Note: Massachusetts law has changed since this story was begun. However, I prefer to keep Boston Legal in its original time period, in which case this is still legally correct. Please note all facts listed are researched to the best of my ability; I do not like to "guess" how things work! None of this belongs to me—well, none of the characters, nor the show Boston Legal. The original characters are mine, as is the text, and the story concept. Please read and let me know what you think!

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"Alan, your lunch has arrived."

Alan Shore gave his assistant, Melissa Hughes, a questioning look. "What?" he asked.

"Your lunch is here," she said again, clearly annoyed. "I could have ordered for you if you'd told me."

But Alan ignored the tone, still bewildered. "I didn't order any lunch, Melissa," he said.

Melissa shrugged and looked at the piece of paper she was holding. "I'm sorry, Alan, but it says it right here: Alan Shore. One helping of heaped spaghetti with the flat noodles, and five meatballs—"

"One for each corner of the valley," Alan recited with her, standing up and heading quickly toward the door, and as he passed Melissa another voice joined in from the hallway, "and one for the top of the mountain!"

"Beppe!" cried Alan joyfully, and with a laugh he pulled a waiting small, older gentleman into an affectionate hug.

The visitor smiled warmly as Alan drew the man into his office. "Bambino! You think I would forget you favorite, eh?"

"Never, Beppe, never!" Alan smiled widely. "You didn't really bring me fettuccine, though, did you?" he asked, looking around for the meal. "I've got quite enough meat on my bones already…"

Beppe laughed. "Of course I did—with the five meatballs, and your favorite bread."

"There's always room for bread!" the two of them announced, laughing.

Melissa appeared in the doorway with a large picnic basket. "Alan, what's…?"

Still caught up in his delight, Alan looked at his assistant. "Melissa, if I have any lunch meetings today, please cancel them." He looked at the older man. "Beppe, you're staying?"

"If you wanna me to stay, of course!"

"I would be honored," Alan answered. "Is there enough for three?" he asked Beppe, who nodded. "Of course—there's probably enough for six. Melissa, please go find Denny and ask him to come here. Then find three table settings and spread them in the conference room." He looked at Beppe. "There's wine, isn't there." It was a statement; he knew there would be.

"Of course!"

"And three glasses," Alan added to Melissa.

Shaking her head, Melissa disappeared. "Beppe, what brings you here?" Alan asked, gesturing for the man to sit down. "Boylston Street is a long way from Dedham."

"This is true. But not so long to excuse that you no visit us, bambino," he scolded, taking a spot on the sofa.

Alan nodded. "You're right. And I'm sorry. I'm very busy with the practice of law, and other distractions. And Dedham, aside from occasional fine people like you and your lovely wife Teresa, doesn't hold very fond memories for me."

Beppe nodded regretfully. "Ah, you still remember, eh?"

"It's very hard to forget," Alan admitted.

Denny Crane, a founding partner of Crane, Poole and Schmidt, appeared in the doorway. "What's this about an old man and lunch?"

"Denny!" Alan stood up and brought him to the sofa. "Denny, I want you to meet a very dear old friend of mine, Beppe Marino."

The older man stood up and extended his hand. Denny nodded and shook it. "A pleasure," Denny said.

"I spent countless hours at Beppe's house when I was a boy, eating more than my fair share of his wife's tremendous cooking."

Beppe laughed as the men all sat down. "This one," he said to Denny, pointing at Alan, "he was always hunting around for one more meatball."

Alan laughed. "Beppe and Teresa's place was my second home," he said. With a knowing look, at the older man, he added, "Sometimes my first."

"You fit right in with the rest of the family, eh, bambino?" Beppe said, reaching to pat Alan's knee affectionately.

"I was always welcome with your horde," Alan agreed. "Unless I was looking to steal the last piece of hot bread."

"Then, you have to fight everyone else at the table!"

The pair laughed happily. Denny smiled, took in his friend's delight, and nodded. "So, you've brought some of that for us all to share?"

"Assolutamente," Beppe replied. "Alan's favorite childhood dish, and something new for you, bambino perduto," he said with a nod to Alan.

"What could that be?" Alan asked with interest.

"Capitone arrosto. You will love it, eh?"

Alan's eyes lit up at the delightful sounds of the language. He gave him a questioning look as he tried to translate. "Roast…?" He shook his head.

"Eel. Is beautiful."

Alan's smile turned forced, but game. "Eel?" he asked. "Really, Beppe?"

"Sure!" the little Italian said. "Is just pesce—fish, eh? You a big boy now—you can have the grown-up food, no?"

Alan laughed weakly and nodded, swallowing. "All right. But I must have my flat noodles and meatballs first."

Beppe laughed, then insisted that they eat. They headed down to the conference room and Beppe served the food while Alan poured the wine. Alan praised the cooking vigorously, and Beppe told Denny stories of Alan's many visits to his home. Eventually, Alan looked at his old friend and asked, "Beppe, what brings you here?"

Beppe raised his eyebrows. "Is not obvious?" he asked. "I bring you lunch!"

"I know," Alan answered, "and I am enjoying it immensely. But you didn't come from Dedham unannounced just to bring me fettuccine and wine and talk over old times." He put down his fork and looked the older man in the eye. "Beppe. What's going on?"

Beppe squirmed at Alan's directness. "Is… is nothing, bambino. I don't want to bother you with anything. Teresa and I, we've just been thinking about you, is all. She decided she miss cooking for you, eh?"

But Alan didn't buy it. "Beppe," he said again, his voice lower, even more serious, "what's going on."

"We… we have some trouble," Beppe said reluctantly.

"What kind of trouble?" Alan asked, glancing at Denny.

Beppe shrugged. "You know Teresa's had the ristorante for about a year now," he said.

"Yes," Alan said, prompting him on. "It's been very successful, you said."

"Well, has all been good, very nice. Good patroni, nice location. She even got a good review in the Boston Globe, so business, it's been bigger. People coming out from the city just to try her recipes. Very nice, eh?"

Alan nodded. "Very nice," he agreed. "But…?"

"But…" Beppe hesitated. Alan and Denny exchanged looks, then Alan turned his penetrating gaze on his friend. "But… well, a couple of months ago Teresa got an offer for the business."

"An offer?" Alan repeated.

"Someone wanted to buy the ristorante," the older man explained. "The money was good, very good. But Teresa, she no want to sell. We opened the ristorante to stay busy, to meet our friends, to be part of the community, eh?"

Alan nodded. "So you said no."

"So we say no," Beppe confirmed. He shrugged. "A couple of weeks later, the man, he come back, makes the offer again. This time he make it bigger. Teresa, she still say no. We have enough money, we want happiness, yes? So she say grazie, no grazie, and stay in business." He shrugged. "So we think."

"So you think?" Denny echoed.

Beppe nodded. "After that, things, they start getting funny. We have a broken window. We have a power cut. Someone breaks in and smashes some of the dishes. Last night, somebody painted graffiti on the side of the building."

"Someone isn't very happy about you being there," Alan observed. "Beppe, who made the offers to buy you and Teresa out?"

"His name is Fil Russo. He gave Teresa his business card. He said his boss was very, very interested in the building."

"Do you think the offers and the vandalism are connected?" Denny asked.

Beppe shrugged. "I don't know," he answered. "I just know that my Teresa, she's getting scared."

"Have you called the police?" Alan queried.

"Si, we tell them, but they say there are probably kids around, and we should get a burglar alarm to scare them away. We have to catch them."

Alan leaned forward, put his hand on top of Beppe's, and squeezed encouragingly. "I'm glad you came to me, Beppe," he said. "You know I'll do everything I can to help. Did Teresa keep the business card?"

"Si."

"Get that card to me, Beppe; I'll start looking into this right away."

"Ah, Alan, grazie. I told Teresa our bambino perduto could help." He clapped his hand on top of Alan's. "She will feel much better knowing you are taking care of this for us."

"I don't know what I can do, Beppe. For now I'm just looking. But tell Teresa I'll make it a top priority, okay?"

"Si. Si, bambino. Ah, you are a good boy."

Alan smiled fondly at the old man. "Only because of you," he said.

"No," Beppe answered, shaking his head; "you were already a good boy when we met you." He stood up. "I gotta go," he said. "I'm gonna leave you in peace, eh?"

Alan and Denny stood up. Beppe took Alan by the shoulders and reached up to kiss each of his cheeks. "Alan, you behave, eh?"

Alan smiled and nodded toward Denny. "Denny makes sure I do," he said.

"Don't blame me!" Denny protested. "I try to make him get a bit of fun out of life!"

Beppe laughed. "Good. This one, he needs to laugh more." Then he squeezed Alan's hands, said his goodbyes, and departed.

"I'm worried, Denny," Alan said after Beppe had gone. "Whatever's happening at Teresa's restaurant, it doesn't sound good."

"What do you think is happening?"

"I'm not sure. I'll have to wait to get the business card that Russo character gave Teresa." He shook his head. "But I don't like the sound of it."

"What's that he kept calling you—bambino prosciutto…?"

"Perduto," Alan corrected. "Bambino perduto."

"That's it," Denny confirmed. "What is that?"

"It means lost child," Alan answered. "Beppe and Teresa called me that when I was growing up."

Denny frowned. "What for?"

Alan looked at the table with the remnants of the lovely meal his friend had brought, worried about what might be happening to Beppe and Teresa now, and remembered his time at their table as a boy. "Because I always showed up on their doorstep when I had no place to go," he said, becoming thoughtful. "And they always took me in like a lost child come home."

His pensiveness was interrupted when the conference room door opened and name partner Shirley Schmidt came in. "This looks cozy," she said, nodding toward the spread on the table. "Did I miss the memo about Bring A Small Restaurant To Work Day?"

Alan smiled gently, amused. "Just a bit of a reunion with an old friend. There's plenty left over; would you care for some—"

"Is that capitone arrosto?" Shirley interrupted, coming closer to the table. "It looks wonderful!"

Alan smiled wanly. "You like… eel?" he asked.

"Love it. And since your offer was so generous, and I haven't had lunch yet, I'll be taking some back to my office with me later. But that's not why I came in here. Alan, I need you to meet the client in my office. She has a drug problem."

"No, thank you," Alan refused flatly, his distaste transparent.

"Not the kind of drug problem you'd think. We need your propensity to get judges to go outside the law here."

Alan raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "To help a drug addict."

"She's not an addict. I'll let her explain."

Alan paused to absorb the information, then nodded. "Much more interesting," he said. "Lead on."

Shirley turned to leave, knowing Alan would follow. "Denny, don't eat all the capitone; I'll be expecting some to be waiting for me after this meeting."

Denny shrugged and then nodded, shook his head with a smile when Alan looked back at the dish and shivered, then picked up his glass, and drank his wine.

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"Alan Shore, this is Patricia Harris," Shirley introduced as they walked back into her office.

The twenty-something lady was sitting on the sofa. Alan noticed the colorful scarf she wore on her head, completely covering her scalp, offered a professional smile and shook her hand, then sat in the chair across from her and crossed his legs as Shirley took her place beside her. "Patricia," he greeted.

"Alan is the one lawyer I think might be able to get you what you want here, Patricia," Shirley explained.

"That would be miraculous," Patricia said. "I came to Crane, Poole and Schmidt because of your reputation for… well… accomplishing impossible things."

"I like to call them dares," Alan told her. "What do you dare us to do, Patricia?"

"Mr. Shore, I have terminal brain cancer." Alan's head spun at the blunt admission of this young woman, but she didn't pause in her story to let him catch his breath. "I've done everything I can legally, but the truth is, my time is coming. Marijuana has been known to help people deal with the sickness that comes with chemotherapy. Not to mention possibly promoting the death of cancer cells in the brain." Alan nodded. "I want to use it. I don't think it will change the outcome, but it could help slow things down, to give me more time to put my affairs in order. To give me more time to say goodbye. The problem is, I can't buy marijuana in Massachusetts without getting arrested. And I don't want to waste the precious time I have left in the courts every time I get picked up."

"You realize that other states do have medical marijuana laws where you wouldn't have to go through this," Alan said.

"I know," Patricia said. "But I'm not delusional, Mr. Shore; I know my time on earth is limited." Again, Alan nodded gravely. "I want to stay in Massachusetts. And I want to grow marijuana in my home. I don't want to go to jail. I'm already in Hell; jail would be like a double punishment."

Alan uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. "I'll take care of it for you," he said.

Patricia looked from him to Shirley, and then back again. "Just like that?" she said. "You can do this just like that?"

"Well, it gets a little more complicated," Alan replied. "We'll need to go before the judge: I'll get you to testify, we'll ask for you to be excused from any penalties you may have already incurred, and then I'll explain why you need the marijuana and we'll be done with it."

Patricia smiled in disbelief. "And that's it? You can guarantee that?"

Alan placed a hand on Patricia's arm. "You'll get what you want. I promise you."

Patricia gripped Alan's hand gratefully. "Oh, Mr. Shore, you don't know what this means to me," she said. To Alan, her eyes seemed suspiciously bright. "I don't know what to say."

Alan smiled reassuringly. "Don't say anything. Just know that you're going to get what you need."

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"Alan, I appreciate you coming on board so enthusiastically with this case, but how can you promise Patricia Harris that you'll be successful?" Shirley asked as she followed Alan back into his office.

Alan just blinked at her. "Because I will be," he said simply. He sat down behind his desk.

"I brought you in because I have the greatest confidence in your abilities to do this—and I'm glad you share that—but to guarantee—"

"She'll get the marijuana she needs, Shirley," Alan replied firmly. Then he fixed her with a look that told her more than she wanted to know. "One way or the other."

"What does that mean, Alan?" Shirley asked gravely.

Alan's answer was direct, and equally serious. "Shirley, I will never lie to you, so don't ask that question unless you're absolutely certain you want the answer."

His eyes and Shirley's stayed locked for a moment, then she turned and walked out of his office.