Part 3: Lunch

"Next question. Take your time, and remember, you are still under oath."

"Go ahead, counselor. I'm ready."

"Why did you become a lawyer, Mr. Cohen?"

Sandy flashed a fond smile in Ryan's direction, before resuming a solemn expression. "I was a B," he said gravely.

"You were a . . . B?" Ryan echoed. With a dubious frown, he lifted his pencil from the legal pad where he was taking notes and tapped its eraser against his cheek. "Could you explain that, Mr. Cohen? I assume you don't mean a B as in, oh, 'I had to break up with her. The B cheated on me.'"

Sandy raised his impressive eyebrows until they disappeared under his hair. "Uh, no, Mr. Atwood. I was a multiple choice B," he declared obliquely. He merged into the exit lane of the highway, swallowing laughter when he glimpsed Ryan's mystified frown.

"A multiple choice B? Perhaps you didn't understand the question, Mr. Cohen. Would you like me to repeat it?" Ryan offered.

"Not at all," Sandy answered blithely. "You want to know why I became a lawyer. Well, when I was in fifth grade, my teacher went around the room asking all of us what we wanted to be when we grew up. I guess we weren't very imaginative kids. We really just came up with five choices, and they settled into a pretty regular pattern: A) a doctor, B), a lawyer, C) an athlete, D) a singer, E) a movie star. The girl who sat in front of me said she wanted to be a doctor, so of course, I had to say the next thing, which was—"

"A lawyer," Ryan concluded.

"Right. Answer B."

Grinning, Ryan doodled a giant B on his pad. "Yeah, but really, Sandy . . . I mean, Mr. Cohen," he amended, resuming the whole cross-examination act. "Why did you want to go into law?"

"Hmm." Sandy waited out a traffic light, pondering, before he responded. "A number of reasons, Ryan. My mom was a social worker—you know that. Well, that means she had a lot of contact with the legal system. She had to find laws that would benefit her clients and help them deal with the ones that threatened to tear their lives apart. You should have heard her then. She would get so frustrated." His mouth twisted ironically. "Okay, 'frustrated' isn't the right word. This is my mother we're talking about; she would get mad as hell."

"Yeah," Ryan smirked as he doodled comic strip symbols for profanity. "I can picture that . . . I mean, go on, Mr. Cohen."

Clearing his throat portentously, Sandy nodded. "Of course, Mr. Atwood. Well, hearing my mother talk about the legal problems her clients faced . . . it made me want to get involved, figure out how to make the system work better for people." His eyes danced, and he admitted, "Plus, of course, lawyers get to talk a lot. And I love to talk."

"You do? Really?" Ryan queried, completely deadpan.

Sandy furrowed his brows in mock-indignation.

"Sorry, Mr. Cohen. I withdraw the question. Please continue."

Sandy paused, his expression growing thoughtful. "Justice," he said finally. "I believe in the concept, impossible as it seems to be sometimes. And I wanted to do something with my life that revolved around truth and fair treatment." His shoulders lifted in a wry shrug. "Not that most people associate lawyers with truth and fair treatment."

"Most people don't know lawyers like you."

Ryan's words rang with fervent emphasis. He dipped his head sideways, embarrassed by the display of emotion, but Sandy smiled gratefully. "Thank you, kid. That means a lot to me . . . So, how about you? Why do you want to become an architect?"

"Hey!" Ryan protested. "I thought I was the one asking the questions here."

Laughing, Sandy reached over and ruffled Ryan's hair. "Indulge me," he urged. "Pretend court's in recess."

"This is completely out of order," Ryan grumbled, but then he grinned back. "Okay, let's see. I guess it's the whole idea of structure, of figuring out what people need and then building them something solid. Something that will last, you know?"

Sandy nodded sagely. "I think so. Any other reason?"

Leaning back against his seat, Ryan mulled the question. "I don't know how to explain it. It's just . . . everything has to fit together in a well-designed building," he mused slowly. "I like that, the way every piece supports every other one."

Sandy's quick glance was reflective and appraising. "Be nice if everything in life worked that way," he observed.

"Yeah, it would," Ryan agreed, smothering a tiny sigh. He rolled his pencil over his legal pad pensively. "Sandy, could I ask you another question?"

"Sure, kid. Anything."

Ryan averted his eyes. "I was wondering . . " he began uncertainly, but then he shook his head with sudden decision and concluded, "I was wondering, as long as court's in recess, any chance we'll be eating soon? I'm starved."

"Starved?" Sandy scoffed. He matched Ryan's casual tone, even as he frowned slightly, filing away his confusion at the abrupt change of subject. "How are you even hungry? You ate half a bag of double-stuff Oreos. But yeah, lunch is our next stop."

"The Oreos were a snack. Besides, Scott ate some of them," Ryan maintained. "You did too."

"Hey! I only had one!"

Sandy's protest was cut short by the percussive beat of "Born to Be Wild," thrumming inside his briefcase. Beside him, Ryan pushed down his sunglasses and peered quizzically over their rims.

"Ah, Easy Rider," Sandy explained, smiling nostalgically. "Great movie, Ryan. Two young men on a drug-fueled motorcycle odyssey across America. We'll rent it sometime . . . Or," he amended, "come to think of it, maybe we won't. Can you check that for me, kid?" He nodded toward his briefcase.

Ryan dug out the phone, flipping open the display. "It's Seth." One corner of his mouth lifted slyly. "Want me to answer it for you?"

"You think Seth will talk to you?"

"Nope," Ryan admitted impishly. "But he'll talk to you." He cocked his head, tapping the handset and Sandy wiggled his eyebrows in response.

"Go for it," he urged.

Ryan simultaneously deepened his voice and began scratching the phone lightly as he turned it on. "Seth Ezekiel," he snapped, "why are you calling from school? It better not be just so I can remind Ryan that you're not speaking to him." He switched on the speaker so Sandy could hear.

"What?" Seth squawked. "Would I . . . I mean, um, no Dad, of course I'm not."

"Well then, what?"

"I just . . . okay, see, I thought . . . I mean, I was wondering . . ."

"Seth!" Ryan barked, doing his best angry-Sandy impersonation. "Ryan and I are busy here. And aren't you supposed to be in Modern History right about now?"

"Yeah, only no, it just let out. I'm on my way to French, so I figured I'd just check in and see how. . . wait a minute. Since when do you know my schedule, Dad? Okay, no, you don't . . . unless . . ." Seth's voice trailed off suspiciously.

"Unless what?" Ryan prompted in his own voice.

Seth yelped. "Ryan?" he demanded.

"Kid Chino, at your service. Oh, and by the way, Seth, you put too many digits in that telephone number. But we'll talk about it later—I mean, since you're speaking to me again."

"I am not! I mean, yeah I am, but not on purpose! This . . . this is totally unfair, dude!" Seth sputtered. "I think it's even illegal. There's got to be some law against impersonating a father! It's . . . it's . . . it's entrapment, that's what it is."

"Yeah, it is, isn't it?" Ryan agreed airily. "Tell you what, Seth. If you decide to sue me, I can recommend a good lawyer. Oh wait, no I can't. He's on my side."

Seth's indignation reverberated through the car. "Dad knows you did this?"

"He had my blessing, son," Sandy called. "Not too shabby an impression either. Ryan really had you going, didn't he?"

"He did not! Or well, he did, but . . . okay, now this . . . you both . . . This is so, so wrong . . . and also not funny, by the way. And, and . . . and I'm telling Mom!" Seth warned. He babbled a few more incoherent threats, and then there was the unmistakable click of a phone slamming shut.

Ryan bent down to replace the phone in Sandy's briefcase. "Guess Seth had to get to class," he said, shaking his head in mock-sorrow. "Because just hanging up on us . . . that would be rude."

"Perfect timing, though," Sandy announced, chuckling, as he pulled into a parking lot. "Time for lunch, kid."

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Behind Sandy's back, Ryan surveyed their surroundings with obvious dismay. He heard the hostess murmur, "Your table is ready, Mr. Cohen. Right this way, please," but he couldn't quite bring himself to follow.

Sandy had already taken four steps before he realized that he was alone. He turned, his eyebrows forming a perplexed V, and beckoned. "Hey, kid? You coming?"

Reluctantly, Ryan nodded and trailed Sandy to a secluded table in the corner.

With a bob of her head and a polite, "Your server will be with you in just a moment," the hostess disappeared.

"Sandy," Ryan whispered as he sat down. "The country club? I thought we'd eat at, I don't know, In-n-Out or something. This . . . I guess I didn't think this place was your style."

"Ah, but at least you admit I have style, kid," Sandy teased. He waited for a laugh or deadpan retort, but Ryan just shrugged and rubbed an invisible spot on his salad fork.

Sensing his discomfort, Sandy scanned the restaurant. He allowed himself to really see everything: the lavish décor, the aloof appearance of the other patrons, the milky china and heavy silverware, all the blatant signs of exclusivity. Ryan's eyes were carefully hooded when Sandy turned back to him, but it was clear exactly what he was feeling: disappointment. Maybe even a degree of disillusionment. The kid from Chino, Sandy realized, thought he was spending his day with a crusading lawyer from the Bronx. Neither of them belonged in this pretentious, overpriced haven for Newport's elite.

Tapping the table to get Ryan's attention, Sandy smiled apologetically. "You know what, buddy? You're right," he admitted. "In-n-Out is more my speed. This place, on the other hand? I really only come here under duress."

Ryan flushed, chewing his lip. "Sorry, Sandy," he mumbled. "I shouldn't have criticized you. I mean, if you like to eat here, that's . . . well, it's cool. Besides, you'd think I'd be used to this place by now. It shouldn't bother me anymore."

"Why not?" Sandy asked mildly. "It still bothers me most of the time. Actually, to be honest? I'm glad it does. Keeps me grounded, you know?"

"Yeah?" Ryan's smile flickered and he relaxed, visibly relieved.

"Yeah," Sandy confirmed. "And by the way, kid, for the record? You're allowed to have opinions. And to express them."

Ryan took a deep breath. "So then . . . maybe we can have lunch somewhere else?" he suggested hopefully.

Sandy shook his head, sighing. "Sorry, Ryan," he replied. "You caught me on a bad day. I have to meet someone here at 1:15, and considering what traffic is like, I figured we better just eat here too." His face brightened and he gave a conciliatory grin. "But, hey, I'm pretty sure they serve burgers. Steakburgers, though, probably. Or maybe swordfish-burgers. You know, just so we don't confuse the place with Mickey D's."

"Yeah well, at least I'd be dressed right for Mickey D's." Ryan ran a hand through his hair self-consciously. "I guess I should be grateful they didn't make me wear a jacket and tie. Especially . . . one like that." Smirking, he indicated the palm-tree and surfboard-themed tie Sandy was wearing.

"What is wrong with this tie?" Sandy demanded, smoothing it protectively.

Ryan's eyes widened. "Nothing," he claimed. "If you don't count the fact that it's really ugly . . . That is one of those opinions I'm allowed to have, right?"

"I hate it when my words come back to bite me in the ass," Sandy laughed.

"Um, Sandy, don't say 'bite me'." Sandy raised his eyebrows and Ryan grinned playfully. "Hey, 'ass' would have been too obvious. But don't say that either."

Sandy was about to reply when his phone, now discreetly on vibrate, went off. "One minute," he mouthed, and checked the message, while Ryan kneaded the back of his neck, idly looking out the window at specks of sunlight glinting off the waves.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," a musical voice intoned as soon as Sandy replaced his phone. "I'm Beth, and I'll be your server today."

Ryan glanced around. Then he sucked in a sharp, silent breath, straightening his shoulders instinctively. The server—Beth—was beautiful, with thick mahogany hair tied into a high ponytail and limpid hazel eyes. To Ryan's gratified surprise, her gaze was focused on him rather than Sandy, and her expression was one of obvious interest, even invitation.

"May I tell you about our specials?"

Ryan inclined his head. "Sure," he drawled, gazing at her from under his lashes, his lips curved into a slow half-smile. "Tell me. What is special here today?" He walked his fingers over to the menu Beth was holding, letting his thumb rest a half-inch from hers.

Across the table, Sandy coughed and snapped open his own menu, his eyebrows wagging over the top.

"No, you know what? That's okay. We'll just order," Ryan amended hastily, pulling his hand back. "Thanks anyway."

"No problem," Beth assured him. "I'll give you a minute then." She shook out his napkin, and for a moment Ryan was afraid she'd place it on his lap. Instead she handed it to him and leaned closer, adding mischievously, "But if you want my recommendation, sport, I think you should get this." She whispered in Ryan's ear and then sauntered away, smiling at him over her shoulder.

Sandy waited until Beth disappeared. Then he closed his menu and set it flat on the table. "Ryan?" he asked meaningfully, his mouth clamped tight on a grin.

Ryan blinked. "I'm sorry. What?"

"I didn't quite catch what Beth said just now."

"Said?"

"To you? In your ear?"

Ryan's face flamed. "Oh, that? That was nothing," he sputtered, busying himself with his water glass. "She just . . . suggested the . . . the lobster bisque."

Sandy pursed his lips and nodded sardonically. "Right. The lobster bisque," he echoed. "You know, Ryan, this place is famous for its personal service, but I've never known it to be quite that personal before."

"She said lobster bisque," Ryan insisted.

"Ah yes," Sandy conceded. "But she said it to you, kid. And then there was the way that she said it." He sighed with dramatic self-pity. "Meanwhile, all Beth did for me was give me a menu. I even had to get my own napkin. Is there an evaluation card somewhere on the table? I think I'll want to write a few comments today. Or, wait, I have an idea. We could use one of your business cards, sport. That way you could leave Beth your number at the same time."

Ryan buried his face in his hands. "Sandy, stop. God," he groaned. "It's like having lunch with Seth. You two are so much alike sometimes."

"Hey!" Sandy protested, pointing at Ryan with mock-accusation. "That is a very low blow, kid, and completely uncalled-for. Besides, you were the one flirting shamelessly right in front of your father."

The last word echoed in sudden silence as Ryan looked up, stunned.

He had no idea how to respond.

"Well. That just . . . slipped out," Sandy admitted slowly, ruefully. For a moment, he paused, his steady gaze holding Ryan's, eyes warm with promise and conviction. Then he added, "I know it's not true literally, or even legally, but it's how I feel, Ryan. I'm not sorry I said it. Unless you are."

Ryan twisted his napkin under the table and shook his head, not sure that he trusted himself to speak.

"You know," Sandy mused, "what you said earlier to Scott, about how some things that you expect to be permanent just disappear? I want you to know something, Ryan. You've got an invisible Cohen tattoo now. And it's etched under your skin, kid, just like it's etched under ours. I guarantee, this one will last forever."

Ryan swallowed once, twice. "Good," he murmured hoarsely. "That's really . . . good to know. 'Cause I kind of like it. A lot."

Sandy's eyes glistened for a moment. Then he picked up his menu again and shook it open, deliberately lightening the mood. "And speaking of Cohens, that call I got was a text message from Seth. Apparently we are, and I quote, not clever or cute, and we should be very afraid because he is planning—wait for it—the revenge of the Seth."

"Oh well, yeah, now I'm terrified," Ryan declared, obviously grateful to be joking again. "You know, Sandy, I can't even remember why Seth's not speaking to me."

"Does it matter? Hey, kid, you won the lottery. Just enjoy. Don't worry if you can't recall buying the ticket. Ah!" Sandy lowered his voice confidentially and gestured to the side. "Beth is coming back. You're going to need extra ice water, right? Because I got the impression she does think you're cute. And vice versa."

"Sandy," Ryan hissed. He shifted back in his chair, affecting nonchalance until Beth approached the table and shook her head slightly. The movement set off a fireworks display of highlights in her hair, and in spite of himself Ryan felt his whole body respond.

Beth arched her brows and deliberately shook her head again. "Gentlemen. Are you ready to order?" she asked, aiming her smile at Ryan.

"Hmm." Sandy pretended to deliberate, just to enjoy Ryan's discomfiture. "I think I'll have, let's see, the chicken Marsala, a house salad, and an ice tea."

"And for you, sport?" Beth prompted, taking Sandy's menu without even glancing his way.

Ryan caught his lower lip in his teeth. He traced circles on the tablecloth and looked at Beth, considering.

"Ryan?" Sandy swirled his ice water significantly. "You have to order something that's actually on the menu. Now what was it you wanted? A hamburger, right?"

His ears burning, Ryan tore his eyes off Beth and glared at Sandy. "Actually, no," he announced defiantly. "I'll have the lobster bisque."

"Excellent choice. My personal favorite. But you know," Beth suggested, "I could bring you a hamburger with that. Sort of a surf and turf combination?"

"That would be great," Ryan agreed. "Medium rare? And something to drink. Anything really."

The tip of Beth's tongue appeared between her lips as she smiled, lowering her lashes. "I'll surprise you."

Sandy cleared his throat dramatically, eliciting a quick, sideways scowl from Ryan as he handed his menu back to Beth. She promptly dropped it beside his feet.

"God!" Ryan exclaimed, pushing back his chair. "I'm sorry. Let me get that for you."

"Thanks, sport, but I've got it," Beth drawled. She stooped, retrieved the menu and slowly stood up, trailing the fingers of one hand up Ryan's leg and across his lap.

Sandy watched Ryan's eyes grow large and dark and heard his sharp intake of breath as Beth turned to go. She strutted away, turning once to wink over her shoulder.

"So," Sandy concluded with dry emphasis. "I'm guessing you'll want to leave a big tip. Right, sport"

Ryan exhaled and took a long drink of water. "Oh. Yeah," he breathed.

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"I thought you said you had a meeting here, Sandy." Confused, Ryan caught the polo shirt Sandy tossed to him and exchanged it for the sweater he was wearing.

"I do," Sandy replied. "A little golf practice, a little business conversation, and there you have it—a meeting at the club. By the way, kid, try not to stretch out the shoulders on that shirt, okay? I'd like to be able to wear it again."

Ryan grinned. "If you told me we were coming here, I would have brought a shirt of my own."

"Didn't want to scare you away, sport."

"Um, yeah, Sandy? About that 'sport' business? Could you maybe not share that with Seth and Kirsten?"

Furrowing his massive brows, Sandy pretended to give the question serious thought. "I don't know. 'Sport.' It just suits you somehow."

"Come on," Ryan urged. "After all, I swore not to say anything about girly-names, Sandy." He stressed the last word with a teasing lisp and then ducked behind the locker door when Sandy pointed a golf club at him. "Okay, sorry! I'm done."

"You'd better be," Sandy warned, laughing. "Let's go. I wouldn't mind getting in a few minutes of practice before the business part of this meeting begins."

"Right behind you," Ryan promised.

Picking up his briefcase, he stowed it carefully in Sandy's locker. When he had first carried it out of the house, it had made him feel like an imposter, but now Ryan liked having it in his hand. There was something reassuring about the briefcase, its solid weight, the way it balanced in his grasp, the worn grip of the handle, already comfortably indented by Sandy's fingers. The Cohens had bought him so many things, but as wonderful as those gifts had been, this, Ryan thought . . . this was special. Furtively, he ran his fingers over the leather a quick caress before he closed the locker door and ran to catch up with Sandy.

Just outside the locker room, discreet arrows directed people to the club's various venues. Ryan turned confidently toward the driving range, only to feel a golf club tap him on the shoulder.

"Kid? Afraid not. This way."

"Aw, Sandy," Ryan groaned, grimacing. "The putting green? Really?"

"Glenn Humphrey—my 1:15 appointment—says he needs to work on his short game," Sandy explained. "He wants to practice while we talk."

"Well, how about this?" Ryan suggested. "I'll go to the driving range, you go to the putting green, and we'll meet back here when you're done?"

Pointing his golf club at the sky, Sandy grinned and shook his head. "Oh, I don't think so. See the sun up there? Well, you know, when the sun is shining, I have a . . ."

"Shadow," Ryan sighed. "Right. And that would be me." He trailed Sandy reluctantly, running his fingertips over the fence posts that lined the walk, and loitering at the entrance to the putting green with the same expression of dread that he would wear waiting to see Dr. Kim.

With a sympathetic chuckle, Sandy patted Ryan's shoulder and nudged him forward. "You know, your short game could use some work too, kid," he pointed out.

"I don't have a short game," Ryan countered, hoisting his putter like a baseball bat. "And that's exactly the way I like it."

Sandy checked his watch. Since they still had ten minutes, and there was no sign yet of Glenn Humphrey, he sank a couple putts, lining up his shots carefully and nodding with satisfaction at his own success. Then he turned to Ryan.

"Your turn," he offered. "Remember now, just coax the ball. You don't need to go for power, just for finesse."

Ryan rolled his eyes, but he took a deep breath, centered his golf ball, and tapped it with what he hoped was gentle precision. The ball promptly overshot the hole and bounced back off the protective embankment. Cringing, Ryan covered his eyes with his hand. "I told you," he muttered. "I don't have the touch."

"Hmm," Sandy mused, watching the golf ball ricochet wildly. "Maybe I should see if Beth gives putting lessons. I'm guessing she might be able to demonstrate the touch. Sport."

"Sandy . . ." Ryan growled, glaring from between his fingers.

Sandy twirled his putter smugly. "Right, I forgot," he said. "No nicknames for you, no girly names for me. My bad."

"Yeah, and maybe no expressions like 'my bad' either?" Ryan suggested when an authoritative voice interrupted.

"Sanford! Right on time. Excellent."

Startled, Ryan wheeled around. "God, for a minute it sounded like Caleb," he whispered. "I didn't realize anybody else ever called you Sanford."

"I should have warned you," Sandy murmured back as he waved a greeting. "Glenn Humphrey is pretty much a Caleb clone--without the charm. Why don't you--?" He indicated the benches behind them and Ryan retreated, nodding.

"Right," he agreed. "I'll wait for you there." He sat down, idly swinging his putter back and forth between his feet, and watching as Glenn Humphrey strode over. The man even looked like Caleb, tall and sharply drawn.

"So, Sanford," Glenn said crisply, "I'm really don't understand why we need to have this conversation. Ted Collier tells me that he already explained Miriam Zifcheck's dismissal to you. But you insisted, so here I am."

Pushing his tangled hair off his forehead, Sandy regarded the other man with mild disdain. "Nice to see you too, Glenn."

"I'm trying not to waste our time," Glenn retorted. Impatiently, he polished his putter with a chamois. "Our stock fell last quarter, so Ted's division had to downsize. Unfortunately, that meant we had to let Miriam go. End of story."

"Really? It's pretty coincidental, don't you think?" Sandy demanded. "Miriam discovers that your company is, shall we say, misinterpreting EPA regulations. She brings the situation to your attention, just in case you somehow weren't aware of it. And within three months, Miriam loses her job--a job she's held for nearly thirty years. Hell of a way to treat a loyal employee, Glenn."

"Longevity and loyalty are not the same, Sanford. You can't expect us to reward betrayal. Besides, I told you—Miriam's dismissal was an economic decision, nothing else."

"Look, Glenn, Miriam didn't betray you," Sandy argued. "She didn't take her findings to the EPA. She came to you instead."

"And thanks to her, the company had to pay $15 million dollars out of pocket to take care of those . . . irregularities. Are you speaking to me as Miriam's lawyer, Sanford? Because I assure you, she has no grounds for a suit."

Ryan's eyes narrowed at the bite in Glenn Humphrey's voice, and he leaned forward slightly.

"I'm here as Miriam's friend, Glenn," Sandy replied coolly. "She's a single mother with four kids, and she's less than five years away from retirement. Just let her work out those years—or hell, give them to her."

For a moment, Glenn ignored Sandy entirely while he lined up a putt and adjusted his stance. After he sank the ball he turned around, his face creased with derision. "Give her the years? I run a business, not a charity," he retorted. "You know, Sanford, you're well past the age for youthful rebellion and righteous crusades. Don't you think it's time you got your head out of your ass and realized how the world works?"

Immediately, instinctively, Ryan was on his feet, one hand clenched tight around his golf club, the other tapping ominously against his own thigh. "Hey!" His voice contained a barely muted warning. "Who do you think you are, talking to Sandy that way?"

Glenn pivoted in irritated surprise. "What the hell?" he snapped. "I suggest you stay out of things that aren't your business, boy."

Ryan's jaw tensed and he took a step forward.

"I've got it, Ryan," Sandy murmured. He rested a hand on Ryan's arm, not holding him, just letting the slight pressure serve as a reminder. "You see, Glenn," he said evenly, "you've got it wrong. I know exactly how the world works. You only know how you want it to work. And your way doesn't work for other people. That's the whole point."

Glenn's eyes flickered from Sandy to Ryan and back again. "You wanted a meeting with me, you got it, Sanford. I think we're done here."

"I suppose we are. Let's go, Ryan," Sandy said. As they turned to go, he paused, noting with quiet venom, "By the way, Glenn, during this conversation I was Miriam's friend. The next time we speak, I will be her lawyer. Count on it."

Ryan was used to Sandy's open countenance, his familiar compassion and good humor. Rarely had he seen the man's face set in such angry lines. With a small frisson of charged admiration, he realized just how formidable Sanford Cohen, Attorney-at-Law could really be.

"What was that all about?" Ryan asked quietly as they walked away. "I mean, if you can tell me."

"You pretty much heard it all," Sandy answered. "Miriam Zifcheck discovered Humphrey Pharmaceuticals playing fast and loose with government regulations. She wrote a memo pointing out the problem and detailing how they could correct it. And what a surprise--three months later, they fired her. I thought I'd give Glenn Humphrey a chance to make it right. Should have known better."

"So what happens now?"

"Well, if we have to, we'll sue to get Miriam's job back. It's not going to be easy—Humphrey is a master at covering his tracks. But right now, Ryan? Driving range," Sandy declared tersely. "I really need to hit something hard."

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Thirty minutes later, refreshed by the cathartic exercise, Sandy and Ryan strolled through the parking lot. They were just approaching the car when Sandy's phone rang. Simultaneously, Ryan clapped a hand on his wrist exclaiming, "Damn! Sandy, I must have left my watch in the locker room."

"Okay, I'll take this call. You get your watch and meet me back here." Sandy lifted his eyebrows, adding with a grin, "But kid, no stopping along the way to flirt with Beth. You can do that on your own time."

Ryan laughed and trotted back to the club. Four minutes later he reappeared.

"Somebody had already turned it in to Lost and Found," he announced breathlessly, as he slid into the car. He fastened his seatbelt and strapped on his watch. "So, what's our next stop? The law library, right?" He glanced up, and his happy anticipation vanished instantly. Sandy's shoulders were slumped and his head was bowed over the steering wheel. "What is it, Sandy? What's wrong?"

At the sound of Ryan's voice, insistent and thin with anxiety, Sandy raised his head. He sketched a reassuring smile, but it never left his lips, and his tone was leaden. "Listen, kid, about this project . . . It's been great having you shadow me today, but why don't I drop you back at school now? You've got enough material, right?"

Baffled, Ryan shook his head. "I don't understand. Are you angry with me? I know I shouldn't have said anything to Mr. Humphrey--"

"No! Of course I'm not upset with you." Sandy swiveled to face Ryan, his eyes dark with something that looked like apology. "It's just . . . Look, kid, I was supposed to have a meeting with this one client today. I managed to reschedule it, but I just found out the man's hearing has been moved up."

"So . . . what does that mean exactly? You have to go to court this afternoon?"

Sandy swiped a hand over his face. "No," he answered flatly. "But I've got to meet with my client after all. At the prison in Chino."

"Oh."

Every bit of expression drained from Ryan's face and voice. His fingers twisted around the strap of his seatbelt, and his chest rose and fell spasmodically with strangled breaths.

"I know the memories that place will stir up, and you don't have to go through that, kid," Sandy said gently. "I'm sorry. We'll just call it a day, all right?"

Ryan's mouth crimped, forming nearly inaudible words, and Sandy leaned closer to hear him. "I can do this," he muttered. But his eyes had gone opaque, his body uncannily still, and there was a thin film of sweat on his skin.

"Are you sure?" Sandy prompted anxiously.

Ryan gave a tense nod. "I'm sure," he insisted, a single muscle throbbing in his set jaw. "Hell, it's not like I've forgotten Trey anyway. It's not even like I want to. I'll go with you, Sandy."

TBC