EIGHTEEN
Oliver entered his office on the twenty-fifth floor of the Macon Wesley building on a crisp Wednesday morning on the day before Thanksgiving. He stood next to window to watch the city below in order to gather his thoughts. His heart raced, his brow sweated, and his stomach twisted in knots. What is happening to me? Oliver thought to himself. He began to calculate the number of individuals he had represented who had committed heinous crimes, and about whom he had no qualms of defending. What is wrong this time?
A nervous tapping at the door brought Oliver to the objective reality of the situation.
“Caffeine will always refresh your spirits after a hard day at court,” cheerfully expressed Richard Robinson, the young associate Oliver treasured among the entire staff at the la
