“Joe Dillard, in the flesh,” he said, extending his hand. “It’s been a long time.”

At six feet, five inches, Mooney was a couple of inches taller than me. As his fingers wrapped around my hand, his white teeth flashed and his eyes locked onto mine. He held both my gaze and my hand a bit too long.

I was suspicious of all politicians, but because I’d practiced criminal defense law for so long, I was especially suspicious of the ego-filled megalomaniacs who typically sought the office of district attorney. A Texas A amp;M grad, Mooney had gone from ROTC cadet to officer training to the judge advocate general’s office in the Marine Corps. He retired five years ago after the marines passed on the opportunity to promote him to full colonel. His wealthy wife had persuaded him to move to northeast Tennessee, which was her childhood home, and he immediately hired on as an assistant with the local DA’s office. Before I stopped practicing law, I tried half a dozen criminal cases against Mooney. I remembered him as a formidable adversary in the courtroom with an almost pathological fear of losing. I’d suspected him more than once of withholding evidence, but I wasn’t ever able to prove it.

Mooney quit the DA’s office two years ago when he smelled blood in the water. Word around the campfire was that his predecessor-a pathetic little man named Deacon Baker-had lost control of his own office and, Mooney must have sensed, lost the confidence of the voters. Mooney resigned and immediately announced he was running against his boss in the August election. When the last murder case I defended blew up in Deacon Baker’s face just before the election, Mooney buried him.

“So what have you been up to for the past year?” Mooney said as we sat down.

“As little as possible.”

“How’s your wife? Is it Caroline?”

“Right. She’s fine, thanks for asking.”

“I’ve read about your son in the newspaper. He’s some ballplayer.”