“Thanks,” I said, unzipping my robe. “I meant to
bring my lunch today, but Cal couldn’t find his spelling
book this morning and I didn’t have time. Good to see
you again, Dr. Allred.”
She rolled her eyes at Portland. “When is she going
to start calling me Linda?”
“Probably when you stop hauling assholes up before
her in court,” Portland said, and speared a cherry to-
mato on the end of her fork. “Wonder if the baby’s al-
lergic to tomatoes?”
“Yes,” I said, and plucked it from her fork. Like most
tomatoes this time of year, it had been picked way too
92
HARD ROW
early and was almost tasteless, but the morning’s session
had left me hungry and soon I was digging into my own
salad.
“So what were y’all laughing about?” I asked.
“Tell her,” Portland urged.
The professor smiled and an impish gleam lit her face.
“It was outside the cafe where I picked up our salads
just now. First this dilapidated wreck of a pickup with a
crushed front fender and a closed-in topper slides into
the curb and parks.”
“In a handicap spot?”
“Yep. And no, they didn’t have a tag.”
“Are we to assume a tow truck’s on the way even as
we eat?”
Dr. Allred shook her head. “I didn’t have the heart.
See, the driver’s door opens and a grizzled old man gets
out. He’s got one foot in a cast and his arm’s in one of
those rigid slings where his elbow is on the same level
as his shoulder.”
She demonstrated the awkward angle.
“Then the passenger door opens and out comes a
pair of crutches, followed by a woman with both legs
in casts.”
I laughed. “You’re making that up.”
“Word of honor. They then help each other hobble
around to the back, open up the door and a dog jumps
out.”
“Don’t tell me the dog’s wearing a cast?”
“No, but it’s only got three legs.”
“No way,” I protested.
Eyes twinkling, she crossed her heart. “True story.
Now how could I write those poor folks a ticket?”
93
MARGARET MARON
“You’re all heart,” I told her.
