"Then I'll have a root beer."

"Two," Carlos said.

"Coffee with cream," Karen said. "And see if they have organic baby food, preferably mashed prunes."

She held their eighteen-month-old son, Scott Carlos Louis Herrin. They called him Little Scotty.

"Mashed prunes?" Carlos said. "Give that boy some real food, like enchiladas and tacos. M madre, she fed me that since the day I was born."

"And she's still feeding you that," Bobby said.

Carlos lived with his mother. He shrugged it off.

"Hey, Mexican hombres, we can't cook, so we live with our mothers until we find a wife who can."

"You might be living with your mother for a long time," Louis said.

Bobby gave Louis a fist bump then said to Scott, "Beer."

"At a middle school?"

"Root beer."

Scott did not drink in public, not even a beer. A federal judge could not risk a DUI or a public intoxication charge. And there was the role model thing as well.

"Come on, Boo, I need your help."

Father and daughter stepped down the stands to the curious glances and whispered voices to which they had become accustomed. That was the way it was if you were a federal judge with a life story like Scott's. It seemed that most of Highland Park had settled into one of two camps when it came to A. Scott Fenney: he was either a good man who had redeemed his soul when he defended Pajamae's mother against a murder charge and won, or he was a complete fool who gave up the high life in Highland Park to save a black prostitute from the death penalty only to see her die of a heroin overdose two months later. No one knew what to make of his defending his ex-wife accused of murdering the golf pro she had run off with; the consensus seemed to be building that he might be legally insane.

"Hi, Scott. Hi, Boo."

Just as they had stepped down onto the floor, Kim Dawson stepped up to them. She had been the girls' fourth-grade teacher at the elementary school. They had introduced their father to their teacher several years back.

"Hi, Ms. Dawson," Boo said.

"How are you, Kim?" Scott said.

"I'm good. I ... I miss you, Scott. Or do I have to call you judge now?"

They had dated a few times before he had taken the bench. She was smart and sweet, but there had been no sparks for him.

"Scott is fine."

She smiled and reached out to him but thought better of it.

"Call me, Scott. Anytime."

Kim walked off. Scott looked after her. She was a very pretty woman. Her tight jeans showed off her round bottom to great effect and brought a stirring in Scott. Perhaps he should give it another try with Kim and ... but he would only be using her for sex, and he couldn't do that to her. She was a good girl, and he wasn't a college boy. He was a federal judge. He sighed. No drinking, no sex, no fun. The burdens of office. His eyes fell from Kim's bottom to his daughter's face turned up to him. A frown formed around her green eyes. She aimed her thumb at the departing Ms. Dawson.

"And you don't want her for a girlfriend?"

She shook her short red hair at that great mystery then led the way to the concession stand.

"Five root beers, one coffee with cream, and organic mashed prunes."

They stood at the concession stand in the midst of teenaged girls gossiping and giggling. At forty, Scott didn't have a clue about teenaged girls. Of course, he didn't have a clue about teenaged girls when he was a teenager. The fate of man.

"Hello, Scott."

Her perfume preceded her. He turned to a young woman with jet black hair, red pouty lips, black yoga tights that appeared painted on her trim lower body, and a tight tube top that left little of her upper body to the imagination and her torso exposed. Penny Birnbaum. After Rebecca had run off with the golf pro, Scott had sold her clothes at a yard sale and the Beverly Drive mansion to Penny and her husband.

"Oh, uh, hi, Penny. Where's, uh ... ?"

"Jeffrey? We're divorced."

"So soon?"

She nodded matter-of-factly. "He couldn't satisfy me. I got alimony and the house. Your old house. You should stop by one morning on your run." She leaned in and lowered her voice. "I'll be naked."

"Penny, I'm a federal judge now."

"You can handcuff me."

She got alimony and the house; Jeffrey got away from her. What's known in the law as a win-win. She gave Scott a once-over that made him feel naked.

"You look delicious," she said. "It's been almost four years, but I still remember that day in the shower."

Scott had given Penny and Jeffrey a tour of the mansion. When Jeffrey checked out the Dolby Surround sound in the basement theater, Penny checked out Scott in the master bathroom shower. She had caught him at a weak moment, but he had to confess, he had not forgotten that moment either.

"You know, Scott, we could just be buddies."

"Buddies?"

She whispered in his ear. "Fuck buddies."

She pulled back and gave him a seductive wink. She was young, and she was sexy, and she wanted to be used for sex. He blew out a breath. She was offering sex to him with no strings attached. Friends with benefits. Fuck buddies in the vernacular. For a man who hadn't had sex since-was the shower the last time?-it was a tempting offer. But such an arrangement didn't seem appropriate for a federal judge. Or a father of two teenaged daughters.

"You don't have children, do you?" Scott said. "Why are you here?"

"Because I knew you'd be here. To watch your daughter."

"Are you stalking me?"

She gave him a devious look. "Oh, this isn't stalking, Scott."

She twirled and sashayed away. Every man she walked past stopped and stared. That was Penny.

"What did you say?"

Boo's voice from behind him. Scott turned to her. But she wasn't talking to him; she was talking to a group of girls who appeared to have stepped out of a glossy fashion magazine. Boo did not; she wore a sweatshirt, non-designer jeans, and retro sneakers. Her fists were embedded in her hips. That usually didn't end well. For the other girl.

"Are you talking about my sister?"

She stepped forward and got in a blonde girl's face.

"Easy, Boo," Scott said.

"She said something about Pajamae." To the girl: "What, you don't like black kids at your school?"

The blonde girl's face turned bright red.

"My sister used to score all the points, now your sister does."

" 'Cause my sister's way better than your sister."

" 'Cause she's blacker than my sister."

Boo drew her fist back. "How would you like a knuckle sandwich, you little stuck-up bitch?"

"Sticks and stones, Boo," Scott said.

"Fists and elbows, A. Scott."

"Go ahead, hit me," the blonde said. "You'll get suspended again."

This wasn't Boo's first rodeo. She had been suspended a half dozen times for defending her sister.

"Boo, let's take our drinks up to the seats."

"Yeah, Boo," the blonde said, "go back to your seats with your loser dad."

Loser dad?

"You talking about my dad now?"

"My dad says your dad is a liberal in love with the president."

"A. Scott, can I hit her?"

"Yes ... I mean, no."

But it was too late. Boo decked her. One punch, right in the nose. The blonde landed hard on her butt. Boo stood over her and pointed a stern face and a stiff finger at her.

"You ever call my dad a liberal again, I'm going to knock your teeth out."

"A. Scott," Boo said, "you'd better go with Ms. Dawson. That Penny girl, she scares the hell out of me."

"Me, too. And stop cussing."

Boo frowned without looking up from the book. He had read to them until they were ten; now they read together.

"What book are you girls reading?"

They always read in bed each night. They shared one bedroom; Scott had the other bedroom. The house had two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and comprised fifteen hundred square feet. It had been built in 1935 when mansions in Highland Park were reserved for oil tycoons. Not for lawyers and doctors and VPs of IP. And certainly not for judges. Fast forward eighty years and things remained the same for judges.

"Fifty Shades of Grey," Boo said without looking up.

"What?"

"Hunger Games."

Scott blew out a breath. "You're going to give me a heart attack."

Boo looked up with wet eyes. "A. Scott, don't joke about that."

"Oh, sorry, honey. You're going to give me grey hair."

"Blond hair doesn't turn grey."

"You're going to make me go bald."

Pajamae burst out laughing.

"What's so funny?" Scott said.

"You without all that hair. Black boys, they shave their heads, looks good, like Michael. But white boys, they don't look right without hair."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Whereas, Judge Fenney," Pajamae said.

"Judge Fenney?"

"I like the sound of that. My dad the judge."

"Dad would sound even better."

Scott's nightly routine still included tucking the girls into bed. At thirteen, they were probably too old for that sort of thing, but at forty, he wasn't. He leaned down and kissed her forehead. She smelled of strawberries; she must have switched shampoos.

"You had another great game, girl."

She shrugged. "Competition level isn't very high. I mean, seriously, the Hockadaisies?"

Highland Park's team had played the team from Hockaday, an elite all-girls private school in Dallas. They were the Daisies.