Flinch Factor, The by Michael Kahn Page B

who feels entitled to call day and night regarding any issue, no matter how trivial. Each woman conceded satisfaction with the renovation work and seemed oblivious to any other aspect of Nick Moran.
    BarbaraWeiss stepped into Benny’s office, closed the door, and gazed around, eyes wide. “Wow. I’ve never been in a law professor’s office before.”
    â€œTrust me, Barb, this in not your typical law professor office.”
    Framed on one wall were tributes to what Benny claimed were his two childhood heroes: a Spiderman poster signed by Stan Lee and a New York Knicks #22 jersey signed by Dave DeBusschere. On the facing wall was a zany array of framed photographs and memorabilia, including the item that Barb was leaning forward to study: the infamous page 127 of a deposition Benny took in the Allied Chemicals case many years ago when we were associates in the Chicago headquarters of Abbott & Windsor. Though Benny’s years at that firm had included several notable litigation misadventures, the encounter memorialized on page 127 of the Reynolds deposition—eventually reprinted verbatim in a Chicago Bar Journal article on the decline of professional courtesy—was, depending upon your perspective, his zenith or his nadir. The exchange occurred after Benny expressed exasperation with his adversary, who had just made his fifty-third objection of the day:
    Mr. Klemper: That’s too bad, Mr. Goldberg. As you know, I have a perfect right under the Federal Rules of —
    Mr. Goldberg: Forget the Federal Rules, Norman. From here on out we’re operating under the Goldberg Rules. Here’s Rule Number One: You open that pie hole of yours one more time and I’m going to rip off your head and shit in your lungs. You read me?
    Mr. Klemper: I—you—I cannot believe—do you—this deposition is over.
    Mr. Goldberg: Excellent. Then get your sorry ass out of here before I throw you through that window.
    â€œOh, my.” Barb straightened up. “He sounds like a real character.”
    â€œThat he is.”
    I pointed at the framed photograph of our T-ball team, which was taken right before the first game. “Here’s your son.”
    She stepped over to look. “Barrett just loved being on that team, Rachel. He was so devastated when he had to stop playing because of his asthma.”
    â€œLet’s hope he’s all better by next season.” I gestured toward the small round table in front of the bookcase. “Let’s sit.”
    Benny’s office was the perfect meeting place. Barb worked in the Center for the Humanities, which was just across the Quad from the law school. While she was willing to meet with me, she was uncomfortable doing so in her building and clearly preferred a more private venue. Her day ended at four o’clock, which is when Benny’s antitrust class started. He suggested that we meet at his office.
    I had liked Barb from the very first meeting of our T-ball team parents last year. She was unpretentious and unassuming despite her wealth, the scope of which I discovered when I dropped her son off after practice one day. She lived in an impressive Tudor-style mansion in an affluent older neighborhood. Nevertheless, she drove a Chevy minivan, wore little jewelry and less makeup, and dressed in Standard Soccer Mom Attire that could have come off the rack at Macy’s, and probably did. Today’s outfit was a green long sleeve cardigan sweater over a matching green shell, beige cargo slacks, tan loafers, and simple pearl earrings. She wore glasses and had straight brown hair that she parted in the middle and wore to her shoulders.
    â€œSo?” She raised her eyebrows. “What’s going on? This all seems mysterious.”
    â€œI wanted to talk with you about Nick Moran.”
    â€œNick?”
    She lowered her eyes.
    â€œThat’s why I wanted this to be private, Barb.”
    She nodded, head still