I nod, though I am a little surprised. Though Dade was acquitted, his mother wasn’t all that happy with me by the end of the trial. Dade Cunningham was a wide receiver for the University of Arkansas who was accused of raping a white cheerleader. His mother, who lives in Hughes, a few miles east of Bear Creek, retained me to represent him, and I took his case hoping that if I got him acquitted I could negotiate his pro contract.

It was hardly an accident she turned out to be the granddaughter of Mrs. pretend to write some figures on my legal pad.

“How much can you pay?” I ask, knowing I’d take the case for gas money. It surprises me to know how much I’d love to see Paul Taylor go to prison.

“We’ve got seven thousand dollars in sawings Mrs. Bledsoe says, consulting a piece of paper she has taken from her purse.

“We were going to use it to buy a house.”

Mrs. Bledsoe somehow reminds me of the singer Keely Smith, a singer from at least a generation ago whose somber expression never seemed to change during a performance. I look past her out the window. Seven thousand for a capital murder trial is a joke. I flip through my calendar and note how full it is the next few months.

Finally, after I’ve struggled as a solo practitioner the last few years, my mostly criminal defense practice has begun to build. I will be busy as hell, but I think I can squeeze it in. Though it will mean endless driving again, I vow that I will spend as much time in the office as I possibly can. Pushing fifty, I’ve only been a lawyer for five years, and so far I haven’t managed to make up for lost time.

“That will do it,” I say.

“But I’ll need all of it before I begin.”

“Will you take a check?” Lattice Bledsoe asks calmly as if we were discussing a parking ticket. I wonder if her husband has been in trouble before.

“I’ve got a thousand in cash.”