'Good book. Movie, too.'
Scott climbed the stairs to his office. Bobby followed, smacking the gum he had taken to chewing to quit smoking now that he was going to be a father.
'Billy,' he said.
Baby names. They were going to have a boy.
'Billy Herrin,' Scott said. 'Sounds like a shortstop.'
'Joe?'
'Maybe.'
'Sid?'
'No!'
Scott and Bobby had grown up together, two renters in Highland Park. Scott's football heroics had opened the door to success in Dallas for him, at least for a while. Bobby hadn't been a football star, so the door had been shut in his face. After SMU law school, Scott had gone on to a partnership at Ford Stevens, Bobby to a storefront in East Dallas. After eleven years on career paths heading in opposite directions, they had reconnected two years ago for the McCall murder case. They had practiced law together since. They now entered Scott's office.
'Uh, Scotty, on the news this morning-'
'Bobby, you're not going to believe what Buford wants to do.'
'What?'
'Put me up for federal judge, to replace him.'
' No shit? Wow, that's, uh, that's great, Scotty.'
Bobby had stopped smacking his gum. Scott saw the concern on his friend's face. Bobby was about to become a father and the 'Fenney' in 'Fenney Herrin Douglas' might leave the firm. They were barely making it now; without their lead lawyer, they wouldn't make it at all.
'Bobby, a federal judge gets to hire his own staff attorneys, like you and Karen. And a paralegal like Carlos and a… well, I'll have to figure out a position for Louis.'
'So we'd be federal employees?'
'With benefits.'
'Maternity?'
'I'm sure-it's the federal government.'
'I've never had a job with benefits. Course, I've never had a real job.'
'Well, you will now.'
'If you get confirmed.'
'A minor obstacle.'
'With two Republican senators? I won't count my benefits just yet. What about our clients?'
'Civil rights claims are federal cases tried before federal judges.'
Scott settled in behind his desk, leaned back in his chair, and kicked his feet up. Bobby sat across from him. They were quiet, both considering their legal futures. Scott gazed at the gleaming downtown skyline framed in the window like a portrait. Once again, downtown Dallas beckoned to A. Scott Fenney. But would he return to a corner office on the sixty-second floor or to a judge's chambers in the federal courthouse? To $1 million or $169,000? To Ford Fenney or as Judge Fenney? To money or justice? Two years before, he had faced the same choice; he had chosen justice. Which decision had cost him everything he had once held dear, including his wife. Everything except his daughter. But it had given him another daughter and another life, if not another wife. He would make the same choice again. And he would make the same choice now.
'You'll be a good judge, Scotty.'
'Thanks, Bobby. So what were you saying?'
'Oh… yeah.'
Bobby's jaws worked the gum hard again. He exhaled heavily.
'There was a murder down in Galveston and she's been arrested and charged-'
'She who?'
Bobby opened his mouth to answer, but Scott's phone rang. He held up a finger to Bobby then put the receiver to his ear and said, 'Scott Fenney.' He heard a heavy sigh, almost a cry, then a voice he hadn't heard in twenty-two months and eight days.
'Scott-it's Rebecca. I need you.'
FIVE
They would spend their summer vacation on Galveston Island.
It was the following Monday morning, and Scott wasn't thinking about Ford Fenney or Judge Fenney. He was thinking about Rebecca Fenney. His ex-wife was sitting in the Galveston County Jail, charged with the murder of Trey Rawlins. The man his wife had left him for was now dead.
Scott was driving the Jetta south on Interstate 45 through East Texas. Consuela was sitting in the passenger's seat and quietly saying the rosary-she was deathly afraid of Texas highways-and Boo and Pajamae were watching a Hannah Montana DVD on their portable player in the back seat while little Maria sucked on a pink pacifier and slept peacefully in her car seat between them. In the rearview Scott saw Bobby and Karen in their blue Prius, and behind them, Carlos and Louis in the black Dodge Charger.
'Good God Almighty, Mr. Fenney, what the heck is that?'
Pajamae was pointing out the left side of the car at a six-story-tall white statue overlooking the interstate like a giant observing his toy cars speeding past.
'Sam Houston. The first president of the Republic of Texas.'
'Mr. Fenney, did you know that Sam Houston and a bunch of white boys just stole Texas from the Mexicans?'
Fifth grade had studied Sam Houston and sex.
'I heard something about that.'
'Our teacher said now the Mexicans are taking the place back, all of them moving here.'
'What's that?' Boo asked.
'Mexicans?'
'No-that.'
They were now in Huntsville, located seventy miles due north of Houston and notable for two structures: the Sam Houston statue and the state penitentiary. In the rearview, Scott saw Boo looking out the side window. He glanced that way and saw what she saw: bleak brick buildings behind tall chain-link fences topped with concertina wire and secured by armed guards in towers at each corner of the perimeter. The State of Texas incarcerated 155,000 inmates in those buildings behind those fences.
'A prison,' he said.
In the rearview, he saw Boo twist in her seat to stare at the prison until it was out of sight. She turned back. Her face was pale. Scott knew her thoughts had returned to her mother. The murder had made the network news Friday and Saturday evenings, and no doubt the cable coverage was nonstop; fortunately, the Fenney household did not have cable. He had told Boo about her mother, but he was able to shield her from the worst of the news.
'Mother's in a place like that?'
'No. That's a prison. She's in jail.'
'What's the difference?'
'I can get her out of jail.'
She had left him for another man, a younger man who had given her what she had needed because her husband had not. Scott Fenney had failed her. Now, two years later, she needed what only Scott Fenney could give her: a defense to a murder charge. This time, he wouldn't fail her.
'I didn't kill him,' she had pleaded on the phone. 'I swear to God, I'm innocent.'
Rebecca Fenney was not a murderer. Or his wife. But she was still the mother of his child. What does a man owe the mother of his child?
