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attorney?”
    “I was going to…until I heard your speech. Defense lawyers, they’re just hired guns. They don’t care about defending the innocent or fighting for justice. They just want to get paid. Not like you, Scott. And most of them only work state court; you’ve got federal court experience.”
    “Why’s a murder case in federal court?”
    “Clark McCall was the FERC chairman, courtesy of the senator. Murder of a federal official is a federal crime.”
    “But, Judge—”
    “And besides, Scott, you can make your mother proud.”
    “What?”
    “You can be another Atticus Finch.”
    “But—”
    “She has the right to counsel, and you’re it, Scott. You’re hereby appointed to represent the defendant in
United States of America versus Shawanda Jones
. Meet your client tomorrow morning. Detention hearing’s Wednesday, nine A.M. ”
             
    Scott was walking quickly—
hell, he was damn near running
—down the carpeted corridors of the sixty-second floor to the marble-and-mahogany staircase leading to the sixty-third floor. He bounded up the stairs and hurried past tiny offices occupied by smart young lawyers churning out their monthly quota of billable hours like blue-collar workers punching a clock on a factory line. Tonight, as every night, the workers were pulling double shifts, much to the benefit of the partners. But that thought did not fill Scott’s heart with the usual cheer; tonight his heart was filled with fear as he rushed into his senior partner’s office.
    Dan Ford was sixty years old. He and Gene Stevens had founded the firm thirty-five years ago, right out of SMU law school. Dan Ford had hired Scott eleven years ago when he had graduated from SMU, taken him under his wing, taught him the profitable practice of law, got him elected to the partnership, got him the mortgage on the house, got him into the dining, athletic, and country clubs, and got him a good deal on the Ferrari. He was Scott’s mentor and father figure, and he was at his desk, his station in life from seven A.M. to seven P.M. , Monday through Friday, and from seven A.M. until noon on Saturdays, fifty weeks a year. Dan Ford had billed three thousand hours a year for thirty-five straight years, a feat he compared favorably to DiMaggio’s fifty-six-game hitting streak. The firm was his life.
    Dan’s shiny head came up and a broad smile crossed his face.
    “Scotty, my boy!”
    Scott fell onto the sofa.
    “You don’t look so good, son. Problem?”
    Dan Ford had solved most of Scott’s problems over the last eleven years. Scott was hoping this one would be no different.
    “Judge Buford just appointed me to represent the hooker who killed Senator McCall’s son.”
    The news took the breath out of Dan. He fell back in his chair. “You’re joking.”
    “I wish.”
    “Why?”
    Scott threw up his hands. “Because I gave my goddamn Atticus Finch speech at the bar luncheon! The judge was there.”
    “He believed it?”
    “Apparently.”
    Dan ran his hands over his smooth skull.
    “This is not good. Not good at all. We can’t afford to piss off the next president, and we sure as hell can’t afford to piss off Buford. Goddamn murder case, why isn’t it in state court? We could work with that!”
    State court judges in Texas were always amenable to a call from a powerful partner in a big law firm because state court judges are elected on campaign contributions from big law firms. The threat of moving the firm’s contributions to the judge’s opponent in the next election has a way of keeping judges in line. Electing state court judges is a constitutional tradition in Texas dating back to 1850 and served to keep the Texas legal system orderly and predictable if not terribly fair. Thus lawyers in big law firms do not fear state court judges just as one does not fear one’s own house pet.
    But federal judges were a different breed. They’re not elected. They’re appointed by the president under Article