Hardly. They were soon to have their first child.
'You gonna send those two smart girls to UT? Don't you want to give them a good education? Harvard, Yale, Wellesley-think how proud you'd be dropping your daughters off at Wellesley for college. With that kind of education, their futures would be unlimited. But that'll cost a hundred thousand a year by the time they're eighteen. Times two. That's a lot of money, Scotty-you gonna ask Rebecca to pay for their college?'
' Rebecca? '
'You see that son of a bitch won another tournament? Trey?'
Trey Rawlins had been the assistant pro at the club, the man Scott's wife had run off with. Dan was shaking his head.
'Two years ago, he's trying to cure my slice, now he's a star on tour and filthy rich. You could be too, Scotty- filthy rich. What'd you always tell our law student recruits? 'You want odds, go to Vegas. You want a chance to get filthy rich by the time you're forty, hire on with Ford Stevens.' You're only thirty-eight. There's still time to save your career. Except you won't be hiring on with Ford Stevens.'
'What do you mean?'
Dan Ford paused and took a deep breath, as if he were about to make a big announcement.
'Ford Fenney.'
'Ford Fenney?'
'Your name will be on the door, next to mine, where it belongs. Where it's always belonged. Scotty, you were always like a son to me.'
'Until you fired me. What was that, tough love?'
Scott had said no to his father-figure only once-and had gotten fired for it.
'That was a mistake. I'm man enough to admit it, I hope you're man enough to forgive me.' Dan shrugged. 'Besides, Mack's dead now, so there's no conflict.'
U.S. Senator Mack McCall had died a year before of prostate cancer. He had been a Ford Stevens client. The conflict of interest had arisen when Scott had been appointed by Judge Buford to represent Pajamae's mother-a black prostitute named Shawanda Jones-who had been charged with murdering Clark McCall, the senator's son, after he had picked her up one Saturday night. Dan Ford had told Scott to throw the case to preserve McCall's presidential bid; Scott had said no. So Dan had fired him. And A. Scott Fenney's ambitious years had come to an abrupt end.
'Scotty, the firm's business is booming-I've added fifty lawyers since you left. Come share in it.'
'Booming? In this economy?'
'Bankruptcies. Business bankruptcies are at an all-time high, and lawyers get paid first, before the creditors.' Dan chuckled. 'You can't get rich without a lawyer and you can't go broke without a lawyer. Is this a great country or what?'
Dan's smile faded, and he put a father's hand on his son's shoulder.
'Come back to the firm. Do well for yourself… and your girls.'
'Dan-'
'Just think about it, Scotty, okay? Think about what's best for your girls.'
'Always.'
They shook hands again, and Dan walked off, his brown wingtips clacking on the wood floor down the center aisle and out the double doors until the sound faded away. Scott sat alone in the vast courtroom, alone in his defeat. Alone with his thoughts.
One million dollars. A year. Every year. College. Weddings. Mortgage. Vacations. Cable TV. iPhones. Braces. Everything the girls needed or wanted. Except a mother. All he had to do was go back over to the dark side. Work for corporations who could pay $750 an hour to lawyers who sold their talents to the highest bidder.
And why shouldn't he?
If he had played pro football, he wouldn't have played for a poor, losing team just to make the games fair. He would have sold his talents to the highest bidder. No one faulted A-Rod for making $25 million a year playing baseball for the Yankees, the richest winning team in baseball. Why should A. Scott play for poor, losing teams? Why shouldn't he reap the rewards of his talents? Why shouldn't he provide for the girls? Why shouldn't he take them to the south of France for summer vacation-or at least to the north of America? Why shouldn't they go to Wellesley with the best girls in America? Why shouldn't Pajamae have teeth that look like pearls?
Why shouldn't he be filthy rich like the man his wife had run off with?
FOUR
United States District Judge Samuel Buford was seventy-eight years old now. The black reading glasses seemed too big for his gaunt face. His white hair was no longer thick; it was only wisps. From the chemo. Everyone had always said Sam Buford would die on the bench. They were right.
'You should've won,' the judge said when Scott entered his chambers.
Scott shrugged. 'Just another case lost.'
'Another lost cause.'
'Someone's got to lose those cases, Judge, or they wouldn't be lost causes.'
The judge gestured at a chair. Scott sat and gazed across the wide desk at the frail judge dwarfed by his leather chair and framed by tall bookcases filled with law books. Each time Scott saw the judge there seemed to be less to see; it was as if he were disappearing before Scott's eyes. And the judge now had the look of death about him, the same look Scott's mother had when the cancer had won out and she knew it. Judge Samuel Buford was a living legend in the law. But not for long.
'Scott, you can't make a difference if you can't pay your bills. It's okay to take on a few paying clients every now and then.'
'Making rich people richer… I can't seem to generate any enthusiasm for that line of work anymore.'
The judge gave him a knowing nod. 'Once you cross over, it's hard to go back.'
They regarded each other, two of a kind now.
'How are you holding up, Judge?'
'Doctors say six months.'
Sam Buford had been diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. But he was determined to clear his docket before he died.
'Why don't you retire, spend your time at home?'
'Doing what? Wife's been dead ten years now, the kids and grandkids live out of state, I don't play golf…' He paused and half-smiled, as if recalling a favorite moment. 'Scott, I ever tell you I almost retired two years ago, during that case?'
'The McCall murder case?'
The judge nodded.
'No, sir, you didn't.'
'Well, I would've, if you hadn't come back that day, said you were ready to be that girl's lawyer. You gave me hope.'
'Hope for what?'
'The law… lawyers… life. Glad you came back. Glad I didn't retire.' He tossed a thumb at the law books behind him. 'The law's been my life. Thirty-two years of judging, I made a difference.'
Sam Buford had wielded a gavel since Scott was in first grade. All the toughest cases in Dallas had come before him, but he would forever be remembered-and reviled by many-for ordering the desegregation of public schools so black children would receive the same education as white children.
'Yes, sir, you did. You're a fine federal judge.'
'You could be too.'
'I could be what?'
'A fine federal judge.'
' Me? A federal judge?'
