Neon Dragon

Начало книги

Suppose you were to wake up one Monday morning to a promising, amber sun rising out of Boston Harbor. You walk through the Public Garden past the sleeping swan boats under a symphony of chiming crystal icicles on every perfect branch. The first thing that touches your tongue is a golden sip of Hector Brolio’s ambrosiac coffee on Washington Street. At that point, would you be inclined to look up and say, “This is going to be the worst day of my life”?

Neither would I-at least not until Judge Amos Bradley’s clerk gave me a determined “get in here” sign outside of the courtroom, followed by his South Boston-accented stage whisper.

“Hey, Michael. Hustle it up. The judge is about to hear your motions.”

The little pit of acid that bubbled up in my stomach was by no means uncalled-for. I was a third-year associate with a Boston law firm that read like the passenger manifest of the Mayflower-towit, Bilson, Dawes, Lefbridge amp; Sykes.

Читать дальше →