Thus the first Monday of June brought the invasion of forty summer clerks, like Bob here, each trying to catch the eye of powerful partners, the partners in turn trying to divine if these budding legal eagles were the Ford Stevens type. Bob was. From the look on the face of the law student standing next to Missy, he was dreaming of having just such an office one day. Which meant he would bill two hundred hours a month for the next eight years without complaint or contempt, at which time the firm would show him the door-the odds of a new associate making partner at Ford Stevens being one in twenty. But the ambitious students still signed on because, as Scott himself told them, “You want odds, go to Vegas. You want a chance to get filthy rich by the time you’re forty, hire on with Ford Stevens.”

“Mr. Fenney?”

Scott pulled his eyes off Missy and turned to his frumpy middle-aged secretary standing in the door.

“Yes, Sue?”

“Four calls are holding-your wife, Stan Taylor, George Parker, and Tom Dibrell.”

Scott turned back to Missy and the student and shrugged.

“Duty calls.” He shook hands with the pale, homely, top-of-his-class student and slapped him on the shoulder. “Bob-”

“Rob.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Now, Rob, my Fourth of July bash, that’s mandatory attendance.”

“Yes, sir, I’ve already heard about it.”

To Missy: “You bringing some girls over this year?”

“Ten.”

“Ten?” Scott whistled. “Ten ex-Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders.” The firm paid each girl $500 to spend a few hours in bikinis acting interested in law students. “Bob-”

“Rob.”