I took a seat in an old church pew with a slot for hymnals underneath the bench. It was filled now with alumni journals from Columbia University Law School, which I leafed through idly. Presently, I heard footsteps and Clemson appeared.

"Miss Millhone? Jack Clemson. Nice to meet you. You'll have to pardon the reception. My secretary's out sick and the temp's still off at lunch. Come on back."

We shook hands and I followed him. He was maybe fifty-five and heavyset, one of those men who'd probably been considered portly since birth. He was short and squat, wide-shouldered and balding. His features were babified: sparse eyebrows and a soft, undefined nose with red dents along the bridge. A pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses were shoved up on his head, and strands of hair were standing straight up on end. His shirt collar was unbuttoned and his tie was loose. Apparently he hadn't had time to shave, and he scratched at his chin experimentally as if to gauge the morning's growth. His suit was tobacco brown, impeccably tailored, but wrinkled across the seat.

His office occupied the entire rear half of the building, and had French doors that opened out onto a sunny deck. Both of the dark green leather chairs intended for clients were piled high with legal briefs. Clemson scooped up an armload of books and files and set them on the floor, motioning for me to take a seat while he went around to the far side of the desk. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror hanging on the wall to his left, and his hand returned involuntarily to the stubble on his chin. He sat down and pulled a portable electric razor from his desk drawer. He flicked it on and began to slide it around his face with a practiced hand, mowing a clean path across his upper lip. The shaver buzzed like a distant airplane.