Danielle Melnick never thought of herself as the sentimental type.

Though it had been more decades that she cared to count, Melnick felt her chest swell with pride whenever she recalled the day she plunged into private practice.

233 Broadway was a brisk fifteen-minute walk from the heart of Manhattan's legal community. That fact alone made the old Woolworth building even more desirable than its Gothic architecture and its historical significance combined.

The opening of that first office represented tangible, indisputable proof, that Melnick was a self-made woman. That all the sacrifices she'd made that led to obtaining her law degree… sacrifices that had flown in the face of the expectations of her family…had been worth what they'd cost her.

As she blindly scanned the view of the Hudson River from her current office…an office still housed in the landmark building but more than triple the square footage and several floors up from the converted basement space she'd delightedly snagged all those years ago…she couldn't deny that, along with that sense of nostalgic pride, there was also a persistent sense of regret.

You're being ridiculous… she told herself as she impatiently brushed at the random clods of dust that stubbornly clung to the sleeves of her faded denim shirt. …I didn't feel like this when I opened the Long Island office and pulled up stakes for a year… or even when Shambala talked me into taking the O'Neal case off her hands because Ben had that first heart scare and she couldn't bear to leave him and risk things going from bad to worse while she was hundreds of miles away…

"Oh, Ben," she sighed as she was reminded of the memorial service that was scheduled for the following morning. She still hadn't come to terms with the fact her former adversary had lost his battle with heart disease the same week that she discovered she would more than likely find herself facing another Stone in court. But not as an adversary and not in Manhattan. "I know how proud you were of Peter. I'm sure he'll do fine without you. He's your son. He must have some Saint Ben in him. But the tales you could have told him," she continued with a half-smile. "I'm sure there will be times he's going to wish he could ask his Dad for some sage advise on how to get an illegal search by that horrible new judge from Manhattan."

She inadvertently shook her head as she turned away from the window and surveyed the room, ready to return to the task at hand.

In the corner across from the door, a pair of file cabinets stood, their metal drawers open and empty. Open packing boxes littered the polished marble floor beside them. All the boxes had been labeled and were filled to capacity.

Across the room, a collection of framed awards, diplomas and artwork lay haphazardly against the wall. Her desktop, while free of the technology that had been collected along with the computers, printers and phones of her staff the previous Friday, was prime example of organized clutter.

The confirmation for her flight to Chicago peeked out from the flap of the sleek black leather Banuce satchel her husband had surprised her with at her going away party the previous evening. Her gold plated "RESIST" key ring was dangling dangerously close to the edge of the desk beside a half empty mug that with declared in bold red print:

Criminal Defense Lawyers: Because people are idiots.

Another gift … this one of the tongue-and-cheek nature…also from the federal prosecutor she had shared her bed with for the last five years. A half spent roll of translucent packing tape and a pair of scissors laid across the desk from the mug.

At the opposite end a cluster of business cards, half empty tissue packages, napkins from the numerous take out establishments Melnick had patronized over the years, along with other odds and ends from the top drawer of her desk made up another careless pile.

The remainder of the walnut surface was covered with untidily shacked manila files.

Melnick's lips turned upward as her eyes lingered on the mug before turning her gaze to the sheet of copy paper with the bright red delta symbol peeking out at her.

The O'Neal case…that's what started all this… she told herself and her smile disappeared as fast as it had appeared.

The case had been a one shot. A complete twist of fate. If it had been anyone else that had asked…if Shambala Green-Stone had not only been a superb litigator with an unquestionable commitment to the rights of the accused but also one of Melnick's oldest and most loyal friends…she never would have dropped everything and devoted almost a year to the defense of another attorney's client.

The red tape…the time it took to go through the required hoops to be able to practice in Illinois…just thinking about made Melnick shake her head once more, this time in amazement at herself and the power of a friendship that had endured well beyond a quarter of a century.

But Melnick was far from the only person whose will had been bent by the passion and eloquence of Shambala Green-Stone.

The sudden buzz of her mobile startled Melnick out of her thoughts. Impulsively, she reached for the leather bag, inadvertently bumping a stack of file folders along the way. Melnick sprawled herself across the desk as she attempted to re-balance the manila folders without discarding her mobile. While most of the folders remained intact, Melnick let out a frustrated grunt as a handful of files and their contents fluttered to the marble floor.

She grudgingly plopped herself onto the floor, shoving pieces aside until she was seated in the middle the array of paper, after she shut off the alarm. It was a reminder that she had a half hour before her husband was due to pick her up for lunch. Melnick was mentally preparing her request to push back their date when a message from her husband appeared on screen to inform her that his meeting with the psychologist assigned a particularly high-profile case was running over and that he didn't anticipate finishing for another hour. She ran a hand through her hair, pushing it out of her face, as she responded.

"That gives me enough time to wrap this up if I can avoid another trip down memory lane," she told herself as she scooped up a handful of papers, clearing another space on the floor before she briskly began sorting them.

The files had come from a stack that consisted of case-files pertaining to cases that had resulted in threats of varying degrees. Threats towards her and/or her staff. And occasionally, towards the handful of loved ones that remained in her life.

While all her case files had been scanned and recorded digitally, a select number of these cases were the ones that kept Melnick up at night, though she'd have to be hard-pressed to admit that. Most of those clients were now either dead or had long since forgotten their grievances towards her. Many were cases from her early days as a defense lawyer.

After receiving glowing reports from her supervisors and several of the judges she had faced during that time, Melnick swiftly built a reputation that caught the attention of managing partners for more than one of the prestigious law firms that littered Manhattan. An unexpected windfall from her Aunt Rose, the sole member of her family that had supported her decision to become a defense attorney, made it possible for to decline the offers that came her way.

The idea of setting up her own practice, hence being her own boss, outweighed the practical advantages of even the most generous signing bonus. But the ink on her lease had barely been dry before she was reminded that bills do not get paid by chutzpah alone.

From the moment she unlocked her office door, Melnick fought an inner battle to maintain the principals that drove her towards the practice of law while facing the financial realities of maintaining a sole partnership. While the cases that her friends at Legal Aide sent her way satisfied her hunger to be a crusader for the unfortunates that she felt were victimized by the criminal justice system, it would be the well-paying "scraps" …the cases that were either too contentious or just too distasteful for the better firms to dirty their hand with… that would keep the doors of Danielle Melnick, Attorney at Law open for business.

For most of her career, the only reason she kept those hard copies was because the safety of others had been involved. They were files that not even her husband knew existed. The hard-copies were insurance in the unlikely event a tragedy resulted, and the authorities found themselves unable to access her digital records due to some sort of technological apocalypse, though she never really let herself believe she'd need them.

At least until Julian Preuss used her as an unwitting messenger to order the death of an Assistant District Attorney.