The Boy from the Band

Shein and Feldman

It seems a little premature to post this, but it's actually a continuation of the previous one.

The next morning I am too nervous to eat, the best I can manage is a cup of tea. I take a shower and put on the dress I bought yesterday—I want to wear something conservative so my lawyer will see that I am serious and I am not here for a frivolous reason.

I wish I could have seen Rick, but I think he's out gigging again with Butter. I know he tries to stay busy, and I don't blame him, but last night I needed him and he wasn't there.

I take a shower and dry my hair before and pull it back in a ponytail. For once I don't look fifteen and when I put on the magenta linen dress and buckle the black belt around my waist I am satisfied that I look presentable. At least I hope I do. I practically live in jeans or the occasional sundress but that is not how I want to present myself today.

I drive into LA and the traffic is not too bad, so I take this as a good omen. Their office is just on the outskirts of a neighborhood that is relatively safe—I have never felt that any place in Los Angeles is entirely safe, but I don't feel uncomfortable parking my car on the street.

They must own, or rent, their own building because the name "Shein and Feldman" is displayed conspicuously on the brick façade of the building. I go inside and take an elevator up one floor and walk into a lobby that is simply yet elegantly furnished. The pale gold sofas and chairs are lit with a soft glow from the light coming in from the windows.

The receptionist isn't seated behind the usual counter but has her own oak desk. Her hair is so black it seems to absorb the light from the room, but she's attractive in spite of her punkish hair and makeup.

She gives me a welcoming smile. "Are you Dacy?" she asks in a New York accent and I nod. "I'll let Avram know you're here." She pushes a button on the phone and announces me. "Have a seat, dear, he'll be with you in a moment."

I don't have to wait long before a tall man with black hair opens the door and says, "Dacy?"

He takes my hand and shakes it, his grip is firm and professional but the look in his brown eyes is warm and friendly. I haven't had much experience with lawyers except for the ones my mother worked for and I hope he's genuine.

"Let me take you to my office," he says in an accent I can't place. Maybe the name "Avram" gave it away, but I realize it's Israeli. It's soft, not pronounced, but it's there.

He leads me into an office dominated by a large walnut desk, surrounded by stacks of files, some quite large while others are smaller. The only clear spot in the room is a space on his desk.

"What can I do for you young lady?" he asks.

I pull a copy of the article out of my purse and hand it to him. "This, this is why I'm here. What happened to the women in this article happened to me, and I want to know if I can do something about it."

He skims it, then looks at me. "Where did you get this?" he asks suspiciously.

"Someone slipped this into my locker at work. I read that article, and I'm angry—who do these people think they are? I could have died, twice, not to mention the fact that I had three surgeries, suffered a great deal of pain, and now at twenty-six am unable to have children."

"What if I were to tell you are you sure you read this article? That it might not be beneficial if you had."

"Then how else would I have found out?" I exploded, "I could have gone for years not knowing that A.H. Robbins released a product onto the market they didn't even bother to test, with a string they knew causes infections. The way I see it, I had a right to read that article because how else would I find out the cause of what happened to me?"