I was so eager to dive in that I asked Elaine, my boss at the law firm, if I could take off early to attend to a personal matter, and she said okay. I left at around three. On the long elevator ride down forty-five floors, a couple of the firm’s associates were joking about a big case they were working on: the firm was representing Michael Jackson. I smiled to myself, thinking back to when I used to work at Fromin’s Delicatessen. The Jackson family had a big house right down the street, on Hayvenhurst, and stopped in every once in a while for a deli lunch or dinner. Now here I was, on an elevator a thousand miles away, running from the FBI and the U.S. Marshals, employed by a prestigious law firm that was representing one of the most famous musicians in the world.