The rain began in a quiet, indifferent drizzle that made the glass of Manhattan’s skyline weep; it turned the city into a watercolor of yellow cabs and smeared neon. In the corner office at Pearson Specter Litt, where the skyline swallowed whole the lower tip of the island, Harvey Specter rested an elbow on the arm of his leather chair and considered the file on his desk as if it were a chessboard. The folder bore a single word on a Post-it: Soloff.
Pearson Specter Litt returned to its rhythm—cases folded into files, small victories stitched into the enduring cloth of power. But for a while afterward, whenever Harvey caught his reflection in the conference room glass, he would press his thumb against the skin near his collarbone and feel the echo of a case that had required more than law: it had required the delicate art of steering truth into a place where it would hurt no one too badly. pearson specter litt soloff exclusive
Harvey knew the name. Jonathan Soloff was a financier who had risen with the market’s violent swings and become the kind of man whose enemies were often as polished as his cufflinks. People like Soloff carried secrets in briefcases between the Upper East Side and private jets. When they reached Harvey’s desk, the stakes were always private jets higher. Pearson Specter Litt — Soloff Exclusive The rain
Every exclusive deal has a backdoor. For the Pearson Specter Litt Soloff lineup, that backdoor was Charles Forstman. Pearson Specter Litt returned to its rhythm—cases folded