Free Face Value by Michael A. Kahn

you,” I said.
    â€œThe pleasure is mine, Rachel.” He gestured toward the empty seat next to mine. “May I join you?”
    â€œSure.”
    I was attending a lunchtime Continuing Legal Education program at the bar association offices. About forty attendees were spread around eight tables facing the podium, where the presenter—a trial attorney from Armstrong Teasdale—was getting his PowerPoint and other materials ready. I was seated at one of the rear tables, having arrived late. There were three of us at the table—and now, with Len Olsen, four.
    As he took his seat a male server arrived carrying a plate with the event’s lunch: a turkey sandwich on whole wheat, French fries, and coleslaw.
    â€œSomething to drink, sir?”
    â€œIce tea would be just fine. Thank you, son.”
    Olsen turned to me. “Rachel, I am so delighted to see you here. I wanted you to know how touched I was by that proposal of yours. A tribute to the late Ms. Bashir. It’s a lovely idea.” He placed his hand over his heart. “Truly.”
    I was experiencing that Len Olsen magic—that good ol’ boy charm and soft drawl and heartfelt gaze that juries had been finding irresistible for decades. He was a handsome man in his early sixties with blues eyes that seemed to peer into your soul, but not in an intrusive way. I’d heard the same about Bill Clinton from a friend of mine who’d spent an evening with the former President. She told me he could charm your pants off. Literally. Same with Len Olsen, who’d been linked to a series of gorgeous women, most of them half his age.
    Olsen had been profiled enough in local and national publications, including a recent piece in the Wall Street Journal , that his background was familiar, at least to the lawyers of St. Louis. He’d grown up on a farm in southeast Missouri, attended college on a football scholarship, enlisted in the Army after graduation, and spent three years in Vietnam, where he’d become a member of the elite Army Rangers. He’d earned a law degree at night while working days as an insurance adjuster in St. Louis. He began his career in the public defender’s office representing indigent criminal defendants. Over his years in private practice, he’d become a preeminent trial lawyer specializing in complex litigation. Since my return to St. Louis ten years ago, he’d won multi-million-dollar verdicts for farmers, factory workers, and others against some of the largest corporations in America.
    â€œHave you spoken with Dick Neeler today?” he asked.
    â€œI had a phone message from him this morning,” I said, “but I haven’t called him back yet.”
    â€œHe’s calling with good news, Rachel.” He placed his hand on my forearm and gave me a gentle squeeze. “The firm has approved your proposal.”
    â€œThat’s wonderful.”
    â€œIt surely is.” He took his hand away and smiled. “We’ll have some work to do to get ready, of course, but we’re eager to get started. We’re committed to this, Rachel. Of course, we’ll need to coordinate with you and her family and Wash U. I am sure Dick will be eager to talk to you about all of that. But for now, I just want say thank you, Rachel.”
    He paused and nodded slowly. “This is the right thing to do.”
    I smiled. “Her father will be so happy to hear this.”
    There was a deep thwock and a static hiss as the sound system turned on, and then a voice over the speakers, “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to our CLE today on expert witness depositions.”
    Ten minutes into the program, and before he had finished his sandwich, Olsen got a call on his cell phone. He took the phone out of his suit jacket, frowned at the number, and then answered with a whispered hello. He stood and quickly moved out of the room to continue the conversation.
    He