Now she seems normal again. If I handle her the right way, she might be able to help get me some in formation providing this conversation with the father works out. She surely knows the girl. Like Woogie looking for a corncob, I rummage through the garbage, but the Democrat-Gazette article is drenched with stains from last night’s pizza and is unreadable. I grab a legal pad and head out the door.

As my neighbor lets me in his house, a rangy black man in his early forties stands up in front of a couch and waits for me to come over to him.

“This is the lawyer,” my neighbor says to him, “I was telling you about. He represented Andrew Chapman.”

“Gideon Page,” I introduce myself, and offer my hand, thinking most people forget that Andy Chapman, a black psychologist accused of murdering a retarded child, actu ally was found guilty of negligent homicide. Still, he only got probation and didn’t go to jail, so I’ll take the credit.

“Roy Cunningham,” the man says, and engulfs my palm in his. No wonder his son is a wide receiver. His hand is practically the width of my notebook. Cunningham studies me with an intense expression. I doubt if there is going to be a lot of small talk.

I retreat to a chair opposite the couch. My neighbor’s living room is small and decorated with family pictures.

A snapshot of the Cunningham brothers sits on the table beside my chair. In the picture, which seems recent, they are smiling. Today they are not.

“Have you talked to any other attorneys?” I ask, checking to see if I have any competition. If he has already retained someone, in theory

I’m not even supposed to be talking to him. Rules governing professional conduct among lawyers have somewhat unrealistic expectations if you are trying to earn a living in solo practice.

Roy parks himself beside his brother, who is an older, softer version of himself.