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threw a last splash of cold water over her eyes, blinked hard and patted them dry with a paper towel. She’d kept Mr. Jackman waiting long enough, too long really. Staring at herself in the mirror for one last second, she willed a tiny spark of life into her tired eyes, squared her shoulders, lifted her chin. “Okay, girl,” she whispered firmly to herself. “No whining.”
    Â 
    Sixty-three-year-old Clarence Jackman was a power player. The company he’d founded with Aaron Rand thirty years ago was the most successful majority-black law firm west of Chicago. Though Rand & Jackman represented perhaps fifteen percent of the Bay Area’s minority-owned businesses, the rest of their receivables came from a mix of premier entities without any reference to ethnicity. The firm’s client roster included banks, hotels, construction firms, HMOs, several Silicon Valley companies, dozens of sports and entertainment celebrities, and hundreds of other lower-profile but high-income individuals and corporations.
    Imposing nearly to the point of intimidation, Jackman had been a star fullback at USC in the sixties. He carried nearly 250 pounds of muscle on his six-foot-three-inch frame. He favored Italian suits, double-breasted in browns and greens, white shirts, conservative ties. Intensely black-hued, with an oversized head capped now in tightly trimmed gray knots, just two months ago he’d had a middle-aged applicant for the firm’s CFO position walk out of the job interview before a word had beenspoken while Jackman looked him over to see if he could take it.
    Understandably, Jackman had not risen to his current eminence by having a soft heart. The law business was competitive enough if you weren’t black. If you were, it could be startlingly brutal. Rand & Jackman had known this at the start. They’d felt that they had had to build their firm on the assumption that if things ever went wrong with a client or a case, they would never under any circumstances get the benefit of the doubt. They could afford no mistakes. They had to be the best. Not just the best black—the best, period.
    And so, perhaps ironically, the firm was much more a meritocracy than most of its competitors. The younger associates worked endless hours like—well—slaves, so that they could become partners and keep working even harder. Mental or physical weakness, excuses, moral lapses, failure—all were grounds for termination.
    Jackman, unhampered by any laws mandating sensitivity to race issues, ran what he thought was a good, old-fashioned firm. When he and Aaron had first started out, they’d set the tone immediately, getting rid of deadwood on sight. And soon enough the word got out and the stars came calling from the good law schools and from other firms—the diligent, the brilliant, the ambitious. Workers all. Here his attorneys could accomplish great things, could kick some real ass and make real money without anyone wondering whether they’d been hired to meet some quota or kept on because they couldn’t be fired.
    Now, saddened on many levels by the murder of one of his true stars, Elaine Wager, Clarence Jackman was going to have to deliver one of the tough messages to one of the good people. He had seated himself behind his desk—always an effective tool for reinforcing emotional distance—and was shuffling papers as the door opened. He kept at it for a few more seconds, then looked up. “Ah, Ms. Ghent. Thanks for coming up.”
    â€œYou’re welcome.” She was standing in a classicmilitary at-ease position by the Empire chair that he’d placed in front of his desk.
    â€œPlease. Have a seat.”
    Nodding briskly, all business, she thanked him and took the chair, sitting ramrod straight and managing to do it without appearing stiff or nervous. She looked at him expectantly, then surprised him by speaking up first. “What can I do for you,