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". . . You see, the mistake everyone makes is thinking AI is all about document generation. It is that. But it's so much more. . . ."
Introduction
Three years can change everything.
Three years ago, a brash young data analyst from DOGE burst into your office and turned your 50-partner, 170-lawyer firm upside down. Armed with nothing but spreadsheets, a whiteboard marker, and an unsettling gift for mathematics, he introduced you to the hourly cost rate ("HCR") and hourly profit rate ("HPR") metrics that exposed the profit destruction hiding in plain sight across your practice group reports. His restructuring was brutal: 43 associates laid off, the building abandoned, the entire firm remade as a lean virtual operation. But it worked. Profit rocketed from $77.5 million to $128.5 million the next year and $189 million the year after that, and the firm never looked back. (See What if DOGE Paid a Visit to YOUR Law Firm?.)
He came back a year later for your partnership's annual island retreat, this time with a proposal to introduce non-equity partners ("NEPs") into the firm's structure to boost profits further and retain your five superstars who were receiving better offers. The firm pushed past $215 million in profit. Your partners celebrated $4.3 million PPP. Your five superstars stayed. (See The DOGE Analyst Returns to YOUR Law Firm to Discuss the Rise of Non-Equity Partners: A Sequel.)
At the end of that second partner retreat, you stood on the island airport tarmac and watched his private jet lift off over the ocean waves. One of your practice group leaders asked where he was headed. You didn't know. All you said was, "I just hope he's not headed to law school."
Act One: The Hotel Conference Room
You're on the island again—your partners' annual retreat, now a tradition that has grown a little more lavish each year as profits have climbed. You've booked a small conference room off the main ballroom for pre-meetings with your practice group leaders. There's a carafe of bad coffee and a view of the harbor through salt-streaked windows. Tomorrow morning, you'll address the full partnership. Today is for preparation.
You're reviewing your slides when the door opens without a knock.
He's standing there in a linen shirt and loafers, looking like he just walked off a sailboat, which, knowing him, he probably did. Same wire-rimmed glasses. Same half-grin that makes you simultaneously glad to see him and vaguely uneasy.
"I heard you were in town," he says.
You rise to shake his hand, genuinely pleased. "Kid, it's been a while. How'd you find me?"
"Wasn't hard. You use the same resort every year. I asked the front desk." He glances around the conference room and chides, "Nice upgrade from that office where we first met. Oh wait—you don't have that office anymore!"
"Haven't missed it," you say, and you mean it. The virtual transition that he engineered has been the firm's quiet superpower—partners scattered across six countries, overhead lean, talent recruited from anywhere on the planet. "Come in. Sit down. What are you up to?"
For the next few minutes, the conversation is quaint. He asks about the firm. You walk him through the highlights—the global expansion, the new practice areas, the technology adoption. He's genuinely interested. He asks how the five superstars are doing. You tell him they stayed, every one of them, just as he predicted they would once the NEP restructuring gave you room to reward them properly.
"We built something pretty remarkable," he says, and the warmth in his voice is authentic.
"We did," you agree. "And we owe a good deal of it to you."
He waves this off, but not dismissively—more like someone who has moved on to thinking about the next thing. Which, of course, he has.
"So what brings you here?" you ask. "Don't tell me you're auditing the resort's books."
He laughs briefly and then settles into the seat across the table.
"I'm starting a law firm," he announces.
You stare at him for a moment, waiting for the punchline. It doesn't come.
"You're starting a law firm," you repeat. "Did you go to law school?"
"Nope," he says, "But I did audit some classes at the University of Arizona, though."
"Audited? You of all people could have paid full tuition," you respond.
"I did make a donation," he says casually. "Heard they might be renaming the law school."
You raise an eyebrow while saying, "Must have been quite the donation. Did you enjoy the classes?"
"Honestly," he says, leaning back in his chair, "I spent most of my time in the library."
Something about the way he says "library" lingers in the air a beat too long. But you let it pass and ask, "Okay, I'll bite. If you don't have a law degree, how are you starting a law firm?"
"Well, it's not really a law firm in the traditional sense," he responds. "It's more of a legal services platform. Think of it as the next generation of the tools you're already using—your research databases, your e-discovery platforms, your AI drafting tools—but integrated. One system that handles the full lifecycle of legal work. So, in that sense, I like to call it 'a law firm' even though it isn't. But maybe the law firm will come later, . . ." he trails off.
Now he has your attention. A single platform that integrates vendor tools. It sounds sophisticated—genuinely impressive.
"I'd love to show your partners what we're building," he says. "Get their feedback. Honestly, they'd be the ideal early adopters. They understand the practice from the inside, and their input would be invaluable in making sure the platform reflects how practitioners actually work."
You consider this. Your partners know the analyst. They respect him. Some of them are outright fond of him. His NEP presentation at last year's retreat was the most effective pitch any of them had ever witnessed, and the kid's HCR/HPR framework changed how you manage the firm. Letting him present his new platform would be interesting, maybe useful, and at minimum a good conversation starter for the partnership meeting. Besides, he's an old friend.
"You know what," you hear yourself say, "we have the full partnership meeting tomorrow morning. Why don't you come say hello and give everyone an overview? They'd love to see you."
He smiles—grateful, low-key—and says, "That would mean a lot."
You shake hands, agree on timing, and he slips out the way he came. You turn back to your slides, making a mental note to adjust the agenda. A brief technology presentation from an old friend.
What could go wrong?
Act Two: The Retreat
The ballroom is configured in its usual arc of tables facing the podium, with your 50 equity partners and 50 non-equity partners arranged by practice group. Through the open terrace doors, you can hear the surf. The mood is good. Profits are strong, the pipeline is full, and the tropical setting is the perfect metaphor for your firm's well-earned success. A few partners wave to you as you step to the microphone.
You open with the financials. The numbers are solid—revenue tracking above projections, per-attorney hours holding at 2,000, and, most importantly, HCR low, HPR high, and profits strong. You run through the practice group highlights and the year's strategic priorities. Routine. Comfortable. Your partners nod along, some making notes, others cradling their coffees.
Then you shift gears.
"Before we get into the breakout sessions, I have a treat for you. Some of you will remember our friend from DOGE—the analyst who helped us restructure a few years back and then came back last year to walk us through the NEP opportunity. He's been building something interesting in the legal technology space, and I've asked him to give us a preview. I think you'll find it worth your time."
The response was as expected. Warm comments exchanged at tables. A few smiles of recognition. And someone in the back admonishes, loud enough to carry, "Hide the whiteboard!"
The analyst walks in from a side door, adjusting his glasses. He's traded the linen shirt for something slightly more polished, but only slightly. He scans the room, recognizes faces, and breaks into a grin.
"Hi. It's great to see you all again," he begins. "I have to say, you're all looking even more prosperous than the last time. Must be the island air. Or maybe it's that $4.3 million profit per partner!"
Laughter. He's in his element. And your partners are already leaning in.
The Product Demo
"As your managing partner said," he pivots with a glance in your direction, "I've been a little busy this year and thinking a lot about you guys." He clears his throat and says, "I'm building something that will take you to the next level. But it does require some explanation."
After a brief scan of the room and with a subtle smirk on his face, he finds the whiteboard and wheels it into place.
"So," he says, uncapping a marker with practiced ease, "let me ask you. How many of you are using AI in your practice—not through a vendor, but directly? Uploading documents."
"Testing its reasoning against your own. Asking it to draft briefs and seeing what comes back."
Most hands go up, a few enthusiastically and many only sheepishly so.
"That's what I expected. And I'm guessing some of you have been quietly impressed—maybe even a little unsettled," he chuckles in amusement while locking eyes with the partners sitting in the front of the room.
"It is getting a lot better at drafting briefs," he says with a smile and then adds, "but we're not going to be talking all that much about brief writing today. You see, the mistake everyone makes is thinking AI is all about document generation. It is that. But it's so much more."
He pauses for emphasis before continuing:
"Allow me to introduce you to what might be an uncomfortable thought. The idea that an AI with persistent memory, fed the entire case file, trained on every relevant decision in the circuit, and running continuously in the background . . . might function less like a tool and more like an attorney. Proficient across practice areas. Available around the clock. Never forgetting a document or a deadline."
The room is suddenly quiet.
"Well, if YOU haven't had that thought before now, I certainly have. I've been thinking about it for three years—ever since I started spending time with all of you and learning how the practice of law actually works."
He lets that land.
"So I built a prototype. I call it, 'the Platform.'"
The murmuring starts immediately. He extends an open hand in a pacifying gesture. "It's rudimentary. Rough around the edges. The outputs require substantial attorney review, and the processing architecture isn't anywhere close to scaled. But it works. And I want to show you what it's already done."
He turns to the whiteboard and begins writing—not diagrams or equations this time, but dates and case references.
"Last October, we ran the Platform on a live patent matter—with the client's consent, of course, and a licensed attorney supervising every output. The system ingested the full case file: complaint, answer, document productions, interrogatory responses, prosecution histories, prior art. All of it. During a deposition, the system was monitoring the testimony in real time, cross-referencing each answer against the entire record."
He taps the whiteboard while continuing, "The opposing party's technical expert testified that he had never reviewed certain test data prior to forming his opinion because it was proprietary and had never been publicly available. Before the witness finished his answer, the questioning attorney received an alert on her tablet—three documents from the second production set showing the test data had been published in a journal article, and the expert peer-reviewed the article! We even had his correspondence with the journal! The exhibits and suggested follow-up questions appeared on screen."
Beaming with pride, the analyst scans the room, and says, "That happened. Not in a simulation. In a live deposition."
"Of course," he emphasizes, "voice and facial analysis will be added later."
A hush falls over the room while the partners absorb the full impact of what they just heard. The litigators in the room know the pain of sitting through hours of testimony, struggling to hold the entire record in their head, knowing they're missing connections that would be obvious if they could just cross-reference fast enough.
As if reading everyone's minds, the analyst adds, "The Platform doesn't just help you prepare. It sits beside you during the deposition with perfect recall and infinite patience."
The analyst then continues on to the next case. "In December, we tested the appellate monitoring module. The system continuously tracks new opinions across every federal circuit, cross-referencing each one against active matters in its subscriber database. A lawyer on one of our test cases was preparing to argue a summary judgment motion. Forty-five seconds after a circuit court filed an opinion that was directly relevant to the pending motion, the lawyer received an alert—on his phone, in the courthouse! The holding favorably changed the landscape of his argument. He revised his presentation before stepping to the podium. Opposing counsel didn't see THAT coming."
He adds, "And THAT happened."
Tom, the practice group leader sitting next to you and who runs your appellate and motions practice, leans over and whispers, "That decision monitoring feature alone could be worth a mint."
You nod absently, but something in your chest has tightened.
The analyst jumps to a different, transactional matter. "We also ran the prototype on a merger due diligence—a data room with several thousand contracts. The system mapped every material provision, flagged change-of-control triggers, identified non-standard indemnification terms, and generated a risk matrix organized by severity and deal relevance. The output covered in one afternoon what a team of lawyers would normally spend three weeks producing."
He then adds, "And during the closing, the monitoring layer flagged a regulatory filing by a foreign agency that had been published forty minutes earlier—something that could trigger a material adverse change clause. Nobody on the deal team had seen it. The platform caught it while they were in the signing meeting."
Someone gasped.
Deep in thought, the analyst steps back from the whiteboard. "Now, I want to be clear about what this is and what it isn't. The prototype is early. There are engineering problems I haven't solved. The processing architecture doesn't scale to industrial volumes yet. Some of the outputs are impressive and some are mediocre. It requires constant attorney supervision."
He looks out at the room with an earnest gaze for emphasis, "But none of the AI capabilities are speculative. Every feature I've described uses technology that exists today—the same technology you've been experimenting with at your own desks."
He then reveals, "What the Platform adds is integration. A persistent memory layer that holds the full case record. A continuous monitoring system that watches the relevant universe of case file and public data. And engineering that connects all of it into a single environment."
Distracted briefly by hotel staff refreshing the coffee carafes, he adds, "Some of you may remember when your home closet had an SLR camera, a separate video camera, a portable music player, and an old heavy laptop. Now it's filled with cleaning products that are collecting dust because all those functions are merged into your smartphone—and they're better than ever!"
He continues while starting a list on the whiteboard, "I've seen how you guys have to hire all these vendors—legal research, e-discovery, e-billing, contract lifecycle management, patent maintenance fee management, translators, interpreters, jury consultants . . . I'm growing old listing all of these. . . ," he laughs briefly and then zeroes in, "The Platform integrates all of them into a single powerhouse where they communicate with each other at the speed of light—and, well, they're better than ever!"
Your COO leans over from a few chairs away to catch your attention. He has a noticeable grin on his face. You see others in the room who apparently share his satisfaction.
The analyst pauses momentarily, as if deciding whether to elaborate further. And likely against his best judgment, he does.
"There's one more thing the Platform does, and it's the capability that I think changes the conversation from 'useful tool' to something else entirely."
He draws a new diagram on the whiteboard—a web of connections linking public data sources to subscriber profiles. Court filings. Regulatory actions. Patent grants. SEC disclosures. Corporate transactions. Enforcement proceedings. News alerts. All feeding into a matching engine.
"Everything I've shown you so far serves active matters—cases and deals you've already taken on. This new feature serves the matters you don't have yet."
Sensing the confusion on everyone's faces, he explains, "The Platform's continuous monitoring doesn't just track developments relevant to existing work. It continuously scans the entire landscape of public data for events that create legal exposure, regulatory risk, transactional opportunity, or litigation probability. It then matches those things against each subscriber's expertise, client base, and practice profile—much the same way that algorithms choose personalized advertisements to send to your phones."
Responding to the continued blank stares, he gets specific: "For example, a pharmaceutical company receives a Complete Response Letter from the FDA. The platform alerts the subscriber's regulatory partner with a briefing on the company's patent portfolio, pending litigation, and competitive landscape—before the company has retained counsel."
"Here's another one," he says, "A competitor files a patent application that overlaps with an existing client's product line. The platform flags it as a proactive advisory opportunity, drafts a preliminary noninfringement analysis, and suggests reaching out to the client."
And to drive the point home, he adds, "An SEC enforcement action targets a company in an industry where your white-collar team has deep experience. The platform identifies the company, its current in-house counsel, and the nature of the exposure, and puts it on your 'Business Development Dashboard' before the story hits the trade press."
You scan the room. You observe that your rainmakers—the partners who pride themselves on being the first call when trouble strikes—shift uncomfortably in their seats.
"You see," the analyst says, "the lawyers who thrive in the world I'm describing aren't the ones who draft the best briefs or review the most documents. With the Platform, all that's a given."
Voice now lowered in seriousness, the analyst elaborates, "The leaders of the pack are the ones who find the client first, who understand the client's problem before the client fully understands it themselves, and who deliver strategic judgment that no law firm can replicate. The Platform handles the finding and the production. The lawyer handles the relationship, the judgment, and the trust."
In unison, all raised coffee cups are returned to tables, all raised pens are dropped on notepads, and all eyes are fixed on the analyst.
Dave, one of your more astute corporate partners, stands to ask the now obvious question, "All of this presupposes that clients would even bother to answer our calls. I mean, if the client has 'the Platform,' or whatever it's called, why do they need us?"
With his best poker face, the analyst responds, "Dave, you raise a good point. And I can certainly see how the Platform could facilitate client self-help for routine matters, especially where they have competent in-house counsel. But," he adds, "in-house counsel have been upping their game for a long time now, so none of this should come as any real surprise."
"I'm certainly feeling surprised!" Dave exclaims as he takes his seat to the sound of nervous laughter.
An older commercial real estate partner clears his throat to announce, "I'm not surprised at all! What he's describing already happened to real estate lawyers a long time ago. And in-house counsel had nothing to do with it."
He stands to finish his point, "Thirty years ago, every home purchase required a lawyer to draft the contract, review the title, and handle the closing. Then the contracts became standardized, the title searches automated, and the closings ministerial. I guess our DOGE friend here would say they became 'routine.' And that's when real estate agents—not in-house counsel, not even lawyers—took over the industry. It's sounding to me like your 'Platform' is now the agent—finding the clients, identifying the needs, and doing the work before we even know the client exists."
Not to be outdone, Dave stands again to add, "What's troubling me is this. If the Platform can do eighty percent of what we do—and from what I've heard so far, that's not an exaggeration—and the remaining twenty percent is merely, what did you say, 'handling the relationship, the judgment, and the trust, . . .' do our clients really need a 170-attorney law firm to deliver the remaining twenty percent?"
Every table erupts in hurried conversation.
Attempting to regain some control of the discussion, the analyst walks to the side of the podium but before he can get a word out, Jane, one of the younger non-equity partners tentatively raises her hand.
The analyst offers a smile in surrender while nodding in her direction.
"Picking up on Dave's point," Jane says, "that eighty percent we're talking about is work our junior lawyers are doing now. If the Platform does all their work, then what? I mean, to survive, a newbie associate will somehow have to make the giant leap to providing senior-level expertise beyond the work done by the Platform. How's that going to be possible?
"Thank you for that question, Jane," the analyst responds, "That's one of the first things I thought about." Then, reflexively, he adds, "Because you're right! If you eliminate the training ground, you eventually eliminate the profession."
Eyebrows raised, Jane interjects, "That sounds pretty ominous. . . ."
Regretting his choice of words, the analyst pauses momentarily for a quick sip of water while many in the room stare at their coffees, now wishing the cups were filled with something stronger.
"Well, Jane," the analyst says with a genuine smile, "For starters, you might agree with me that your current law firm model isn't training junior lawyers all that well anyway. Partners are too busy to mentor. And so associates are left to learn by osmosis—or they don't learn at all. Frankly, the billable hour actively punishes the time spent teaching."
With growing confidence, the analyst returns to the whiteboard. "So, I made sure the Platform includes a training module. I call it the 'Socratic Mentor,' and it's been trained on the practice patterns and reasoning of the senior practitioners who built each component of the Platform. It doesn't just tell junior lawyers what the answer is. It walks them through how an experienced practitioner thinks about the problem."
Jane appears unconvinced.
The analyst resorts to an example: "Here's how it works. A junior lawyer is preparing a deposition outline. The Platform reviews the outline—and doesn't just flag errors—it explains why a senior trial lawyer would sequence the questions differently. What each line of inquiry accomplishes. How the sequence builds toward an impeachment that the junior lawyer hasn't anticipated yet."
And with a hint of pride, the analyst concludes, "It's the conversation a first-year associate would have with a patient senior partner, except the Platform is available at midnight, it never gets frustrated, and it draws on the collective judgment of every senior practitioner who contributed to its training."
"Now that," Jane responds, "sounds like something that really would be helpful. I could even see myself using your Socratic Mentor several times a day. Thank you."
The analyst smiles in a display of personal relief.
"Look," he says turning to the room, "where I come from in Silicon Valley, youth and its novel creativity is a sought-after asset. So, nobody here today should feel bad for young lawyers or underestimate the force of their youth. With the Platform, they are at no disadvantage. You've all seen these sensationally successful YouTubers—gifted, charming, and wickedly smart. Give a bright and motivated law school grad the right material and some erudite direction, and, well, they're no longer trapped in some onerous 10-year partnership track, and the sky's the limit!"
As you scan the room to take mental note of the several NEPs now engaged in their own private conversations, a practice group leader taps your shoulder from behind. He whispers, "Great. . . ! First, our clients don't need us anymore, and now our associates and non-equities don't need us either!"
Oblivious to all these side conversations, the analyst continues, "I'm not eliminating the next generation of lawyers," he says, "I'm training them better than the current law firm model does and taking the profession to the next level."
The Business Case
The whispered conversations are eventually replaced by silence.
One of your corporate partners thankfully breaks the silence by asking about pricing.
The analyst responds by describing a tiered model—a base subscription comparable to what firms already pay for research platforms, practice-specific modules as add-ons, and usage-based charges for heavy data processing that can be billed through to clients as disbursements, just like e-discovery costs.
"Basically," he summarizes, "the base cost is a rounding error in your overhead, and the heavy lifting is a pass-through."
"Of course," he adds as an afterthought, "the Business Development Dashboard will be a highly priced premium add on. But no worries. I've already decided to give your firm perpetual free access at top-tier token usage."
Your partners all appear genuinely pleased and grateful.
Your corporate partner then begins to raise his microphone for a follow up question when suddenly the analyst adds, "Oh, and for the litigators here, I've got some really good news. You see, for the right matter, we'll be spotting all of the Platform's litigation support costs for a stake in the outcome of the case!"
With the microphone now in place, your corporate partner asks his follow up question adjusted to this new information, "I was going to ask about how a subscription model could even begin to pay for what appears to be a massive investment in the Platform, its design, data centers, and training. And if I'm hearing you correctly, you say you're going to gamble it all on litigation?"
The analyst breaks into a grin while responding, "I like your word 'gamble.' It makes it all sound so mysterious. Actually, some of the biggest returns in the investment markets right now are realized by Big Funding. They are routinely beating the S&P and have no shortage of investors. Sure, we'll win some and lose some. But with the Platform, I think we'll have a pretty good track record of picking winners!"
Still the skeptic, the corporate partner asks, "You really think this is a viable business model?"
Now serious, the analyst rises to the challenge, "Yes. And you were not at all wrong to question the base subscription model. I can see why you are so good at what you do!"
The corporate partner offers a smile in appreciation and takes his seat.
"Base subscriptions alone," the analyst says as he turns to address the full partnership, "would undoubtedly make it hard to justify building the Platform. The subscriptions will, however, justify spotting the Platform's cost for some sharper contingency risks, even where the percentages are modest."
After returning his gaze to your corporate partner, the analyst continues, "But if we succeed in building a war chest, then in addition to spotting the Platform, we can fund whole litigations at greater returns."
He pauses for emphasis, "All of this means we ensure the Platform won't become just another commoditized vendor service. Instead, it will become a self-funded, perpetual motion machine with an exponential earnings upside."
The room is filled with an equal mix of shock and awe.
An M&A partner sitting two seats from you, apparently in awe, leans over to whisper, "This is really interesting. We should take a serious look at this."
In shock, you force a smile and a "thumbs up" in reply.
The Vehicle
"We should probably discuss a few formalities," the analyst says, "to give you a broader context for what my team is doing."
The analyst turns back to the whiteboard and begins a new column. The shift in the presentation is subtle but unmistakable to anyone watching closely. He's no longer describing features of a product. He's describing the architecture of an entity.
"Now," he emphasizes, "at the risk of repeating myself, everything I've shown you so far is built on technology that exists today. The AI, the data processing, the monitoring—none of it is speculative. As we've discussed, what makes the Platform different isn't any single capability. It's the integration. . . ."
"But," he pauses, "it's not just an integration of functions and technologies. The real magic here is the integration of highly skilled people that was never before thought possible."
He leans an elbow on to the podium and moves his mouth closer to the microphone to say:
"And it wasn't possible because it was—illegal! Well, at least it was, until recently. . . ."
He then writes three words on a clean section of the whiteboard:
"Arizona" "ABS" "Equity"
"As some of you may know," he says, "Arizona allows non-lawyers like me to own entities that provide legal services. They call them 'Alternative Business Structures.' There are now over 150 licensed ABS entities in Arizona, and new ones are springing up almost every day. And they're not all rag-tag operations. In February 2025, KPMG—yes, that KPMG—received its ABS license from the Arizona Supreme Court. The first Big Four accounting firm licensed to practice law in the United States."
The room stirs. A few partners exchange glances. The tax partners are visibly alert.
"My entity is licensed under the same framework," he continues. "And that's a game changer. Why? Because we're not just integrating brilliant people with technology, we're funding all of it with outside capital!"
As he speaks, you begin to notice something you haven't seen in the analyst before—not during the three years of conversations you've had with him. He's excited. Not the analytical satisfaction he shows when an equation resolves. He's genuinely excited. Something closer to what you imagine he looked like pitching his first startup. His eyes are brighter. His movements are quicker. When he scribbles with the marker, his handwriting even gets bigger.
"A traditional law firm—even one as sophisticated as yours—funds its technology from partner draws. Every dollar you spend on IT, vendors, software, and other tools is a dollar subtracted from PPP. That creates a ceiling on how much you can invest. And it means your technology is always a cost center—never a capital asset."
He's writing faster now, while expounding, "An ABS entity can raise equity capital from outside investors. I have. We can give equity to our engineers and data scientists—which attracts a fundamentally different caliber of technical talent than a salary ever could. We can amortize our technology investment across a much larger base because the Platform serves not just law firms but also accounting firms, consulting firms, and corporate legal departments."
He pauses and looks directly at you.
"Whether you realize it or not, you're competing, or you soonwill be competing, against KPMG, which has a billion-dollar AI budget backstopped by a thirty-five-billion-dollar revenue accounting and consulting firm. And the other Big Three are making comparable investments—hundreds of billions available collectively to play the game. And your current tech spend is—what—a few hundred thousand a year?"
He doesn't wait for an answer.
"And," he provokes, "nobody here should think this ABS movement will be limited to Arizona. Other states, like Utah, are actively considering similar moves. Not that it's particularly relevant but Australia is already a bastion of corporate law firms. How'd that happen?"
He answers his own question, "Well, it's really just something that flows naturally from arbitrage instincts. You see, you guys have done a pretty good job of operating with outsized profits in the background shadows of the entire U.S. economy. The equity partners here invest a dollar and get almost three dollars back. A lot of law firms double that or more! Most companies are thrilled if they can invest a dollar and claw back a buck fifty. So, no one should be surprised that corporate lobbyists are hard at work finding a way to get a cut of your action."
You notice that the pastries piled at the center of each table have suddenly disappeared.
"The Big Four," he continues, "are the obvious first movers, and everyone assumes they threaten Big Law by adding legal services to their existing platforms—that their accounting and consulting clients will simply start buying legal advice from the same firm that does their books and audits. And truthfully that's a real concern for your transactional practices to say the least."
He underlines something on the whiteboard and turns back to the room.
"But what if the disruption runs the other direction? What if the real play is a comprehensive legal services platform with Big Four-caliber cross-disciplinary capabilities built in? Not an accounting firm that adds lawyers—a legal platform that integrates financial analysis, regulatory intelligence, tax strategy, and market intelligence alongside litigation, transactional, and IP practice tools?"
Except for the squeaking wheels of a coffee trolley somewhere in the distance, the room is completely silent.
"That's what I'm building. And that's what the Platform already does at a basic level."
The Money
And then his excitement moves to climax as the discussion shifts even further from the technology to the economics. You suddenly realize you've never seen someone talk about money the way a founder talks about money. In his prior visits, the analyst played the role of an advisor. Dispassionate. Analytical. But now, he's a builder, and the numbers are his numbers.
"Let me talk about valuation," he says, "because this is where it gets personal for everyone who gets in now."
He writes a figure on the whiteboard. The number is large enough that several partners react audibly.
"That's our current pre-money valuation based on committed capital and prototype performance. It will be significantly higher after the next funding round, which closes in ninety days." He circles the number. "The equity I'm offering to those who get in now—at this stage—is priced at this valuation. Not the next one. Not the one after that. This one."
He lets the math speak for itself. The partners in the room, especially the transactions partners, understand equity. They understand what early-stage participation in a high-growth venture looks like. And they understand the difference between getting in at this valuation and waiting two rounds later could be the difference between substantial wealth and a nice salary.
Tom, the practice group leader sitting next to you, shifts in his chair but says nothing.
The Strategy
"But valuation isn't even the most interesting part," the analyst continues. The marker begins moving in earnest as he explains, "Let me show you something about how the Platform creates strategic value—not just for the entity, but for every firm and every practitioner that subscribes to it."
He draws two columns on the whiteboard. In one, he writes "Subscriber A." In the other, "Subscriber B." Between them, he draws a line and labels it "Active Matter."
"Here's the question nobody in legal tech is talking about yet," he says. "Can the Platform host both sides of a dispute or a transaction?"
The litigators in the room immediately see where this is going.
"The answer is almost certainly no. If a subscriber uploads a case file for strategic analysis—privileged documents, work product, litigation strategy—the Platform possesses confidential information that cannot be made available to the opposing party. Even indirectly. Even through anonymized pattern recognition. The conflicts architecture has to be absolute."
He points to the whiteboard and asks, "So what does that mean? It means the first party to engage the Platform on any given matter handcuffs the other side."
He lets that settle. You watch it register across the room—first with the litigators, then with the transactions partners, then with everyone else.
"Think about what that creates," he says, his enthusiasm now fully visible. "A subscriber who uploads their patent portfolio for monitoring and analysis doesn't just get a tool. They get exclusivity. Their competitors and potential adversaries are conflicted out of using the Platform for overlapping subject matter. The value of the subscription increases precisely because their adversary can't have it."
Richard, your senior trial partner, speaks up from his seat. "You're describing network effects—but in reverse. The value isn't from more people joining. It's from your opponents being locked out."
"Exactly," the analyst affirms, pointing at Richard with the marker. "An ironic case where you have network effects through exclusion. And it creates a first-mover advantage that could be decisive. The race isn't just to subscribe—it's to subscribe before your adversaries do. Not for any specific matter but as a prophylactic measure across your entire portfolio of potential disputes and transactions."
A silence falls as the full implication sinks in.
Each partner is suddenly filled with the realization that at some point, they could be pitted against an almost alien adversary with no viable weapon for defense.
Of course, the Platform invariably wins. And winning is everything, especially when the Platform has a full stake in the outcome!
Suddenly the analyst's business model gamble seems like no gamble at all. With such outsized odds of winning against kneecapped opponents, who wouldn't make that bet?
You think back to the "arms race" discussion you had with the analyst just a year ago when discussing the correlation of escalating hourly rates in the profession with the demand for technology-driven legal proficiencies. You wonder if the Platform is somehow the profession's "Manhattan Project" that will radically re-arrange the chess pieces on the legal landscape.
One or two wildly dominant players or quite possibly several relatively small and nimble firms that laser focus on big money cases. The rest languish subserviently in any matter of significance.
Almost on cue, the analyst builds on the room's growing dread.
"Now, think about this from a firm's perspective," the analyst continues. "A firm that subscribes to the Platform is literally suprahuman. It has real-time intelligence, persistent case memory, continuous monitoring, and cross-disciplinary analytical capability that no unassisted team of lawyers can match."
The analyst returns his gaze to Richard. "A firm that is, as you say, 'locked out' of the Platform on a given matter—because the opposing party subscribed first—is at a severe disadvantage."
And with a wry smile, he adds, "It's like bringing a library card to a round of Jeopardy against opponents who have the entire library in their heads."
He pauses ever so briefly before raising the temperature even further, "That asymmetry is what drives adoption. It's not about whether the Platform is nice to have. Once your competitors subscribe, it becomes existential not to. And that dynamic"—he thrusts a pointed finger forward—"is what makes early equity extremely valuable. Because adoption won't be gradual. Once the strategic implications become clear, it explodes."
One of your antitrust partners speaks up to ask, "I can see how that asymmetry might keep the DOJ and FTC off your back, but won't this expansive platform you're building ultimately stifle innovation?"
With a full-faced grin, the analyst responds with apparent glee, "Thank you for that question! I almost forgot the best part. First, I'm happy you think the DOJ and FTC won't be knocking on my door. If they do, you'll be the first person I call! Now the good part."
He pauses ever so briefly, "No. Innovation will be alive and well. I think you will appreciate this. Eventually we will be open sourcing SDKs to private app developers who can host their apps on the Platform—highly specialized apps that will serve unique niches in your practice. These apps or 'agents' will have separate subscription options."
After catching his breath, he continues, "The beauty is that developers can focus on servicing these niches without having to separately build a platform with its strict encryption, firewalls, and other security features. . . . Oh, and that's not even the best part. Individual subscribers, like your firm, can develop their own proprietary agents engineered to the needs of their own practices."
You feel the shift in the room. This isn't a product demo anymore. It hasn't been for some time.
The Reckoning
You also feel the blood drain from your face. Beside you, Tom whispers, "Are you feeling ok?"
"I'm fine," you manage to say, your mouth dry, "but I may be having some regrets."
Because now you're beginning to understand. The "legal support platform" that you cheerfully invited the analyst to present to your partners isn't just a vendor product.
It's a competing model for the delivery of legal services—a "law firm" as the analyst likes to call it—one that is structurally advantaged in ways that your partnership, no matter how optimized, cannot match. The outside capital. The equity-compensated technical talent. The cross-disciplinary integration. The ABS license that makes it all legal.
And then you are struck by even more painful realizations.
The analyst's jovial involvement in your firm over the past three years wasn't just helpful intervention, it was market research!
Although offered "free" of charge, it came at the unstated cost of enabling the analyst and his quest to build the Platform.
And that betrayal, you realize, pales in comparison to what the analyst is doing here right now, at your retreat and with your partners. He's not "demo'ing" a new product or pitching a new service.
At first, you were simultaneously annoyed and flattered by the analyst's repeated references to "getting in now" "at the current valuation." You allowed yourself to believe the analyst is here to raise money. That is, until you remembered that the analyst has a near-perfect understanding of your partners' earnings. True, $4.3 million PPP is an admirable sum. But given the grand scope and ambition of the Platform, it is now clear to you that your partnership can offer no meaningful monetary assistance.
You're a law firm. Not a private equity firm.
No. He's not fundraising.
He's recruiting. . . .
"The Platform," he said, "is rudimentary. Rough around the edges. The outputs require substantial attorney review." And of course, the "Socratic Mentor," is to be "trained on the practice patterns and reasoning of the senior practitioners who built each component of the Platform."
Not just any "senior practitioners"—YOUR partners. The legal experts he already knows and trusts. The impact of this realization takes your breath away. He is here to raid YOUR law firm of its best and brightest talent.
The analyst, as if reading your mind, says to the room: "I should be transparent about something. I owe it to all of you."
A ripple of anticipation passes through the room.
"Building the Platform requires more than engineers. It requires the best legal minds in the country—practitioners who can teach the system how the practice of law actually works, who can validate the output, who can ensure that the platform is serving the profession rather than diminishing it. I've been looking for those people. And I've found some of them in this room."
The silence that follows is deafening.
You force yourself to stand. Your legs unsteady but your voice controlled as you inquire, "Which ones?"
The analyst meets your eyes and says, "I think it's better if they tell you themselves."
For a moment, nobody moves. Then Rachel—your patent practice group leader, the lateral hire you were most proud of, the one you fought three Big Law firms to recruit—stands up from her seat near the back.
"I've accepted an offer to join the venture," she says. Her voice is steady but her hands are clasped tight. "I'll be leading the design of the intellectual property module. I want you all to know that this was the hardest decision of my career. But I believe in what he's building, and I believe my experience can help shape it in a way that's good for the profession."
Before the murmuring can fully erupt, Carl—your corporate and M&A practice group leader, the partner who billed more transactional hours last year than anyone in the firm—stands as well.
"Same here," he says simply. "I'm leading the transactional module."
Something inside prompts you to turn and look at Tom, still sitting next to your empty chair. Your appellate specialist and friend who, you now realize, remained unfazed and peculiarly neutral throughout the analyst's presentation. He's staring at his hands.
"Tom?" you ask quietly. The room can't hear you, but he can.
He doesn't look up. "I'm sorry," he says. "I should have told you. He came to me three months ago. The summary judgment alert—that was my idea. I helped him design it."
The room is watching you now. You're standing at the front of your own retreat, your partnership fracturing in real time, and the analyst is at the whiteboard looking at you with an expression that is—God help you—genuinely sympathetic. He's not gloating. He's not performing. He recruited three of your practice group leaders and then stood in front of the remaining partners and told the truth, and he looks like he wishes it didn't have to happen this way.
A voice cuts through the confusion. Jim—the same Jim who objected to calling NEPs "partners" at the last retreat—is on his feet, face flushed.
"First he bought a law school," Jim scolds, pointing at the analyst, "and now he's buying a law firm. And apparently a few of our partners came with the furniture!"
Despite the tension, that last line arouses a few nervous laughs. But Jim isn't laughing.
He continues his frank assessment, "Did the DOGE analyst here optimize our firm or did he merely prepare it for disassembly?"
Turning his ire directly on the analyst, Jim yells, "How dare you come back here—to our retreat—and raid the firm that befriended you? We trusted you. We invited you into our meetings, showed you our financials, treated you like family. And you used all of it to build something to compete with us and that may well become our financial ruin?"
The analyst takes the blows without flinching. "Jim, I understand how this looks. And I understand why you're angry. But I need you to hear something. I need you all to hear something."
He turns to address the room. "I didn't come here to destroy this firm. I came here because the people in this room are the best at what they do, and what I'm building deserves the best. Every one of you has spent decades developing expertise that no amount of data can replicate. The platform without practitioners like you is just software. With you, it's the future of the profession."
He pauses and then says, "And I also came because I believe you deserve to know what's happening in your industry before it happens to you. KPMG has its ABS license. The Big Four are committing billions to AI. Entities like mine—and there are others—are assembling the pieces. The question isn't whether this convergence happens. The question is whether the best law firm in America is on the building side or the receiving end."
You realize that all eyes are now fixed on you and that it is incumbent on you to say something.
After a brief struggle to find the right words, you turn to the analyst and remark, "I appreciate what you're saying. I really do. The problem I'm having is what you are doing, here, with our firm. I believe many of us in the room share some of Jim's sentiments if not his precise words."
Conversations erupt at several tables as you continue, "Honestly, a few minutes ago, I was convinced that you were here to just cherry pick our best talent until I heard, what did you say, 'The question is whether the best law firm in America is on the building side or the receiving end.' What exactly were you trying to say?"
The analyst responds, "I'll be brief. First, thank you for hearing me out. You are owed an explanation. Second, I'll just say in preface that the development timeline hasn't worked out as neatly as I would have liked."
With everyone now listening in earnest, the analyst explains, "As I mentioned, the entity that owns the Platform is an ABS licensed in Arizona. And that entity also owns another subsidiary—a law firm. It will be our full-service response to KPMG and will be backed by the full force of the Platform and its outside investors."
"So, you really are starting a law firm?" you ask.
"Well, it's not much of a law firm at the moment," he replies, "It has the minimum one lawyer necessary for licensing." He pauses and then adds the punchline, "my cousin who just graduated law school last year."
The room erupts in laughter. It even brings a smile to your face.
Apparently relieved from the break in tension, the analyst continues, "You won't be getting any stiff competition from us for a while. Obviously, we want to expand the firm to full nationwide, global even, service, and the quickest way to accomplish that is with a merger, . . ." he trails off and looks at you.
"I see," you say with a wry grin and then add, "And unless we uproot our global virtual firm and move everyone to Arizona, that's not exactly something that's going to work."
"That's right," he responds, "I do believe the ABS framework will expand or, at least, there will be some flexibility in the future that accommodates a multi-state partnership. Until then, our hands are tied."
"Until then," you comment, "we have a law firm to run and should be getting back to partnership business. However, I realize that some of our partners may still have a few questions for you. Let's take a little time for that. But we do need to be getting on with the rest of the meeting."
The Q&A
With tempers calmed to, at least, an uneasy truce, the partners' questions elicit more details—and even more undisclosed treachery.
Linda, one of your regulatory partners, raises her hand. She's been quiet until now—unusually quiet, you realize. "Following up on your ABS law firm, can you walk us through the ethics obstacles a little more clearly? Because from where I sit, Model Rule 5.4 seems to be the biggest obstacle to what you are trying to accomplish."
The analyst nods. "It's a fair question. The answer is nuanced, and we need to carefully distinguish between the Platform and our ABS law firm." He returns to the whiteboard. "Rule 5.4 in most states prohibits lawyers from sharing fees with non-lawyers or forming partnerships with them. If, for example, partners from this firm took equity in my ABS law firm while maintaining their licenses in states that retain Rule 5.4, they'd face potential disciplinary exposure. Texas, of course, was quick to the draw. Ethics Opinion 704, issued just last year, specifically says that a Texas lawyer cannot join a non-lawyer-owned firm—even one in a permissive jurisdiction like Arizona."
He lets that land, then continues. "But there's sunlight, at least for the Platform. Texas Ethics Opinion 706—issued the same month—says that a lawyer may own equity in a non-lawyer-owned company, so long as that company does not itself engage in the practice of law. So at least for now, we are prepared to argue that the Platform is merely a technology company. Although the ABS framework should enable any 'legal services' that the Platform arguably provides under Arizona law, we have been steadfast in our investor communications that the core product is legal support, not legal services. So, any lawyer holding equity in the Platform isn't practicing law through a non-lawyer-owned firm. They're employees and equity holders in a technology company, designing and validating a product."
Linda nods slowly but presses further. "And California? AB 931 was signed in October of last year. It also specifically prohibits California attorneys from fee-sharing with out-of-state ABS entities."
"That's right," the analyst acknowledges. "California is playing defense. AB 931 has a four-year sunset clause. Perhaps they know they're fighting the tide. And importantly, the law targets fee-sharing. It doesn't prohibit California attorneys from investing in or working for a technology company that happens to have an ABS law firm as its sister company. We believe the structure matters."
One partner turns to another partner sitting at the same table to note the irony of California's apparent protectionist play, after effectively imposing its labeling, emissions, and other regulatory requirements on the entire nation.
Another partner stands, Kathy, who manages some of the firm's most sensitive cross-border work, and asks, "What about privilege? If non-lawyers have operational access to the Platform's data, does attorney-client privilege survive?"
The analyst pauses in deep thought before responding, "That's the hardest question, and I'll do my best to answer it as a guy who's only audited a few classes. . . . The law isn't settled. There are strong Full Faith and Credit constitutional and other arguments that privilege attaches to the legal services component of an ABS entity like our ABS law firm, and Arizona's framework is designed to protect it. But this will likely require litigation to resolve definitively. I'd be lying if I said there was zero risk."
Kathy follows up to clarify, "I get that. My question was directed more to subscriber interface with the Platform itself. Have you considered federated architecture to isolate client data from the general model training pipeline?"
"My apologies. Yes," the analyst responds, "our current thinking is that the privilege issue will turn less on our ABS license and more on the actual design of the Platform itself."
"For example," he continues, "just this month, the prosecution in U.S. v. Heppner in the Southern District of New York argued that Heppner waived privilege in information received from his attorneys that he subsequently uploaded to AI. The judge ruled from the bench that privilege was, in fact, waived because there is no reasonable expectation of confidentiality in information provided to AI." See United States v. Heppner, No. 25-cr-00503-JSR, Minute Entry (S.D.N.Y. Feb. 10, 2026); id. at Dkt. 27, pg. 7 (Memorandum Opinion).
"On the same day," he adds, "the magistrate judge in Warner v. Gilbarco, Inc. in the Eastern District of Michigan reached the opposite conclusion. He ruled that 'ChatGPT (and other generative AI programs) are tools, not persons, even if they may have administrators somewhere in the background.' So this is obviously a hotly contested issue." See Warner v. Gilbarco, Inc., No. 2:24-cv-12333, Dkt. 94, pg. 12 (E.D. Mich. Feb. 10, 2026) (emphasis in original).
"But let me be clear," the analyst confirms, "We anticipated all of this. Although Warner helps by addressing system administrator access, the weightier issue is the one addressed in Heppner—reasonable expectation of confidentiality. And that is why the architecture of the Platform is necessarily distinct from all other LLMs to prevent non-admin access or disclosure. All subscriber data is encrypted, firewalled, and segregated. Strict safeguards are in place preventing any system 'training' on subscriber data—only analysis. True, there is an opportunity cost in foregoing training on this rich data set. But the volume of publicly available data is growing exponentially. So, on balance, we lose little in analytical prowess to ensure satisfaction of the courts' requirement for a reasonable expectation of confidentiality."
Listening to this back-and-forth between Kathy and the analyst, you are innately troubled by her unusually specific question about "federated architectures." The question isn't something most lawyers ask from a standing start. It's a question from someone who has already thought deeply about the technical architecture—or been briefed on it.
Your puzzlement is apparently obvious. You look at Kathy. The analyst looks at you.
Eventually, Kathy meets your gaze. "He called me in November," she says quietly. "I haven't committed. But I've been . . . listening."
The analyst shrugs his shoulders with a feigned look of surprise.
Despite your deepening despair and displeasure, you retain composure while announcing, "We have time for one more question."
A tax partner, Michael, speaks up next. "I want a better understanding of the Big Four angle. You said the Platform will have cross-disciplinary capability. KPMG is building the same thing from the other direction—accounting and advisory with legal capability. How is the Platform different?"
"Scale and focus," the analyst responds. "KPMG is adding legal as a service line to an existing audit and accounting platform. Their lawyers are embedded in a firm culture that is fundamentally about financial reporting. The Platform is built from the ground up around law firm practice, with financial and regulatory analysis integrated as features rather than the other way around."
Michael is quiet for a moment and then comments, "I've seen what Deloitte is doing with Zora AI. And what EY's built for their tax practice. If you could plug that kind of analytical infrastructure into a litigation-grade legal platform. . . ." He trails off, but his expression says the rest.
"Exactly," the analyst says.
You watch Michael's face and see something you've observed many times before in courtrooms when a witness realizes they've said too much. You make a mental note as the analyst continues speaking.
"And to embellish this point a little more," the analyst says, "I can't emphasize 'scale' enough. This is what distinguishes the Platform from the Big Four systems and, frankly, all the other legal tech AI startups. There is this myopic notion in the industry that legal tools can be trained on finite 'legal data sets' for their targeted expertise. It's based on the idea that focus produces accuracy. But it's really just an excuse for scrimping on cost."
After a brief pause, he adds, "The hard truth is that the threshold training data set is everything—the entire recorded human experience."
Without waiting for a reaction, the analyst continues, "Think about it this way. Imagine a courthouse anywhere in the country. Everyone working in the courthouse—the judges, the clerks, the lawyers—are all legally trained. Where I come from, that legal training amounts to what we call a 'necessary but insufficient' condition of a fully functioning system. Every dispute adjudicated in the courthouse must pass through the legal lens, but every dispute has its own unique subject matter that has nothing to do with the law itself."
"And no offense," he continues, "but none of you are subject matter experts. For each case, you have to 'get up to speed' on the specific facts of the commercial dispute or the technology at play in a patent matter. And the ball is always moving. You're all now senior lawyers—maybe it's unfair to say—but your undergrad educations are fading memories. And life, as well as product lines, financial systems, and technologies, moves on."
Richard, one of your patent partners, chimes in, "There's something to that. All my bio cases now involve new gene editing technologies. But when I was doing labs at university, we spent all our time dissecting nematodes."
"Right," the analyst agrees, "and that is why the Platform must be expert in anything that could wander into any courthouse anywhere in the country. And to be effective. . . . I mean to be persuasive; the platform must understand the human experience. It must be good at storytelling to help you capture the attention of judges and juries. It must perceive and apply 'common sense' to facts that lead one to a 'reasonable' and 'obvious' conclusion. Those are human judgments as much as they are human intuitions. It must have sensitivity to the notion that what might play well in the Southern District of New York might be a dead end in the Eastern District of Texas."
"So," Michael asks, "you don't think the Big Four's systems are really a threat?"
The analyst responds with growing intensity, "Look. They're brilliant for what they're designed to do and likely light years ahead of many of the current legal tech systems under development. But the legal use case doesn't fit neatly into a spreadsheet. The law isn't a vending machine of known inputs and predictable outputs. The law evolves within the context of judgment and nuance while aimed at moving targets. And from an engineering perspective, the Platform's training needs to be weighted to reflect those subtleties."
The analyst takes a deep breath and after locking eyes with you says, "That's why I'm here. Because the task at hand requires more than a room full of engineers. . . ."
The "Banishment"
Your eyes betray that you've heard enough.
The analyst takes your cue and sits down without finishing his sentence.
The partner retreat, originally dedicated to the strategic planning of another profitable year, has fallen into turmoil as your partners instead confront an inexorable and unforgiving fate. Every minute the analyst spoke, you saw new fissures in the partnership appear and then deepen.
Your first instinct is to blame the analyst. He poached partners behind your back and is now blatantly recruiting others in front of your face. He is bold if not ruthless.
Objectively, you recognize that partner defections to the Platform are the least of your worries. A handful of partners out of 100 is not itself the problem. The analyst is merely a metaphor of impending disruptive change, which is the problem.
The rags-to-riches story that you've been living for three years—the miraculous $77.5 million to $215 million profit transformation—was built on the same forces that now threaten to unravel it. Technology made you lean. Technology made you virtual. Technology made you proficient. Technology made you more productive.
And if technology is making each of your lawyers, say, ten times more productive, then the partnership is forced to ask the obvious difficult question: why does it need so many of them?
And why do they need each other?
In a flash of comprehension, you see your vulnerability plainly.
Stripped to their essence, law firms have always been data processing centers. Extraordinary minds trained on legal principles with access to vast libraries and then networked together through employment and partner relationships comb through case files to produce contracts, legal briefs, and oral arguments—data processing from start to finish.
Now the Platform does it all—"better than ever!" as the analyst would say.
For momentary comfort, you cling to the analyst's one and only concession—the Platform's ultimate success in the legal profession hinges on near-perfect approximation to human nuance and intuition. Anything short of that achievement engenders a continuing role for you and your partners into the future.
Sobered by these realizations, you turn to the analyst and begin your concluding comments:
"On behalf of the partnership, thank you for your visit and your remarks. I suspect my partners largely agree with me when I say that you told us what we needed to hear—not what we wanted to hear."
Heads nod in affirmation around the scattered tables.
You turn to your partners and explain, "The group leaders put in a lot of hours planning today's agenda topics. With my apologies to each of them, we obviously need to refocus the remainder of the meeting. We have a lot to discuss."
Your eyes return to the analyst sitting somberly in front of you, "And thank you for the potential merger opportunity that you previewed for us. It is well received and something we will discuss today and into the future."
The analyst's face transforms into a warm smile as he realizes that his single-most important objective for the day's meeting is still within reach.
You continue, "Unfortunately, until circumstances change, we will need to defer further discussions with you about that opportunity."
The analyst nods in understanding.
"And," you add regretfully, "it now appears that our mutual interests, your Platform and our law firm, have materially diverged. Until things are different, the fruitful exchanges of ideas and information we enjoyed over the past three years are no longer possible."
A noticeable hint of sadness crosses the analyst's face.
"It's time for you to leave," you force yourself to say.
The analyst smiles. You both exchange a genuinely warm handshake.
And then he's gone—departed through a side door leading to the airport, his airplane, and an uncertain future for all.
Act Three: The Tarmac
Late that afternoon, you're told that the analyst's jet is preparing for departure. Several partners have been seen heading toward the airport.
You walk to the tarmac.
The jet's engines are warming. Through the oval windows, you can see Rachel and Carl already seated. A moment later, Tom appears at the top of the boarding stairs, pauses, and disappears again inside.
The analyst is standing on the tarmac, jacket slung over one shoulder, talking to a small group of partners. Linda is there, her expression neutral. Kathy is there too, arms crossed, listening. Michael, the tax partner, arrives in a golf cart.
The managing partner inside you grieves their loss. The friend inside you is happy for each of them.
Their conversation with the analyst ends almost as quickly as it began.
The analyst sees you and pauses. Across forty feet of sunbaked concrete, the two of you briefly hold each other's gaze. Three years of late-night conversations, whiteboard sessions, restructurings, retreats, and shared triumphs compressed into a silent moment.
He nods, almost imperceptibly. You nod back.
Then he turns, says something to the assembled group that you can't hear, and walks up the boarding stairs.
The engines spool up. The jet begins to taxi.
You look at the partners still standing on the tarmac. They look back at you.
Nobody speaks.
The analyst was right about one thing. He's always been right. The question was never whether this moment would arrive. The question was always what you would do when it did.
We are each faced with our own private set of choices.
What would YOU do?
What will you do?
The content of this article is intended to provide a general guide to the subject matter. Specialist advice should be sought about your specific circumstances.
