20

Friday, June 15, 1990

"How much longer do you think this is gonna take?" Ben Parker asked, his brow furrowed in a way that I'd long since learned to read on others as 'fraying patience'. "It's been almost two hours."

At the head of the conference room, the court stenographer sniffed and turned a page in her magazine. It was her fourth so far, and judging by the stack I saw peeking out of her bag, she had plenty more to last the rest of the day. She absolutely knew what she was getting into, better than either Ben or I had.

"It's going to be another two at most," I murmured, eyeing the position of the Sun from the conference room window. "Whether we even get to the deposition or not, though, it's over before sundown."

To be honest though, I should have expected this to happen at some point in the case. Osborn was more than willing to play games with the legal process itself — we still hadn't gotten the medical records from Harry Osborn's ER visit, despite the subpoena we served earlier in the week. So of course he'd be all too willing to pull the same schmutz with everything else.

Case in point: we were scheduled for an early afternoon deposition on a Friday. We even agreed to have it be held in an Oscorp conference room, because much as I disliked the man, I couldn't deny that Osborn was incredibly busy, with many demands on his time. But that early afternoon depo was now a late afternoon depo, if it ever began.

And since it was a Friday, we were pulling dangerously close to the Sabbath.

Now, a brief primer for those who don't know. Jews are not supposed to work during the Sabbath, and there are a lot of things that constitute "doing work". Turning on lights, starting a stove or oven, picking up the phone? All of them were on the list of 'things you don't do during the Sabbath'. If it could reasonably be construed as being part of somebody's job, you didn't do it. If it was something that produced profit, you didn't do it.

Now, obviously "I refuse to do any work past sundown on Friday and until sundown on Saturday" wasn't really compatible with Big Law, especially since it was a known period of time where the opposition could just… do whatever they felt like. And you couldn't respond, because it was the Sabbath.

I'm a rabbi's daughter. The Sabbath is sacrosanct, and it had been since I was young. But it was somewhat untenable to maintain that level of adherence, especially when it was something somebody could take advantage of.

So I compromised.

If the sun set after 6pm, I observed the Sabbath properly. If the sun set before 6pm, I finished out my work, then observed the Sabbath. And for over a decade, barring the few times I had to travel for a case, this balance had worked.

But it was now 5:30pm on a Friday, the sun was due to set in just under two hours, and Norman Osborn still wasn't—

Wait. Footsteps, coming down the hall, multiple sets. I sat up in my seat and composed myself, and both Ben Parker and the court stenographer sat up in their own chairs. The footsteps reached the conference room, and didn't slow down for even a second as the door opened and in walked Norman and his entire entourage of attorneys.

"Apologies for the delay," Jason Babbage said as he pulled out the chair for Norman, then sat down himself. "Unfortunately, it was a bit of a last-minute, all-hands-on-deck moment, or I would have come down and given word. Asked if you wanted to reschedule, just in case."

"So I see," I said, doing what I could to hide my annoyance, but almost certainly failing. My tail twitched, and I was again quite thankful that the one part of me they couldn't see was the one that most showcased my moods. "If it's all the same to you, I would very much like to get things rolling."

"Of course," Babbage said, pulling out a notepad, and we both turned the floor over to the court stenographer. She finalized the setup of her equipment (which only took another two minutes), readied the documents she needed for her script, and administered the oath.

And so, for the next little bit, Norman Osborn was bound, under penalty of perjury, to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help him God.

But something told me that wasn't going to stop him from lying through his teeth, I thought as both Babbage and I gave our names for the record.

"Please state your full name for the record," I began, hoping to get the rigamarole out of the way as soon as possible.

"Norman Virgil Osborn," Norman said, his face more stoic than I'd ever seen it.

"Thank you," I said, and brought to mind the boilerplate that I'd grown so used to during the past decade. "Mr. Osborn, I am Noa Schaefer, an attorney representing the defendant, Benjamin Parker. This is a deposition, in which I will ask you questions and you must answer them truthfully unless your attorney tells you clearly and directly not to answer. Although no judge is present, this is a formal legal proceeding just like testifying in court, and you are under the same legal obligation to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. If you do not understand any of my questions, feel free to say so, and I will rephrase it. Before the deposition can be used in court, you will have the opportunity to read over it and correct any mistakes. Do you understand this?"

"It's not my first rodeo, Ms. Schaefer," Norman said, a bit of a sleazy smile on his face, his voice low. "I should hope I understand by now."

I looked at the court stenographer, who gave me a nod.

"Very well," I said. "Mr. Osborn, given that you no longer have an eyepatch on, may I assume your attorney brought the records from your post-operative follow-up for us?"

"I have," Babbage said, pulling three documents out of his briefcase. "Reporter, please mark this copy of Mr. Osborn's post-op follow-up as plaintiff's exhibit number thirty-two."

"I've marked it," she said, utter disinterest in her voice.

"Thank you," Babbage added. "Let the record reflect that I am providing a copy to opposing counsel," he said, sliding the document across the table. I didn't have the time to thumb through it at the moment, so I just slid it into my briefcase to review later.

"With that out of the way, let us begin," I said, hoping I could get through the procedural bullshit in a decently expedient fashion, and actually have some time to get at least part of an actual deposition done before the sunset.

"Mr. Osborn, if you could please state all of the following for me: your current address, your date and place of birth, any other addresses you have lived at within the past ten years, and your social security number."

"Objection," Mr. Babbage said, to which I raised an eyebrow.

But despite that objection, Norman Osborn began to rattle off the information I asked for, in a practiced tone that told me he'd done this before.

And, to be clear: he absolutely fucking had.

See, in some ways, depositions are exactly like testifying in open court. You are placed under oath, meaning that everything you say is under penalty of perjury, but as per usual, perjury is quite hard to prove, particularly in regards to opinion testimony. A lawyer asks you questions, and you have to answer them. If you try to get evasive, the lawyer gets to put you to the screws for as long as they have you. A court reporter transcribes the entire thing, and produces a transcript at the end of the day with everything said — and no matter what you do, do not try to trip up the court reporter by talking too fast. It doesn't work. It literally never works. We all bring dictaphones, and if somebody starts playing that game, we turn them on to record everything.

And, just like in open testimony, opposing counsel is allowed to object to questions.

"Mr. Osborn, as you are the representative of a corporation, I have to ask a few questions about your corporate structure. To begin with, please state the full name of the corporation."

"Objection," Babbage said, for the third time during this opening background segment. I turned to give him the stink-eye, but not much more, and Norman began to answer.

Now, while depositions are quite similar to testimony in open court, there are several key ways that they are very much not. The two biggest ones that come to mind, at least to me, are the ways objections are handled, and the way questions can work.

Firstly: objections. Objections, in depositions, are generally limited to just stating that you have an objection to the question. This is to preserve the objection at actual trial – if you don't object to something that came up at deposition, and you had the grounds to object at the time? Tough potatoes, you don't get to anymore. You had your one opportunity to do so, and you didn't. This whole "you only get one bite at the apple" thing is incredibly common in law, and it's something we're all aware of.

There are two kinds of objections that you get to make during a deposition and explain beyond simply stating that you have an objection, though. The first one is a work-product objection – work-product is one of a few major exceptions to discovery. The second is abuse of discovery to harass a deponent or opposing party. Have I been on either end of this second one before? Yes. Will I share any of the specifics? No. Will I at least say which end of proceedings I was on? Also no. I am a professional, thank you very much.

And the second major difference?

The questions.

During a deposition, you were able to ask open-ended questions of the opposing party. But unlike during a cross-examination, you were encouraged to do so. Depositions are a testimonial process, yes, but they are also exploratory. You are sitting somebody down and taking the screws to them, putting them in a position where they really have no choice but to answer your question, and any attempts to resist meant that you were throwing yourself under the legal bus. To try and sum this up, short and sweet?

Cross-examination went with a simple yes-or-no structure.

Depositions, on the other hand? They wanted the who, what, when, where, why, and how.

"Very well," I said, almost an hour later, and with the shadows cast by the sun starting to extend dangerously long. "Mr. Osborn, I would like to ask about the events of Friday, February 9th, 1990." In front of me, I had the affidavit submitted to the court by Norman's cadre of lawyers. Unstapled, of course, so I could more easily flip through the pages. "Would you please state for me your account of the events that evening?"

"Objection," Babbage said. Again. Which drew a smirk from Osborn. Even so, the man leaned forward, clasped his hands, and began to speak.

"Well, it was a relatively light day at the office, so I had my evening free. And while wondering what to do with that evening, I remembered that my son, Harry, had recently joined the debate team. A debate team that was having a major competition with another school that same night. He'd been on that team for most of a year by this point, and I still hadn't seen him in action. But I subscribe to the school newsletter, you see, since, well." Norman shrugged his shoulder. "Harry's a teenager. He wouldn't tell me anything otherwise. That's how I knew about the debate tournament.

"So I figured I would go watch. Be a good dad."

It was subtle, unless you were specifically looking for it. Norman's posture shifted in a way that I still find hard to qualify, exactly. His forward lean wasn't one of interest or attentiveness anymore. Well, not interest, anyway, he was certainly showcasing his attention. The problem is that this attention wasn't the kind you wanted. It felt eager, anxious. Predatory, if I had to put a word to it.

His lips peeled back from his teeth in a way I'd only ever seen large, predatory animals do, baring the length of his canines in a grin that I could only call 'feral'. And his eyes. Oh, God, his eyes.

It was like looking into twin pools of black ice. Utterly dead. No emotion, no thought, nothing. I'd met psychopaths with more expressive eyes than Norman Osborn's. Hell, I'd represented them in court. And while they certainly made my skin crawl, none of them had as bad of an effect on me as the Green Goblin did.

I had to remember to take in a breath, and it was a slow, strained thing that I'm amazed didn't rattle. My fingers clenched tightly around the pen in my hand, almost to the point of being white-knuckled. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ben Parker reel back in his seat, and across the table, Norman's cadre of lawyers all flinched. The men in suits weren't even looking at Norman, and even they could tell that in this moment, something was fundamentally different about the man.

Something other.

"What a fucking disappointment."

The words practically slithered out of his lips, accompanied by something that I would have called a chuckle if it weren't so… I don't even know the right word to call it, actually.

"There he was, my only son. My own flesh and blood, up there on stage. Tripping over his every word. Barely able to string a sentence together. Oh, what a damn shame it was, to have to sit there. And after I went to the trouble to be in the front row, no less."

Norman Osborn sighed. Or at least, I think it was a sigh. It was a rattling sound, more akin to a big cat scenting his prey than any kind of sigh I'd ever heard before.

"After Harry was done, I made my way out of the auditorium and around to the backstage area, and waited for everything to finish up. Once the debate team finished packing up back there and came out, I grabbed Harry for a little father-son discussion, as it were." Norman did that chuckle again. "Ah, the benefit of hindsight. It would have saved me quite a bit of time, money, and pain if I'd just waited until we were home.

"I pulled us into the locker room," Norman said. And again, his posture shifted. He sat up, put his shoulders back, raised his chin. His eyes became expressive again, his lips relaxed. Everything about him seemed to just diminish before our eyes. "And we started to have a talk. I will admit, voices got raised. I do regret that, really. I yelled at Harry. Harry yelled back at me. It must have been loud enough that we could be heard from the hallway, because the next thing I know, I feel something against my back."

The cleat, I thought, eyes going down to the affidavit in front of me. I finally had the presence of mind to turn the page and find where we were now, and dutifully ignored the shaky scritching on my notepad from when I had that little panic at Osborn's sudden change of demeanor.

Babbage ignored it as well, the same way I paid no mind to the blotch of ink on his own notepad, and that he'd switched from his preferred fountain pen to a ballpoint.

"I didn't really pay it any mind, though. By this point, I'd built up a head of steam, and so had Harry, really. We just kept screaming for another little bit, until WHAM!"

Osborn telegraphed it way ahead of time, bringing both hands up, one braced against the table, and then slammed them together in an exceedingly loud clap.

"Something hit me from behind, on my right side, and I felt some of the worst pain you can imagine, and I've had the painkillers give out on me during a root canal!" Osborn said with a grimace. "It felt like somebody had bounced a metal spike around inside my eye, and I couldn't see out of it. I staggered from the hit and slammed my jaw against a row of lockers. They were the ones you hang locks on, with these hooks on the outside, you know?" He made a little gesture with his hand of a ring-shape, and then pantomimed locking a padlock around it. "Two of my front teeth, one upper, one lower, got cracked basically in half from one of those rings.

"After that, well. It took me about ten minutes to man up against the pain. I made my way outside, back to my car, and my driver. I called up my doctor on the car phone, and headed straight over."

The rest of the deposition proceeded onto a discussion of Norman's doctor visits, his medical records, and more.

And that was also where the stonewalling began.

"Don't answer that."

"Apologies, Ms. Schaefer, but that matter is privileged."

"I'm going to object here; Ms. Schaefer, this is looking too much like harassment for comfort."

"What relevance does that have to this proceeding? Don't answer that."

And on, and on, and on it went. I tried to introduce the medical records we were given — and was told that because Norman was due for follow-ups over the weekend and early next week, that it wasn't worth going over those right now, as the information wouldn't be up to date. (Which, granted, I could understand… but that didn't preclude me from talking about the records I did have, right now!)

I tried to bring up the damages and expenses, given that those were a major part of the case. And was promptly shut down by a "don't answer that" every time I tried to ask about the non-medical damages mentioned in Norman's initial complaint, and later in his allegations.

And as the sun's rays turned dangerously orange, I took one last stab at something I still hadn't gotten.

"Mr. Osborn," I said, my temper fraying badly. "Are you aware of your son Harry's February 9th, 1990 visit to the Emergency Room at Mount Sinai West Hospital in Midtown, Manhattan?"

"I've never taken my son to the hospital", Norman said with a scowl. "Let alone the emergency room. Doctors come to me, not the other way around."

… putting aside the absolutely ludicrous level of wealth that such a statement entailed, Norman's response was at least somewhat artful of a non-answer. Of course he hadn't taken his son to the ER. After all, Norman Osborn wasn't the one who took Harry from Midtown High to Mt. Sinai West. Ben Parker was.

"So it is your official statement, on the record, that you are unaware of any such visit having occurred on the evening of February 9th, 1990?"

"If ever such a thing happened, nobody saw fit to tell me," he said, leaning back with his arms crossed.

… I saw fit to tell him. It was in the affidavits from both Ben and Peter that we sent over. That Norman had to have seen. There was literally no way that he didn't know about the event, or that it had occurred. To state otherwise was just…

I looked at the time, and out the window. Then I looked at my notes, and at how many of my planned questions had been marked N/A. Not for 'non applicable', but for 'not answered'.

"Thank you for your time today, Mrs. Pullman," I said to the court reporter, who recognized the signal for what it was. "Unfortunately, we shall have to terminate the deposition for now. Are we free to reconvene…" I paused, thinking. There was that morning meeting, but aside from that? "Will next Wednesday at 11am work? At my office in Alphabet City?"

"It will," the stenographer said, pulling out a calendar and writing that day in. "I'll pencil you in for that day."

"Now, see here—"

"No." I all but slammed my own hand down on the table, glaring holes into Jason Babbage. "We were here at the scheduled time, and you then proceeded to show up three hours late, waste most of an hour on matters that should have taken at most twenty minutes to people as practiced and professional as you, and if that wasn't enough, act in what I can only describe as 'bad faith'," I said.

Babbage's face was placid, with a small smile on it. Norman, on the other hand?

Norman looked entertained.

"Jason," I continued, trying not to let Osborn's contentment bother me. "If you do not want me to get us all called into the judge's chambers to have your client deposed there, then we are going to do this over. You will show up on time, and be ready to sit until we are done. My client and I have been nothing but prompt and punctual. If you will not show the same courtesy, then I can only wonder why I have done so in the first place."

"I see," Babbage said, standing. "Very well, then. I'll make sure our schedules are cleared."

"Eleven in the morning, you said?" Norman asked. "Next Wednesday? In five days?"

"Yes," I confirmed. "I hope it won't be overmuch of a burden to accommodate."

"Oh no, not at all," Norman said, his smile changing, eyes narrowing. Chin lowering and shoulders hunching, until he was less of a man, and more of a beast – and I was the prey he stalked. "Just be ready to receive us. Enjoy your Sabbath, miss Schaefer."

I swallowed that primal ball of fear that rose in my throat as I saw his posture change. Did he know? Did he know that I'd cottoned onto him, that I knew there was more to Norman Osborn than met the eye?

Ben Parker and I made our way out of the conference room, down the forty stories elevator ride, and out onto the street before we parted and headed our separate ways. The sun was dangerously low on the horizon, but I could still make it to the subway before it finally set.

I would be a little late to the synagogue, all the way over on Park Avenue as it was… but somehow, I think Rabbi Rivkin would forgive me for being a tad late. And for drinking more of the Herzog red than he was usually happy giving out. After a day like today, though, I definitely needed it. I'd even buy another bottle of it.

And not try to replace it with Manischewitz, like Kaufman had tried. That rat bastard.

Wednesday, June 20, 1990

The Sabbath and the weekend had been just what I'd needed. Erik had even been around, which was a particular blessing I hadn't realized I'd needed, his presence in the city a sort of security blanket. Somewhat ironic when you considered the things he did. The ones that I could neither confirm nor deny knowing about, because he hadn't told me about them in any terms that would invite anything more than conjecture.

And thankfully, he hadn't needed me to exhaust myself healing him from some or other esoteric wound this time. No flying through tornadoes again, indeed. I couldn't help but wonder what would be next – I think the most inventive one so far was 'hang-gliding in wolverine country'.

Given he accurately described the stench of a wolverine, according to an encyclopedia I found at the library, I still wasn't sure whether he meant that literally or figuratively.

Regardless, his presence had been quite a boon. And he even helped me prepare for my meeting this fine morning, the one that would be had before Deposition Two, Electric Boogaloo.

I'd even woken up before the sunrise, and taken particular care to put my best foot forward. While I wasn't entirely sure what the man who'd requested this meeting had in mind, I was going into this with the aim of meeting a potential client possessed of considerable means. I'd dealt with wildly wealthy people before, while still an associate at LL&L, and they generally fell into two camps, which we will call Rich and Wealthy, respectively. All Wealthy people are Rich, but not all Rich people are Wealthy.

Rich people (who are not Wealthy) are like Norman Osborn. They have money, they flaunt that money, and they act in a way that tells you they expect to be treated differently because they have that money. The rich person will casually plunk down a hundred dollar tip on a fifteen dollar bill because they can, but will also loudly kvetch to anybody listening that they weren't shown enough respect for what they were paying, or some other schmutz like that.

I'd had the displeasure of meeting quite a few rich people, and working for several more.

(I'd also had the distinct pleasure of telling one to go fuck off, and never darken my doorstep again, who the hell do they think they are showing up like that and expecting me to just help them. Go to hell, Mark Spector, don't blame having been a bully to all the other rabbi's kids on the mental issues you're only now getting help for, and don't think I forgive any of the crap you pulled when we were kids!)

So, yeah. Rich people were a pain in the tail.

Wealthy people, though?

I had this one client at LL&L, who'd followed me to my new practice. We had phone meetings every month, and every third month it was over a meal, usually lunch or dinner. Before the first one, he asked about any dietary restrictions, and every time thereafter he went to the trouble of sourcing kosher ingredients for his chef to use. He even asked about the process of koshering a kitchen and utensils, and I told him no, that was too much to do for just me. He sent me a nice bottle of Israeli wine both on my birthday and every time Chanukah rolled around, and brought souvenirs back from trips abroad.

When I was set to fly back to St. Louis for Passover one year, and I got a call that my flight got canceled right as I was on my way out the door after one of our meetings, he got me to stop panicking, told me to sit down, and got his private jet ready. (And I would never, ever, ever tell him that I couldn't figure out where the toilet was in the jet's bathroom…)

No, I will not be sharing my client's name, nor the nature of the work I do for him.

Regardless – with some luck, this has illustrated the difference between the Rich and the Wealthy.

A person who is merely Rich tends to let his money define him.

A person who is Wealthy, though… I suppose the easiest way to describe it is that they follow the older views of noblesse oblige. The ones from back when the concept entailed a responsibility, as opposed to an entitlement.

As I arrived at the Seagram Building, and walked around to the entrance to the Four Seasons Restaurant, I could only hope that Charles Xavier was a man who I could comfortably call 'Wealthy'.

"Good morning, ma'am," the host said as I walked up to the podium, which I could barely even see over. "Welcome to the Four Seasons."

"Thank you," I said. "Seven-thirty reservation for two, should be under Xavier?"

"Let me see… ah, yes." The host marked something with his pen, and then stepped out from behind the podium. "Please, follow me."

The host escorted me up the stairs, and while I expected that this meant we would be meeting in the Grill Room at the restaurant… it did not. Nor would I be meeting Mr. Xavier in the Pool Room.

No. Instead, I was escorted to a private room, just off of the main hallways, with fine decorations, incredibly comfortable-looking chairs, what looked to be a genuine Jackson Pollock painting on the wall (confirmed by the plaque next to it)... and a man already seated at the table.

A bald man, seated in an electric wheelchair.

He wore a navy three-piece suit, paired together with a steel-blue tie. At first glance, I thought his dress shirt was white, but a closer look as I approached the table showed me it was simply a very pale shade of blue. Glimmering cufflinks barely peeked out of the edges of his suit's sleeves, the left one barely visible due to the very expensive watch on his wrist, one that I only recognized as a Patek Philippe due to Sam Lieberman drilling into me how to recognize one.

"Ah, Ms. Schaefer!" The professor rolled his chair back from the table, and then turned it to face me. "As punctual as your reputation suggests. I do hope you will understand why I do not rise to greet you," he said with a light smile and a soft chuckle, extending his right hand. "Professor Charles Xavier, at your service."

"Noa Schaefer," I said, taking his hand with a smile of my own. "The pleasure is all mine, Professor."

"If you insist," he said as I took a seat opposite him at the table, and he maneuvered his wheelchair back into position. "May I recommend we break our fast before discussing business? While I have heard the quality of the food here tends to fluctuate with the seasons," he said, laughing at his own terrible pun even as my smile turned slightly queasy, "it is still a rather fine establishment. I believe they will return to take our orders in five to ten minutes. Coffee or tea?" Charles asked, waving at the two carafes on the table.

"An excellent idea," I said, picking up one of the two menus they left us with. "And please, let me. Which one was the tea?"

"The one closer to me," Charles said, sliding his teacup closer. "Earl Grey, if that suits your fancy. I must say, it is nice to see an American appreciating the finer beverage."

"Tea is simply the superior drink," I said, pouring a cup for each of us, then picking up my cup to enjoy the scent and take a sip.

"Truer words have never been spoken," he said with an amused chuckle. "And yet, the rest of my faculty all swear by coffee. Pish tosh, I say! Would that they could have a drink without adding half a liter of cream and sugar."

"It's the same with my secretary and paralegal," I said, commiserating. "How utterly barbaric."

We shared a laugh, and the conversation devolved into a minor discussion on preferred blends of tea as we put in our orders, and waited for food to arrive. I personally preferred a good Earl Grey, though I wouldn't say no to a strong chai or a good jasmine.

Professor Xavier, for his part, favored English Breakfast (of course), but also matcha.

"One of my faculty returned from a brief sabbatical in Japan with the most lovely powder and bamboo whisk," he was saying as the door to the private dining room opened. "You mix the hot water and the powder, then whisk vigorously, and drink while still frothy. It is a delightful beverage, though I fear it is quite strong, as it gave me the shakes for the rest of the day! Oh," he said at the end as a server set a plate of eggs benedict in front of him. "My thanks, good sir."

"Thank you," I said to the other server as my breakfast was placed before me. The Four Seasons could call it whatever pretentious name they wanted, 'gravlax' was still clearly just lox. It was accompanied with multi-grain toast, cream cheese, red onions, and a caper spread… which I took off of the plate and moved to the side. Capers just added too much saltiness to the mix.

And it was a bit of a shame that bagels weren't an option – but then again, multi-grain toast was probably a healthier alternative.

"You've mentioned faculty a few times," I said as I spread the cream cheese on my toast. "And I wager they all have their own areas of expertise. How about yourself, Professor? What is your field of study?"

"Ah," Charles said, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin before answering. "I fear my response shall make a braggart of me. I have two separate PhD's, in psychiatry and genetics, as well as Master's in biochemistry, developmental psychology, education, and anthropology."

The lox I was about to put on my toast fell off of my fork and back onto the plate. Xavier could only offer me an embarrassed smile.

"I have spent over three decades in higher education," he said, by way of explanation. "It has long been my belief that the day you refuse to learn anything more is the day you truly become old. And I have no wish to be old." Charles smiled. "I am, after all, still fifty-three years young."

"Words to live by," I say, to try and lighten the mood. "Still, that is quite the diverse set of fields. I can see the crossover in some of them, but I'm not sure there's a definitive focal point to them?"

"Ah. The conversation seems to have turned partly towards the nature of the discussion I wished to have," Charles said, his smile turning wistful. "At the very least, we already have our meals, so it would not be overly inappropriate to begin, if that is alright with you."

"It's perfectly fine with me," I said. "I've had more than a few meetings over meals, so it's nothing new—"

My pager went off. I closed my eyes, sighed, counted to three, and checked it. It was just the office; probably Sophie letting me know she was in and preparing for the deposition. I pulled out my pager, clicked the button so it wouldn't beep again, clipped it back onto my purse, and turned back to Charles.

"I'm so sorry about that," I said. "I have another appointment at eleven, that was probably my secretary letting me know the setup was underway."

"It is not an issue," Charles said, waving it off. "Regardless, as to the purpose of our meeting here, some background is in order first. I run what is known on paper as the Xavier Institute, but that I more affectionately call Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters," he said, taking a sip of tea before he kept speaking. "It is a kindergarten through twelfth grade academy. The overwhelming majority of my students come from one of two backgrounds: one of them being disadvantaged children, to whom I offer education, resources, a safe home, and the chance at a better life. The other background is young mutants, who seek to understand what they are, learn to safely use and control their powers, and live without fear."

Xavier grimaced.

"There is an unfortunate amount of overlap between those two demographics, I am afraid."

"I can understand that all too well," I said with a frown.

"Indeed," Charles nodded. "Many of my students come from more unfortunate backgrounds. I have done my due diligence, and know that you do not practice in family court, so I will not waste your time by putting forth a request to help with some of the more difficult housing arrangements and family situations among my student body. I have already retained a separate attorney for those matters – if you know a Mr. Berkman?"

"I know the name, but haven't had the pleasure," I said.

"I see. Mr. Berkman is my point of contact for such issues. However, some of these disputes often have more difficult civil or criminal issues accompanying them – and I have been told on multiple occasions that if you can afford to do so, finding a separate specialist is a better choice than simply relying on one generalist."

"But I assume you have been running into the issue that not many attorneys wish to dabble in issues of mutants and the law," I surmised. "Which is why you reached out to me."

"You are, to my knowledge, the only open mutant in the New York legal community," Charles confirmed with a nod. "Though this is resultant from your unintentional outing last year, as opposed to a deliberate choice on your part. Which, while an unfortunate development in many ways, has opened you up as a point of call for many who previously had no port in a storm. A silver lining to an otherwise dark cloud, as it were," he offered.

"I'm thankful for your understanding on the matter," I said, feeling a bit of relief when he said that. Had it been my choice, I would have remained happily under the radar and in hiding for the rest of my career, and given the sudden unemployment caused by the revelation of my mutant status… well, my reasoning becomes obvious.

"Indeed. As a mutant myself, I can understand all too well," the Professor said.

I showed no surprise. I merely smiled, and with a thought, let my glamour fall.

"And so while you are approaching me with a request for retainer, you are also doing so as one mutant to another, then?" I asked. I tried to make sure there was no disapproval in my voice, only curiosity. I wanted to let Charles set the pace of this conversation, not—

My pager beeped again.

I reached out and pressed the button to silence it.

"Are you sure there is no issue?" Charles asked, concern on his face.

"It's not a problem," I said. "This isn't an uncommon occurrence."

"If you insist," he said, only allowing himself to look unconvinced for a moment before continuing onward. "Given the large proportion of mutants among both my student body and my faculty," Charles specified, "in combination with the legal events of last summer, I felt it only prudent to reach out to a party that would have some measure of expertise in the matter, and procure a retainer before any matters should arise. An ounce of prevention is more valuable than a pound of cure, after all," he said.

"And what would the shape of such an agreement be, as well as any additional terms?" I asked. "And should a matter reach into areas I am uncomfortable with, and do not believe I can adequately prepare myself to handle alongside my other duties, would you be amenable to referrals?"

"An agreeable fee for retainer, to allow myself a slot on your docket should the need arise, as it were," Charles said. "I do not foresee any such issues arising even in the near future, but should the siblings of two or three of my students also be mutants, there is a very real chance of problems, ones that I wish to remain ahead of, and Mr. Berkman's specialty is only correct to handle one of their situations. The others will be more prickly matters should they arise."

"I see. Given what you are saying, this all seems agreeable," I said. "I can draw up such a retainer agreement, and send along a rough draft for you to peruse at your leisure alongside whatever other legal counsel your academy already has. Was there anything else special that you feel needs to be mentioned?"

"One thing, yes," Charles said. "As regards the events of last summer, once again. Many of my students have powers that are outwardly quite threatening, even when not being used in a manner that would harm others. And while I would not deny them the ability to protect themselves, after the events that befell young master Allerdyce, I have been unsure how to proceed. I will not even pretend to claim any expertise in the law, but I am quite the authority on human psychology.

"To that end, I wish to hold several seminars, to ensure that my students are aware of the legalities surrounding mutants and their powers, as well as the possible issues they may face. Not just in the criminal areas, but also in the workplace, in families, and in everyday life. I am sure you would know better than I, given your mutation's effect on your appearance," Charles said.

"I… I confess, I haven't ever taught before," I said. "Well, not formally, anyway. I've given presentations to new associates, primers on things you don't see until you actually get into the practice of law, things law school didn't teach you. I don't know how well equipped I am to do what you're suggesting," I said. "Perhaps asking a professor at one of the law schools would be better? I can reach out to my old professors at NYU, I'm sure several of them would be delighted."

"I am afraid not," Charles said. "At least a third of my mutant students are… they possess an irrational fear of baseline humans, authority figures in particular, due to past traumas and the experiences that led to them being under my care and tutelage. They would not listen to your professors, regardless of how well-respected they were."

"But they would listen to me," I said, waving to myself. "Because of my horns, my scales, my tail. Because unless I actively try to, I don't look like a regular human."

"Precisely," he said with a frown. "And though I wish it were not the case… alas. It will take the work of many more years to address old hurts."

I took a sip of my tea, and mulled over the possibility. Given everything he had said today, I slotted Professor Xavier under the wealth category in my head. I had the feeling that no matter what outrageous figure I quoted to him, unless it was truly exorbitant, he would pay it without heed. If he felt it had even a snowball's chance in hell of helping the kids at his school, he would pay through the nose for them.

Which meant I wouldn't try to gouge him, no, but… I was unsure how to proceed.

I would absolutely draw up a retainer agreement and take him on as a client. But this additional bit? Seminars?

Teaching? Me!?

It was almost unbelievable that somebody would want me at the front of a lecture hall, let alone just a simple classroom. But… that was what I was being asked to do.

To try and make sure St. John was the last who went through such things.

"While I will agree to retainer, and shall have an agreement drafted for you by the end of the week," I began, "I am uncertain regarding your seminar proposal. A single, initial seminar to begin with, I think is fine. Any more beyond that, though, I believe would depend on the response from your students and faculty, as well as my own comfort or lack thereof with the proceedings."

"That is eminently understandable," Charles said. "The school year is not set to begin until the end of August; would having a date around the end of September be amenable to you, then?"

I was about to answer when my pager went off for the third time.

And that was when I started to feel concern.

"Is aught amiss?" Charles asked, mirroring my concern. "While I would have preferred the opportunity to continue our discussions, I understand entirely if you must depart."

"I don't know," I said, checking my pager. It was the office again, same as the other two, and it was Sophie's line all three times. She knew about my meeting with the Professor; hell, she'd gotten everything scheduled!

What in the world could be so important that she was interrupting me now?

"Professor Xavier," I said with a frown as I picked up my purse and stood. "I am so, so sorry to just up and leave on you like this, especially right as we're ironing things out, but—"

"Worry not, my dear," Charles said with a raised hand. "I am but one man, and you have many more clients besides. Attend to your matters, and if I do not hear from you by close of business on Friday, I shall follow up on Monday morning."

"Thank you for your understanding," I said, walking around the side of the table to shake his hand. "I'll do my best to get back to you by Friday, I promise!"

And with that, I reapplied my glamour and left the private dining room, worry making the lox sit heavy in my stomach.

There was a swastika on the door to my office.

"I wouldn't have paged you if it wasn't important," Sophie had told me outside before leading me in. "I already called the police, but there's something on the upper east side, and they said they'll have a detective here by noon at the latest, and then I called the court to postpone your deposition, but—"

I stopped paying attention to what Sophie was saying. I could barely hear it as I took in the raw carnage that awaited.

The mezuzah on the door frame was gone. And there was a swastika spray painted on the door.

The door frame was broken. I pushed the door open without resistance, without even turning the knob, and walked in.

The frosted glass door separating my personal office from the rest of the office space had been shattered, and tiny pieces of glass littered the floor. Sophie's desk had been smashed in half, her computer laying sideways on the floor, the telephone cord completely ripped out of the wall. Even more swastikas, this time in red, plastered the walls of the office space, along with things I don't want to repeat.

I walked down the hall to the conference room, the break room, Joshua's office, and the filing room. That had all been ravaged, too. Phone cords ripped out of walls. Doors broken. Both Joshua's IBM and his Macintosh lay sideways on the floor.

My filing cabinet had been pulled down to the ground. I didn't know if all of the files were still inside.

Numb and dazed, I walked into my office. My computer was also sideways on the floor. The phone line had been ripped out entirely, cut up, and arrayed into a swastika.

All of the mezuzah in my office – the ones for the main door, back door, mine and Joshua's offices, the break room, the conference room – all sat on my desk, smashed to pieces.

The kiddush cup, candlesticks, and other paraphernelia I had for when the sun set on winter Fridays had been demolished, defaced.

The menorah I kept for when Chanukah rolled around had had its eight candle holders broken off, arranged into a swastika, and taped to the wall.

My J.D. diploma, torn in half and left on the floor.

My certification, hanging upside down on one nail, a hole punched through the center of it.

…

The detectives arrived a bit later.

My friend Cate arrived half an hour after the detectives, a couple of agents in tow, because the swastika and other anti-Semitic actions gave enough of a warning that this could be domestic terrorism. But I didn't really pay attention to that until a fair bit later.

Because when she arrived, I latched onto her like she was my lifeline, and cried harder than I can remember doing in a very, very long time.