Polite chuckles filled the air, but everyone's interest was piqued. It wouldn't surprise a single one of them if Casey Jordan represented a rock star. They only wanted to know which one.

Tony looked up sullenly from the remains of a bloody prime rib and said, "Pierce Culpepper."

General murmurs of acknowledgment filled the air.

"He lives in Minnesota?" someone asked.

"That's where he's from originally," another person answered.

Dessert arrived: strawberry shortcake made with fresh berries and cream. Casey watched jealously as Tony dug into his own and took hers aside for himself as well. Her days of having both dessert and a real waistline were over. At thirty-seven, her body still demanded a second look, but it came only at a price.

"He was arrested for assault," Tony dutifully explained through a mouthful of calories, "and he wants Casey to represent him."

"Did he do it?" someone from the other end of the table asked.

Tony shrugged. His thick eyebrows, like his hair, were graying. He was a portly man with thick jowls anchoring his basset hound face. Its greatest distinction was a small, neat goatee. But his voice was deep and soothing, and his many years in front of judge and jury had left the indelible marks of confidence and wisdom on his brow. And what he lacked in looks he made up for in flamboyant dress. His clothes weren't only expensive, they were colorful. Some people would even say loud.

"Innocent until proven guilty," he said. "We all know that."

"Maybe we should talk to him," Casey said as if she were casually considering the move.

Tony knew her game, not that he minded. He was an outsider in this setting, just as much as she was, probably more. She, at least, had married into the upper crust of Texas society, the Vanderhorns and the Watts, the Gardeners, the Rienholfs, and, of course, her own husband's family, the Jordans.