Excerpt:
"Lawyers, I suppose, were children once.” — Charles Lamb
Driving past no fewer than eight images of her likeness, advertisements on buses and billboards, we arrive at the residence of Joumana Kayrouz. Located in Bloomfield Hills, the house is opulent without being gaudy, tasteful in its hugeness. Pastel Easter decorations pepper the topiaries outside the sheet-glass entrance, multicolored eggs and hot-pink muslin flamboyant against the slate and marble palace. Ms. Kayrouz has just arrived home from meeting the president of the United States, her third or fourth meeting, she cannot quite remember. She stands in her driveway and asks the reporter to meet her at the front door as she poses for a photograph with two people, likely one of dozens she has smiled for during her day, which as usual, began before dawn.
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