on the dais behind a nameplate that read A. SCOTT FENNEY, ESQ., FORD STEVENS LLP.

As the applause grew louder, the corporate tax lawyer whom Scott was campaigning to succeed as the next state bar president leaned in close and whispered, “You know, Scotty, you’ve got an impressive line of bullshit. Now I see why half the coeds at SMU dropped their drawers for you.”

Scott squeezed the knot of his silk tie, smoothed his $2,000 suit, and whispered back through brilliant white teeth, “Henry, you don’t get laid or elected telling the truth.”

He then turned and again acknowledged his fellow members of the bar, all standing and applauding him.

Except for one lawyer. Sitting alone in the back of the dining room, at his usual table, was an older gentleman. His thick white hair fell onto his forehead. His bright eyes remained sharp at long distances, but he wore the black reading glasses to eat. He was not a tall man, and his slightly hunched posture made him appear almost short. Even so, he was a lawyer the other lawyers either avoided outright or approached with great caution, like vassals to their lordship, waiting patiently for him to look up from his chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes, and pecan pie and acknowledge them with a nod or, on the best of days, a brief handshake. But never did he stand. Come hell or high water, United States District Court Judge Samuel Buford remained seated until he was through eating. Today, though, as he dwelled on the young lawyer’s speech, a slight smile crossed his face.

A. Scott Fenney, Esq., had just made a tough judicial decision easy.