Three years ago, at the age of 31 (or 33), she distinguished herself as the lead prosecuting attorney in that grand jury inquiry into moral corruption, and a lot of people still despise her for her seemingly callous and vindictively thorough public assassinations of character which she was so notoriously passionate about carrying out in such an agonizingly systematic manner. When she resigned to pursue a private practice, I was her first client. Her professional, intellectual, and aesthetic stature utterly precluded the (not entirely hormonally-induced) notion of approaching her on any sort of a personal level. So when she asked me to meet her for coffee on a Saturday night (at 9:31), and emphasized that discussion of my case would not be on the agenda, I was understandably confused; but, of course, unable to decline. The passion and pace of our ensuing romance were without precedent, despite her callous and vindictive approach to love and the making thereof. Predictable, but unpreventable, was the relationship's almost-immediate demise. She lost my case. But, to her credit (and against what she claimed was her better judgment), she argued effectively against my incarceration, then won a clever appeal that she refused to accept financial compensation for. I guess, to her, being clever was ultimately more satisfying than being vindictive.