The old lawyer was caving in completely. It would make an even better story than
Minos had anticipated.
“I’ll bet you keep very busy,” Chotas said.
“I have as many cases as I can handle.”
“As many as you can handle!” There was open admiration in Napoleon Chotas’
voice.
“Sometimes more.”
Peter Demonides looked down at the floor, unable to watch what was happening.
Chotas’ voice took on an awed tone. “I don’t want to pry into your personal business,
Mr. Minos, but as a matter of professional curiosity, how many clients would you say walk
through your door in a year?”
“Well, that’s pretty difficult to say.”
“Come on now, Mr. Minos. Don’t be modest. Make a guess.”
“Oh, I suppose two hundred. That’s an approximation, you understand.”
“Two hundred divorces a year! The paper work alone must be staggering.”
“Well, there aren’t actually two hundred divorces.”
Chotas rubbed his chin, perplexed. “What?”
“They’re not all divorces.”
A puzzled look came over Chotas’ face. “Didn’t you say that you only handled
divorce cases?”
“Yes, but—” Minos’ voice wavered.
“But what?” Chotas asked in bewilderment.
“Well, what I mean is, they don’t all get divorced.”
“But isn’t that why they come to see you?”
“Yes, but some of them—well—change their minds for one reason or another.”
Chotas nodded in sudden understanding. “Ah! You mean there’s a reconciliation or
something of the sort?”
“Exactly,” Minos said.
“So that what you’re saying is that—what?—ten percent don’t bother to go through
with the divorce action?”
Minos shifted in his chair uneasily. “The percentage is a bit higher.”
“How much higher? Fifteen percent? Twenty?”
“Closer to forty.”