problem keeping his prick out of the payroll.”
“Scotty, he’s the guy who paid SMU players, got the football team the death penalty! You hated assholes like him back then. Now you’re working for him? Why? ”
Scotty smiled. “Three million bucks a year in legal fees, Bobby, that’s why.”
The number took Bobby’s breath away: three million bucks. Bobby’s best year ever, he’d grossed $27,500. Only a few minutes together after eleven years apart, and he was already envying Scotty’s life again. Sure, Bobby had loyal clients-one brought him homemade tamales each week, another had named her illegitimate son after him-and his money was no good at either the donut shop or the bar-free donuts and beer were the only perks his particular position offered-but his best client had paid him $500 last year; Scotty’s best client paid him $3 million. In all English-speaking parts of Dallas, money was the only recognized measure of a lawyer’s success; consequently, only among the Spanish-speaking population of East Dallas was Robert Herrin, Esq., not considered a total loser.
His mind was prying open the door to depression again, the point in each day when he would walk next door and down a few Tecates, when Roberto appeared with two glasses of iced tea and placed them on the table and then spread napkins in their laps, which made Bobby flinch-where he ate, someone leans in that close they’re going for your wallet. After Roberto left, Bobby emptied two sweeteners in his tea, drank half the glass, and said, “Kind of surprised to get your call this morning, Scotty. Your secretary’s call, anyway. But you know me, never could pass up a free lunch.”
“So, how you been, Bobby?”
Bobby studied Scotty sitting there in his expensive suit and starched shirt and designer tie and looking like the Prince of Dallas and wondered if his old friend really gave a damn how Bobby Herrin had been. Used to be that when Bobby ran into an old law school classmate who had done better-which is to say, any law school classmate- they would both realize the awkwardness of the encounter and manufacture a quick escape. But there was no escaping here.
So Bobby said, “Scotty, when you get up in the morning, do you think good things are gonna happen to you that day?”
Scotty frowned a moment, then shrugged and said, “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Why?”
Scotty shrugged again. “Good things have always happened to me.”
“The best football player, best student, best looking, marries the most beautiful cheerleader, becomes a rich lawyer, and lives happily ever after?”
Scotty flashed that big smile again. “Something like that.”
“Exactly like that.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, see, Scotty, it ain’t like that for everybody. I don’t wake up thinking good things are gonna happen that day. I wake up wondering what’s the next bad thing that’s gonna happen to me.”
Scotty was staring at his water goblet with the same expression Bobby had seen on the faces of those other classmates he’d run into over the years, a look of abject embarrassment. But he was too far in to stop now.
“You graduated first in our class, Scotty. I graduated. Remember that old law school joke? What do they call the doctor who graduated last in his med school class? Doctor. What do they call the lawyer who graduated last in his law school class? Infrequently.” Bobby lowered his eyes to the silver fork he was fiddling with. “Well, it’s no joke.”
Scotty did not respond immediately, so Bobby raised his eyes, expecting to see a haughty smirk; instead, he saw a hint of real concern on his old friend’s face. Scotty and Bobby had been inseparable in college and law school: they had lived together, studied together, got drunk together, chased girls together (Bobby got Scotty’s hand-me- downs), and played hoops and golf together. They were like brothers, right up until the day Scotty hired on with Ford Stevens at a starting salary of $100,000. They had not spoken since.
“Things haven’t gone well?” Scotty asked.
“Clients you get from ads in the TV guide don’t pay so well.” Bobby shrugged and tried to smile. “Hey, life just didn’t work out.”
Scotty straightened in his chair. “Well, Bobby, let’s have lunch and talk about that.”
Scotty stuck a finger in the air and a waiter appeared instantly. Bobby was scanning a menu with entrees that cost more than his suit when he heard a thick Latino accent: “Mr. Herrin?”
He looked up at the waiter, a young Hispanic man, well groomed with erect posture. His face seemed vaguely familiar.
“Mr. Herrin, it’s Carlos. Carlos Hernandez? Remember me, last year? You was my lawyer? Possession with intent to distribute?”
So many of Bobby’s clients looked so much alike-young males, brown or black-and were charged with the same crimes-possession of a controlled substance, possession with intent to distribute, conspiracy to distribute; they were just two-bit users caught in the cross fire of the war against drugs. Sometimes he could remember a particular client by his tattoos-he vividly recalled a client named Hector (conspiracy to distribute) because his entire upper body was one big tattoo, a mural in honor of the Virgin Mary-but since Carlos here was clothed from his neck to his toes, Bobby could not remember Carlos from Jorge or Ricardo or Lupe. Still, he said, “Oh, yeah, Carlos. How you doing, man? You staying clean?”
A big grin from Carlos and a bigger lie, “Oh, yes, sir, Mr. Herrin.”
They never stay clean. “Good man.”
Scotty ordered salmon, Bobby a T-bone. As Carlos walked off, Bobby gestured after him. “My best client.”
“You do a lot of criminal defense work?”
Bobby nodded. “I represent the petty criminal class. Guys like Carlos, they don’t need estate plans.”
“Federal court?”
“Yeah, since they federalized all the drug crimes.”
Carlos soon returned with their food, and they ate and talked and laughed about the old days, old friends, good times, and their families. Scotty didn’t know Bobby had been married and divorced twice; Bobby didn’t know Scotty’s mother had died or that he had a daughter. And for a brief moment it was eleven years ago and they were still best friends. But Bobby knew he was just Cinderella at the ball with the Prince of Dallas, and the fancy lunch at the fancy club would soon be over and he’d be back in his crappy office in East Dallas living his shitty life again representing clients like Carlos.
So when he finished his steak, he pushed his plate aside and said: “Scotty, I appreciate the lunch, man. It’s been fun, catching up and all. But I know you didn’t invite me up here just to catch up, not after all these years. What’s up?”
Scotty glanced around, leaned in, and in a lowered voice said, “Buford appointed me to represent the hooker who murdered Clark McCall.”
Bobby almost spit out his iced tea. “You’re shittin’ me.”
“Nope.”
Bobby Herrin might not be the brightest bulb in the box, but it didn’t take him long to figure out this game: Scotty Fenney was giving him another hand-me-down.
“You want to hire her out?”
Scotty nodded. “Here’s the deal. I met with the defendant this morning, Shawanda Jones, black girl, hooker, heroin addict-Christ, she damn near puked on my suit! Says she didn’t kill him, but that’s bullshit-her gun was the murder weapon. Says McCall picked her up on Harry Hines, offered her a thousand bucks for the night, took her home, started slapping her around, cursing her and”-his voice was a whisper now-“using the N-word.” Back to his normal voice. “Anyway, they fought, she kicked him in the balls, took the money he owed her and his car keys, drove herself back to Harry Hines, and left the car. Police got her prints off the gun-she’s got prior prostitution charges-and arrested her the next day. She refuses to plead out, wants a trial. Bobby, Ford Stevens can’t represent a hooker!”
Bobby nodded. “Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“I’ll take her. What’s the pay?”
