“I was just leaving.”

So make it quick. Dad. I look down at Woogie, who is curled up on the cool linoleum. He isn’t giving me the bum’s rush.

“How was your test?”

“It was hard,” she admits.

College algebra. I made a “D” in it almost thirty years ago at Fayetteville. An excellent student otherwise, Sarah has unfortunately inherited my math brains.

“Hang in there,” I advise.

“And don’t get behind.” The pearls of wisdom are really dropping tonight. I get to the point of why I called.

“I’m coming to Fayetteville tomorrow to interview a client. Do you know Dade Cunningham?”

“Dad!” Sarah shrieks into the phone.

“You’re representing him?”

“His uncle is James Cunningham, who lives down the street,” I explain.

“I just talked to Dade’s father about an hour ago. Do you know Dade?”

“This is so weird!” Sarah wails.

“You’re really going to be his lawyer?”

“Is it going to cause you any problems?” I ask. My daughter has never reconciled herself to the way I pay her bills. She concedes that in the abstract criminal defense work is a necessary evil, but like most people, she believes that once someone is actually charged with a crime, the only worthwhile thing left to do in the case is to figure out the length of the prison term. I should have realized Sarah wouldn’t be too thrilled about my taking this case. A kid goes off to school to get away from her parents, and here I am popping up again.

“I guess not,” she says, her voice sounding even more tired than when we began the conversation.

“I’ve seen him at pep rallies and stuff like that. He was in my west em civ class last year. I know him well enough to say “Hi,” but that’s all.”

Not bosom buddies then. When I took WE, they might as well have taught it in Razorback Stadium.

“People won’t even know,” I tell her, “that we’re related.”