It was the week before Thanksgiving. On the train ride home (I live in downtown Washington, DC, in an old, sprawling apartment building that once claimed Huey Long and Richard Nixon as tenants), my attention was drawn to a frazzled female lawyer sitting in the seat next to me, who was feverishly making notes in the margins of a thick, serious-looking, legal-sized document.
I confess. I like to read over people's shoulders, but often lose interest after the first few words. This case was different, though.