The way sunlight angled through the tall windows and illuminated the framed painting of her patrician father reminded me of the day years ago when I’d brought my parents here to meet her at her request. My mother had been taken with the severe but handsome image of the patriarch. I could remember her standing in a similar stream of light.

My folks were as quiet and polite and intimidated as if the Pope had asked them to an audience. The lustrous dark wainscoting, the rich ruby carpeting you could twist an ankle in, and the magisterial walls of leather-bound books intimidated most people. That was the intention. My parents were humbled being here, of course. Not many people from the Hills got invites. They only relaxed when the judge, who’d been unusually cordial, told them she’d invited them here so that they could hear her offer me a job as her investigator. She’d even had a bottle of champagne on hand for the occasion.

“I don’t find that surprising, Judge. You and Bennett had a lot in common.”

“I know how you meant that, McCain, but I’d have thought you’d have respected him. He saved a colored man’s life. You’re always prattling on about civil rights.”

“He couldn’t dine out on that forever. He did one good thing in his life, but he did a lot of bad things too.”

“If you mean the run-in he had with the school board, I agreed with him one hundred percent. Those two teachers had no respect for American history. The way they taught it, we were butchers and murderers when we came here from Europe.”

“He wanted a whitewash. And he wanted the teachers fired.”

Something shifted in her upper-class gaze. “Well, he did go a bit far, I have to admit. I’m the one who suggested that he drop the idea of firing them. Or monitoring their classes.”

“You did?”

“You don’t have to sound so damned surprised, McCain. I do believe in the Constitution, you know.”

“He didn’t.”