"Somewhere with a man."

George's grimace evidenced his internal strife: trophies were for display only; they were not supposed to talk out of turn. Or preferably at all. He grabbed his meat and his trophy and carried them both away. But he waved over his shoulder.

"Good to see you, Judge."

Scott had once had a trophy. He had put her on display. He had felt proud to be seen with her. He had regarded her with a certain sense of proprietorship. As if he owned her. As if he had bought her. But trophies are much like politicians: they seldom stay bought. His trophy had not.

He put all his chickens in the basket and rolled on.

Scott met the girls at the checkout. His basket was filled with the aforesaid chicken, ground buffalo, milk, cream, yogurt, eggs, Canadian bacon, oatmeal, granola, whole grain bread, peanut butter, ham, cheese, pickles for Pajamae, and makings for Consuelo's enchiladas. Their basket was filled with lettuce and other green produce (which he worried might find its way into his morning smoothies), tomatoes, avocados, bananas, cucumbers, strawberries, blueberries, ice cream, and half the vitamin/supplement department.

"What's all that?"

Boo placed a plastic container on the checkout belt. "Omega 3 Fish Oil. Oil from cold-water fish like salmon. Proven to protect your heart."

"And this?"

Another container. "Resveratrol. The extract from grape skins. You get the health benefits of red wine without getting drunk."

She piled more containers onto the belt. Scott checked each one.

"Coenzyme Q-10?"

"There are promising studies that it lowers cholesterol. Since you won't take a statin."

"Vitamin D?"

"Since you don't get much sun in the courthouse."

"Lysine?"

"Boosts your immune system and reduces stress, since you won't have sex."

"Is it safe?"

"Not with that Penny girl."

She and Pajamae laughed and fist-bumped.

"The lysine," Scott said.

"Unless you're pregnant or breast-feeding."

Scott grunted and picked up the next container. "Saw palmetto."

"Supposed to be good for your prostate, whatever that is."

Pajamae looked at Scott and offered a "beats me" shrug. And the last container.

"Melatonin."

"To help you sleep. I know you struggle."

"How do you know that?"

"I hear you."

He grunted again then did a quick calculation.

"Boo, this adds up to over a hundred dollars."

"Good health is priceless."

"Not on a judge's salary."

"You're a judge?" the checker said. She also had tattooed arms and body piercings. "Maybe you can help me. I got arrested for possession of marijuana."

"I'm a federal judge. I'll only see you if you're a drug kingpin."

"Bummer."

"Sometimes." He turned to his daughter. "Take half this stuff back."

She turned her hands up to her sister. "It's like pulling teeth with him."

Pajamae gave her the same shrug. Boo left four bottles on the checkout belt and shuffled off with the other three bottles. She muttered under her breath.

Scott pushed the basket loaded with grocery bags (reusable from recycled products) to the exit. The automatic double doors flew open, and a cool breeze and a familiar face blew in. Sid Greenberg.

"Scott! How are you?"

"Sid."

They shook hands. Sid introduced his wife then said he'd find her in the store. She went inside, and the girls outside. They knew a lawyer when they saw one.

"Bobby told me what you said."

Everyone else wanted to talk about the Super Bowl plot; Sid wanted to talk about his pending case. Scott had taught the boy how to focus.

"Sid, we can't have an ex parte conference in Whole Foods. But I meant it."

"You did it."

"I was wrong."

"You can't sanction me."

"I can and I will. You can appeal my order, but I can enter it."

"Scott-"

"If you insist on talking shop, it's judge."

"Judge, if I don't do this kind of stuff, I'm not zealously representing my client, as our ethical rules require."

He was right. Sort of. The ethical rules seemed to require such legal maneuvering.

"Federal court holds lawyers to a higher standard of ethical conduct."

"You taught me everything I know."

"And you took my office, my secretary, and my car." Scott gestured to the parking lot. "Is the Ferrari out there?"

Sid nodded.

"Enjoy it."

"I do."

Scott walked outside to find the red Ferrari parked next to the Expedition. All the memories came flooding back, like running into an old flame who had left for a younger man.

"How much did that ride cost?" Pajamae asked.

It was almost five. They had spent the rest of the day at the house. Esteban had picked up Consuelo and Maria at one. Pajamae had watched basketball on TV, Boo had read Hunger Games, and Scott had read the states' brief in the immigration case. It belonged in federal court.

"That's the longest car I've ever seen," Boo said.

The girls now stood at the front windows. Scott stepped over to look. Across the street sat a white stretch limousine. A girl in a short party dress and high heels bounced out of the house.

"That's Brittany," Pajamae said.

"Her dad's rich," Boo said.

"Really?"

Boo nodded. "He's a renowned lawyer. He has his own billboard on the highway."

"Wow."

"She's going to study abroad next year."

"Really? Where?"

"New York City."

"Double wow."

The girls contemplated the scene a moment. The driver's door opened, and a man dressed in black leather got out.

"Is that Carlos?" Boo asked.

The driver looked their way, grinned, and waved. It was Carlos.

"He must be moonlighting," Scott said.

"What does the moon got to do with driving a limo?" Pajamae asked. "And Carlos hates funerals."

"Funerals?"

Pajamae pointed. "White limo, must be a funeral."

"Why?"

"Black funerals in South Dallas always have white limos."

Boo seemed impressed by that news.

"It's not a funeral. It's the winter formal at Hockaday. Brittany goes there. She's sixteen."

The mother across the street took photos of three young couples by the limo. The boys wore dark suits; the girls wore short skirts and stiletto heels.

"Her dress barely covers her butt. Mama's skirts were longer than that. When she sits in that limo, those boys are going to see her undies."

"If she's wearing any," Boo said.

"No undies? Not even a G-string?"

"G-string?" Scott said.

"All the girls wear G-strings," Boo said. "Except us."

Oral sex and G-strings, as if they went hand in hand. Perhaps they did. A man can't raise women. Scott averted his eyes. He didn't want to think of sixteen-year-old girls wearing G-strings or nothing at all under their short dresses. His daughters were only three years away from sixteen. How do you raise thirteen-year-old girls in the age of Fifty Shades of Grey? How do you tell them to be strong, independent women when the world is telling them to be sex objects?

"I bet there's going to be oral sex in that limo," Pajamae said. "Talk, talk, talk."

"She's wobbling around in those heels," Boo said. "How's she going to dance?"

Pajamae grabbed her sister. "Let's dance."

The girls turned from the window and started jumping up and down. Scott stared at them.

"What are you doing?" he asked.