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applauding you, made me recall that game of yours against Texas—damn, son, that was the best running I’ve ever seen. What did you get that day, a hundred fifty yards?”
    “One hundred ninety-three, Judge. Three touchdowns. We still lost.”
    “Hell of a game.”
    “I didn’t know you were a big football fan, Judge.”
    “I’m a Texan, born and raised, Scott, that makes me a football fan. Did you know I went to SMU?”
    Scott chuckled. “Of course, I know, Judge. Every student at the law school knows about Samuel Buford—top grade point average in the history of the school, law review editor, clerk to Supreme Court Justice Douglas, Assistant Solicitor General under LBJ…”
    “Whoa, son, you’re making me feel old.”
    “Oh, sorry, sir.”
    “You did pretty well yourself, Scott, top of your class.”
    “Thank you, sir.”
    “So, Scott, you up for helping out an old judge?”
    “Always happy to help in any way, sir.”
    Just then his mind’s peripheral vision caught a movement, like a linebacker moving in to nail him from his blind side.
    “Tough job, Scott, requires a tough lawyer, a lawyer who doesn’t quit, who can handle pressure, who can take a hard hit and still get up—you proved all that on the football field. You know, Scott, pound for pound, I always figured you were the toughest player I’d ever seen, except maybe for Meredith.”
    Before he was the star quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys, Don Meredith had been the star quarterback at SMU from 1957 through 1959, a country boy out of Mount Vernon, one of the greatest athletes ever produced by the State of Texas, and generally regarded as the toughest quarterback ever to play the position. Meredith was still a living legend in Dallas, although he lived in Santa Fe.
    “But, Scott, this job also requires a lawyer who believes like you do, that lawyers are supposed to protect the poor and defend the innocent and fight for justice.”
    “Absolutely, sir.”
    Back in his playing days, when the game was on the line, Scott Fenney, number 22, always pulled out all the stops to take home a victory. Even though he wasn’t sure what he was playing for today—perhaps Buford wanted to appoint him independent counsel to investigate a high-profile political scandal, which could make Scott Fenney a very famous lawyer—his natural desire to win took over. He pulled out all the stops.
    “Protecting the poor, defending the innocent, fighting for justice—that’s not just our professional duty, Judge, that’s our sacred honor.”
    Shit, that sounded good! That’s a winner for sure!
Scott made a mental note to add that line to his campaign speech.
    “Good to hear that, Scott. You’ve read about the McCall case, the senator’s son murdered Saturday night?”
    “Yes, sir, by the hooker.”
    “Yeah, black girl, twenty-four, a dozen priors for prostitution, drug possession…says she’s innocent.”
    Scott chuckled. “Don’t they all?”
    “This case is going to be a media circus—black prostitute accused of murdering a senator’s son, and not just any senator, mind you, but likely the next president.”
    “Yeah, I wouldn’t want to be her lawyer.”
    “Well, Scott, that’s why I called.”
    And what the judge wanted from Scott Fenney hit him with all the force of a linebacker on a blitz.
Blindsided by a federal judge!
Sweat beads erupted from the pores on his forehead. His pulse jumped. He reached up and loosened his silk tie.
    “She needs a good lawyer, Scott. She needs you.”
    That’s what he had won? That’s the victory he would take home?
On the verge of panic, Scott’s sharp mind began devising ways to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.
    “But, Judge, what about the public defender’s office?”
    “Scott, I can’t put a death penalty case in the hands of a wet-behind-the-ears PD lawyer who barely got through law school. This girl needs a real lawyer.”
    “But I’m a corporate lawyer. Why not appoint a criminal defense