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another. The sexes pretty much segregated themselves in the morning; at lunchtime more mixed groups arrived.
    At the front, near the window, six men in business suits lingered over coffee. Every few minutes a roar of laughter erupted from their table.
    Brandy doubted that whatever they had gathered to discuss was a laughing matter; it was simply impossible to get good ol’ boys to the point without the ritual of racist, sexist, and political jokes—the secret code of the white male power base. She knew all six of these men: the loan manager of the Bank of Murphy, the owner of the Century 21 real estate office, an investment counselor, two attorneys, and Judge L. J. Callahan.
    Brandy wondered what they were plotting; the presence of the lawyers and the judge suggested potential connections with her work.
    When the group broke up, the rest of the men left, but Judge Callahan began making the rounds of the rapidly filling tables. He was a big, imposing man—Brandy's mother admiringly compared him to Clint Eastwood—and politician through and through. He knew everyone's name, shook everyone's hand, and gave a big, insincere smile to one and all.
    Callahan was somewhere close to sixty years old, but he had aged well. His hair was thick and iron gray, as were his eyes, which held no trace of warmth. He had a deep suntan, but few lines in his face. Brandy suspected he either had a tanning bed or wore makeup so he would always look good if caught by a camera. His suit was conservative but beautifully made, and he had the physique to show it: broad of shoulder, narrow of waist, flat of belly. His hands were big, strong, but uncalloused—only professional manicures could keep them so neat and perfect. His trademark Stetson hat hung nearby—this might not be cowboy country, but both the local rodeo tradition and the fact that Murphy lay between Nashville and Branson made such headgear common. Without a doubt Callahan knew the hat supported his John Wayne/Clint Eastwood/Harrison Ford image.
    Callahan knew the law—Brandy had to give him that. He controlled his courtroom brilliantly, and his cases were rarely overturned on appeal.
    Although he had not officially announced his candidacy for governor, Callahan's constant politicking had to mean something. He certainly didn't have to work to remain judge; the last two elections he had run unopposed.
    Most people were flattered by Callahan's attention. He managed to time his arrival at Brandy and Church's table just as Brandy's juicy hamburger dripped grease down her hands, threatening to soak the cuffs of her blouse. While she struggled with inadequate paper napkins, Callahan turned to Church. “Officer Jones. I saw Tiffany's name on the honor roll. Congratulations."
    “Thank you, Judge,” Church said in non-committal tones. “We're very proud of her.” He knew better than to allow his suspicion to show.
    “And Ms. Mather.” There it was, as the man turned his attention to her. He could have called her “officer,” as he did Church, or “detective,” but no, he had to emphasize that “Ms.” to show how politically correct he was. Didn't he realize that men who called attention to their use of the term only displayed their discomfort?
    “Good afternoon, Judge Callahan,” Brandy said politely.
    “Church,” said Callahan, “why don't you get us all some more coffee?"
    Her colleague raised an eyebrow to Brandy, who shrugged. She couldn't imagine what the judge had to say to her that he didn't want Church to hear.
    “Rory Sanford's up for parole,” Callahan began as he sat across from her. They were alone in a crowd, the buzz of voices too loud for normal conversation to be overheard.
    “I got a notice of the hearing,” Brandy said in a noncommittal tone.
    “Well, I don't sit on the parole board, but if I did I certainly wouldn't want that man out early."
    “Because he's a Sanford?” Brandy asked. The feud between the Callahans and the Sanfords was legendary. Doc