“It’d kill them,” she says, honking loudly into a dry tis sue, “unless I decide to have it. But even then Mother and Daddy would never feel the same about me.”

Her parents, if I remember right, are hard-core Baptists.

I stare at the picture of them on their fortieth wedding anniversary and see guilt being uncorked by the gallon as they toast each other with glasses of presumably fake champagne.

“If you need to talk,” I say, hoping to leave the subject, “call me at home. I don’t have an office yet.” I want to help, but I don’t know what to say.

Taking my cue, Amy murmurs,”

“Poor Gideon. You’ve got your own problems.”

I nod, hoping to make her feel better, but I’d take mine any day I stick to my script.

“What is Jill running for?”

Despite her tears, Amy manages a characteristic smirk.

“If you repeat this, I’ll burn your house down, okay?”

I crook my right elbow at ninety degrees on her desk and hold my palm flat and stiff in imitation of a witness who takes his television lawyer shows seriously.

“I swear.”

Amy leans across her desk, and though I have closed the door, whispers, “The gossip I hear is that she is gearing up to run for attorney general in two years. Personally, I think she wants to be the first woman elected governor in the state.”

I lean back, feeling consternation at the never-ending political ambition of lawyers. Why do we feel we are called to positions of leadership merely because some of us become highly skilled at rationalizing decisions and actions of others?

My question was sarcastic, intended to probe for a less obvious motive.

“Isn’t her children’s crusade enough? I mean, my God, how many retarded people vote? Am I missing something?”

“Gideon,” Amy says, her round blue eyes serious, “she’s totally sincere about all of this. Have you heard one of her speeches?” When I shake my head, Amy’s voice rises as she folds her hands in front of her and begins to imitate her boss.