The air in the offices of Cravath, Swaine & Moore on Park Avenue was colder and cleaner than the most expensive Pine-Sol. It smelled of polished wood, leather, and money that had never seen the inside of a car wash.
George M. Hamlin was already annoyed. It was February 15, 1977, and his assistant had informed him that a potential new client was waiting—a young Puerto Rican woman and her toddler son from the Bronx. The firm didn't handle personal injury, and they certainly didn't handle domestic issues.
Hamlin was a rising star in his mid-thirties, already embodying the meticulous, tailored perfection that defined the best corporate law. His suit was immaculate, and his focus was entirely on the municipal bond contracts that had driven the city into fiscal ruin. He dealt in structure, clarity, and vast, verifiable capital.
When his assistant ushered Sofia Rivera and her son, Eli, into the conference room, Hamlin's annoyance turned into profound skepticism.
Sofia looked utterly exhausted. Her hands were raw from scrubbing, and she gripped her purse like it contained the last ounce of her sanity. Eli, just turned three, sat quietly on the thick, plush carpet, looking around the room with intense, curious eyes.
"Mrs. Rivera," Hamlin began, his voice polite but brittle. "Cravath specializes in international intellectual property and corporate mergers. This retainer—" he gestured to the locked briefcase his assistant had verified—"it's sizable. It's $30,000. We need to discuss the source of this capital, and frankly, I need to understand why you believe this firm is appropriate for a toy."
Sofia leaned forward, her eyes desperate but resolved. "Mr. Hamlin, I am an English adjunct. I cannot tell you the source, except that it is clean now, and it is money earned under great duress. All I know is that my son is a genius. This is the only chance to save his future. You are the best. Please, save him from the streets."
Hamlin felt a professional chill. He didn't save souls; he saved assets. "Ma'am, I respect your devotion, but $30,000 is a considerable retainer. For that, I need proof of concept, not parental admiration. What is the patent? Who is the inventor? And why is this worth battling a socialist government over?"
Sofia opened her mouth, but Eli's small hand reached out and gently rested on his mother's knee. He looked up at Hamlin, sensing the moment demanded simplicity.
"Mr. Hamlin," Eli said, his voice clear and articulate, perfectly echoing the rhythm of a child actor—or a future CEO. "The patent is unproven. The source is non-trackable. And the inventor, Ernő Rubik, is powerless."
Hamlin stopped. The language was precise, cold, and utterly out of place.
Eli continued, filtering the massive complexity of his plan into three simple truths:
"You are not being paid to file papers. You are being paid to win a war. I need political leverage against the Soviet bloc. I need intelligence against corporate raiders. And I need a clean name."
He slid the Rubik's Cube prototype—still stiff and marked with its Hungarian signature—across the polished mahogany. It stopped inches from Hamlin's spotless cufflink.
"That retainer," Eli finished, using his sharpest Chris Rock inflection, "Yo, that $30,000 ain't for your time, Mr. Hamlin. It's for your name. You think you're smart? I'm just buying the biggest gun in the room."
Hamlin looked at the worn plastic cube, then at the exhausted mother, and finally back at the piercing, cynical eyes of the three-year-old child. The entire scene was a total, beautiful absurdity—but the simple, brutal logic was undeniable. The money was here. The threat of political maneuvering and corporate espionage was real. The potential payoff for Cravath, if the cube worked, was enormous.
He opened the briefcase and slid the signed retainer agreement across the desk, covering the cube.
"The money is accepted," Hamlin stated, his voice now professional, stripped of its skepticism. "Our firm's retainer includes an immediate allocation for geopolitical intelligence and corporate defense. We will proceed to secure the North American rights."
Sofia leaned back, relief washing over her. She had saved him.
Hamlin, however, was already looking at the cube, seeing not a toy, but a high-risk asset. He had just taken on the strangest, most dangerous client of his career, funded by a two-year-old and $30,000 in drug money.