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well at Ford Fenney. You'll do good as Judge Fenney."
    "Is it a good life, Judge?"
    "It is."
    United States District Judge Atticus Scott Fenney. His mother would be proud.
    "Scott, I'd die a happy man knowing you'd be sitting at my bench. May I put your name forward?"
    "Yes, sir. And thank you."
    Scott stood and shook Sam Buford's hand. He would never see the judge alive again.
    For the first time in two years, A. Scott Fenney had options in life.
    Option A, he could return to the downtown practice of law and a million-dollar salary—back to a professional life dedicated to making rich people richer and getting filthy rich himself in the process—and back to a personal life of Ferraris and Highland Park mansions and exclusive all-white country clubs. Maybe another trophy wife. The wife and life most lawyers dream of. Option A required only that he call Dan Ford and say yes to Ford Fenney.
    Option B, he could embark on a new life as a federal judge and a $169,000 salary—a professional life of seeing justice done—and a personal life of financial security, life and health insurance—including dental—paid vacations, and a fully-funded pension. He could be proud of his life and provide for his daughters. It would be a good life. A perfect life for United States District Judge A. Scott Fenney. Option B, however, required the support of the two Republican U.S. senators from Texas and Senate confirmation. Even with Judge Buford backing him, it was far from a sure thing.
    Option C, he could continue his current life of losing lost causes and not making enough money to pay the mortgage, cover the office overhead, take the girls on vacation, save for college, or buy braces for Pajamae.
    He crossed out Option C.
    Scott had often driven around Dallas in the Ferrari whenever he needed to think things out. Funny, but he didn't seem to think as well in a Jetta. He parked and walked into the law offices of Fenney Herrin Douglas, an old two-story Victorian house located just south of Highland Park, and found the firm's entire staff gathered around the front desk. They looked like the cast from Lost : Bobby Herrin, thirty-eight, the short, chubby character with thinning hair and a pockmarked face, always handy with a witty remark … Karen Douglas, Bobby's whip-smart and very pretty love-interest character (and now spouse), ten years his junior and seven months' pregnant with their first child … Carlos Hernandez, twenty-eight, the Latino character oozing machismo from every pore of his tattooed brown skin, six feet tall and two hundred pounds of muscle, dressed in black leather pants and a black T-shirt tight around his torso, studying to be a paralegal and the firm's Spanish translator … and Louis Wright, thirty years old, the gentle giant black character with the gold-toothed smile, the firm's driver and the Fenney family's self-appointed bodyguard. Their expressions were somber, as if they had just been told they would never get off this island.
    "Hey, guys, it's not the first case we lost."
    "We lost?"
    Scott sighed. "Yeah, Bobby, we lost."
    "Guess we don't get paid this month," Carlos said.
    Louis shot Carlos a sharp look.
    "Don't worry, Carlos, I'll figure something out."
    No one said anything.
    " What? "
    The others glanced at Bobby as if he had drawn the black bean then abruptly turned and headed to their respective offices. Before disappearing around the corner, Louis said, "Mr. Fenney, appreciate the new book."
    Pajamae would not call him Dad, and Louis would not call him Scott.
    "That Fitzgerald dude," Louis said. "He's pretty good." Louis stood tall and recited like a Shakespearean actor: " 'So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.' "
    F. Scott had been right: life seemed to beat A. Scott back into his past.
    "Very good, Louis."
    Louis seemed proud as he walked out of the room.
    "What's this month's book club selection?" Bobby said.
    Louis's formal education had ended with ninth