"Better than on the streets."

"Amen."

"What's up?"

"Garza recused herself from the immigration case."

"Why?"

"Conflict of interest."

"Being?"

"Her husband is here illegally."

"That would constitute a conflict."

"Now she won't envy you."

"Why?"

"It's your case."

"You're kidding?"

"Do I look like I'm kidding?"

"You're on the phone."

"The answer is no." Scott could hear Bobby flipping through papers. "Case status is this: All facts have been stipulated for the record, so no evidentiary hearing is required. The case will be submitted on written briefs and oral arguments. Briefs have already been filed, I'm emailing those to you now. Oral arguments are set for Wednesday."

"That's fast."

"Both parties want to fast track the case, the loser is going to appeal all the way to the Supreme Court. So they want a quick decision, make it an election issue in the fall."

A president would be elected in November. The current Democratic president wanted to be reelected. His executive order would become a hot button campaign issue with the Hispanic vote at stake. Which was why most observers thought the executive order was politically motivated. Of course, what wasn't in America today?

"The constitutionality of the executive order will be irrelevant," Bobby said.

"Except to the presiding judge."

Pajamae bounced into the kitchen at nine, perfectly put together as usual in a blue nylon sweat suit, blue socks, and blue sneakers; her hair was brushed and neat. She brought a hint of perfume with her. Boo stumbled in behind her wearing a Willie Nelson sweatshirt, baggy jeans, white socks, and those retro sneakers; she looked as if she had lost her hairbrush. She did not bring a hint of perfume. Scott tapped his cheek; they both dutifully kissed him. It was silly, sure, but he liked it, little girls kissing their father in the morning, even if they were thirteen. He clicked off the TV with the remote. They normally watched the Today Show during breakfast, but "ISIS in Dallas" filled all the non-cable channels, and they didn't have cable. He was determined to allow them to enjoy their innocence for as long as possible, little girls kissing their dad good morning.

"A. Scott, what exactly is oral sex?"

He spit out his coffee. Consuelo shrieked at the stove and covered her face with her apron. Boo and Pajamae looked at him with expressions of complete innocence.

"I mean, is it like talking about sex?"

"Well, uh ... why do you ask?"

"Some kids at school were talking about it. They said it wasn't really sex, so I figured oral meant just talking and not doing."

"No, it's doing sex all right."

"Explain."

"Do I have to?"

"Is it one of those yukky questions?"

"It is. Particularly at breakfast."

"Should we ask Karen?"

"You should."

Girls should ask their mother such questions; but they had no mother so their father had done the only thing he knew to do: he had referred those questions to Karen just has he had referred family law cases to other lawyers when he was at Ford Stevens. He had told the girls that they could talk to him about anything and ask him any question, that he would always tell them the truth and never get mad; but there were some subjects he did not feel professionally competent to handle, divorce and oral sex among them.

"Okay."

Scott breathed out. He felt relieved and disappointed-in himself. He couldn't run from those questions forever; he was a single father. Which meant he was also their mother. Karen was like their aunt trying to be like their mother. From her they had learned about puberty, menstruation, and how to buy a bra; from him they had learned the definition of pass interference, the steps to changing a flat tire, and how to try a case in federal court. When they were ten, he felt like a father; at thirteen, he felt like a failure. Dan Ford was right: a man can't raise women.

"Let's go," Boo said.

"To ask Karen about oral sex?"

"No," Pajamae said. "To grocery shop."

In accordance with their Saturday routine, the Fenney family would shop for groceries that morning then grill hamburgers and watch a movie that night. There would be root beer floats or homemade malts or ice cream cones-Saturday movie nights meant ice cream in some form or fashion in the Fenney house-but there would be no date nights for any of them. They were too young to date, and he was too much a judge. The closest any of them would come to romance was watching one of the British classics the girls loved so much: Jane Eyre. Emma. Sense and Sensibility. Persuasion.

"Seor Judge, Maria, she has the cold, so we will stay home, okay?" Consuelo said. "But I have made a list."

She entrusted her shopping list to the girls as if it were a deed to the family estate. Boo frowned.

"It's in Spanish."

"S.".

"We watch enough Spanish TV, we can figure it out," Pajamae said. "Let's go."

She loved Saturday shopping. There were no Whole Foods stores in South Dallas where she had lived with her mother in the projects. In fact, there were no grocery stores. Almost four years living in Highland Park, and she still got excited going to the grocery store.

"Let's do it," Scott said.

They went out back and climbed into the Expedition. Scott had traded in the Jetta when he had won Senate confirmation. They needed more space for road trips, the only vacations they took. He liked the feel of a truck; of course, it didn't have the zero-to-sixty acceleration or the handling of the Ferrari, but they could live in it if they had to. The girls rode in the second seat.

"Buckle up."

Scott drove north out of Highland Park and into Dallas. The nearest Whole Foods was at Preston Road and Forest Lane. Consequently, each Saturday Parkies ventured out of the Bubble-as Highland Park was locally known-and into Dallas. Highland Park was a small town of eight thousand; Dallas was a big city of one million. There was a different feel to Dallas, as there was to each big city in Texas. Each had its own vibe: drive into San Antonio, and you want to eat Mexican food and sing La Bamba; drive into Austin, and you want to eat barbecue and dance to live country-western music; drive into Houston, and you want to drive out; drive into Dallas, and you want to make a lot of money fast. Which was a prerequisite to shopping at Whole Foods.

"OMG, look at her tattoos!" Boo said.

The girls had run into the store, but Boo had skidded to a full open-mouthed stop upon entering. A Whole Foods employee stood at the produce section directly in front of them. She was perhaps twenty; her exposed arms and neck suggested a painted body. She had a sweet face with a nose ring. Boo stood in awe of her.

"She's beautiful."

The only thing that stood between Barbara Boo Fenney and a painted body was her deathly fear of needles. Scott prayed that she never overcame that fear. He had learned that for a single father fear was his co-parent.

"Look!" Pajamae said. "Free samples!"

She never passed up a free sample at Whole Foods. Cheese, crackers, cookies, fruit, fish-she tried them all. What they call, simple pleasures. She pushed a basket to Scott then grabbed another for them. She tore Consuelo's list in half and handed the bottom half to Scott. Consuelo knew the store layout well; her list went from one side to the other. He headed to the far side of the store; they started at produce. Consuelo had taught them how to pick the best fruit and vegetables. He went for the meat.

"Meet you girls at the checkout," Scott said. "And look for the sale items."

Boo dismissed him with a little wave that said, "We know how to shop." They did. He had learned to shop on a budget, and he had taught them in three simple words: Check the prices.

Scott put on his glasses and checked Consuelo's list when he arrived at the meat market: Dos pollo.

"Two whole chickens," he said to the butcher.

The store was abuzz with news of the Super Bowl plot. Dallas had recently been named the least fit city in America; that had shocked no one, not with the annual state fair in Fair Park featuring fried butter, fried ice cream, fried Twinkies, and fried pumpkin pie. But Dallas named the target of a major terrorist attack-that had shocked the city to the core.

"Can you believe those damn Muslims?"

Scott turned to see George Delaney standing before him. George was a lawyer of Dan Ford's generation at another large Dallas firm; he wore a red sweater vest over a crisply starched button-down blue shirt, chinos, and loafers. They had met years back, but George had never given Scott the time of day. Upon his taking the bench, they had apparently become BFFs, as the girls say. They shook hands, and George gave his order to another butcher.

"Thank God we got them before they could kill all those people. Hell, I've got Super Bowl tickets. Hope you don't get the case."

"A senior judge will take it."

"Not sure I'd want the most dangerous man in Dallas in my courtroom. Rule against him, he's liable to send his cutthroats to do just that to the judge."

George rubbed his neck.

"How do you cut someone's head off?"

"Because they left you in the Whole Body department and didn't say where they were going."

Both men turned to George's second ... no, third wife and regarded her, the same as men had regarded Rebecca. She was a mannequin in yoga tights: fit and firm and blonde, perfect in a too perfect way, as if she had been airbrushed. Standing next to George, she looked young enough to be his daughter. Which is to say, she was a Highland Park trophy wife.

"That's why, not how," George said.

She rolled her eyes then looked Scott up and down as one might a new pool boy.

"Honey, this is Judge A. Scott Fenney."

"State court?" she asked.

"Federal."

"Ohhh."

As if she were impressed. Also like Rebecca in that regard; she understood the difference between state and federal judges. Big law firms like her husband's owned state court judges, but they feared federal judges. At times like this, Scott really enjoyed being a federal judge. The young Mrs. Delaney frowned without wrinkles.

"Fenney? Are you related to Rebecca Fenney?"

"Not anymore. We divorced three years ago."

"She was so gorgeous and so athletic. I knew her from the club. She loved golf and ... ohhh, yes, now I remember."

It had all come back to her.

"She ran off ... uh, moved away, didn't she?"

George's face turned ashen, a man desperately seeking an escape path.

"Boy, Judge, your girl sure played a heck of a game last night. My granddaughter's a Daisy. Tiffany. What's her name? Pajama?"

"To Galveston, right?" Mrs. Delaney said. "And there was a murder? Or something like that?"

To George: "Pajamae." Pa-shu-may. To his wife: "Something like that. She was innocent."

"Oh, good."

As if he had said she won best pie at the school bakeoff.

"Pajamae?" George frowned. "What's that, French?"

"Black."

"Ah."

"So where is she now?" Mrs. Delaney said.

"In the produce department."

"Rebecca's here?"

"No. Pajamae's in produce."

"Where's Rebecca?"