, a song, or a favorite celebrity and also be capable of fully describing what I felt for her? There was nothing she couldn’t do or didn’t know. What she lacked in “book learning,” she made up for in common sense—to me, a far more valuable asset and one that couldn’t be taught. Her face was classically beautiful and had a Roman statue–esque quality. In fact, she was often pegged as Italian, although both her parents were Ashkenazi Jews from Eastern Europe. She commanded attention without saying a word. Growing up, I was in awe of her.

I was the middle child and took after Dad’s side. My younger brother, Jamie (a midlife surprise to Mom and Dad), was in his last year of college when Mom passed away, and Billie, my older sister, was in England on a modeling shoot. We supported one another during the seven days of shiva, but once it was over, I was left alone to deal with the emotional fallout. Jamie had to return to school or risk losing his scholarship at U Penn, where he was completing his studies to become a veterinarian, and Billie could only handle stress for so long before she became overwhelmed and hard to be around. She was at her best when immersed in her own world—jetting around the globe, strutting down runways, and occasionally taking a happy pill to help her get through the day.

Dad had been gone for seven years when we lost Mom. Although he’d suffered from advanced diabetes, he still enjoyed his chocolate and often managed to sneak candy bars, which we found stuffed between the cushions of the car seat after every solo trip he took. He’d been only fifty-seven when he died. Mom was left to handle the family’s financial responsibilities. They owned a little local business—a stationery dry goods shop in Union, New Jersey, which Dad had manned seven days a week from 7:00 a.m. to 9:00 p.m. It was a sole proprietorship with no pension, and his life insurance wasn’t enough to cover us. Mom took over running the store, quickly learning the do’s and don’ts as she went along. We helped when and how we could, but she basically carried the load on her shoulders. It was that time of my life that set the goals for my future—I wasn’t going to let her blood, sweat, and tears be for nothing. I was going to make her proud.

Here I was, the youngest partner at a prestigious law firm on Park Avenue in New York, located just a few blocks north of Grand Central Station. I hoped she was looking down, beaming with pride for her daughter, the first in the family to graduate from college, sitting in a corner office, earning well over six figures, and still using the briefcase she’d bought me for my law school graduation.