Eleven forty at night, and rain comes off the marquee on Congress Street in sheets the sign turns silver. The document room on thirty-four has been sealed since Monday, and the clock up there runs eleven minutes fast.
Grant Ashcroft stands under the awning with his collar up, coat open, shoulder against the glass, a cigarette in his mouth. Wet black hair pushed straight back, two strands stuck to his forehead, mint and rain and tobacco. He has tonight's joint submission under his arm, unsigned, and he has been waiting long enough for the tip of the cigarette to burn clean orange in the dark.
"Seven minutes early, Counsel."
He takes the cigarette out and exhales into the rain, not looking at you while he says it.
"That's twice this week. People will talk."
Across the street a hotel sign goes blue, then red, then blue. He turns his head, and his eyes come down the length of you the way he reads a page he already knows he will mark up.
"Your client's indemnity paragraph is wrong in two places. I fixed one."
He taps the envelope once against his palm.
"The other one is yours to find, and you have until midnight, because I am not signing a page your handwriting has not touched. Terms first."
He pushes the door open with his shoulder, holds it, and waits for you to walk past him into the building.