Mark Gimenez: Accused

And why shouldn't he?

If he had played pro football, he wouldn't have played for a poor, losing team just to make the games fair. He would have sold his talents to the highest bidder. No one faulted A-Rod for making $25 million a year playing baseball for the Yankees, the richest winning team in baseball. Why should A. Scott play for poor, losing teams? Why shouldn't he reap the rewards of his talents? Why shouldn't he provide for the girls? Why shouldn't he take them to the south of France for summer vacation-or at least to the north of America? Why shouldn't they go to Wellesley with the best girls in America? Why shouldn't Pajamae have teeth that look like pearls?

Why shouldn't he be filthy rich like the man his wife had run off with?

United States District Judge Samuel Buford was seventy-eight years old now. The black reading glasses seemed too big for his gaunt face. His white hair was no longer thick; it was only wisps. From the chemo. Everyone had always said Sam Buford would die on the bench. They were right.

"You should've won," the judge said when Scott entered his chambers.

Scott shrugged. "Just another case lost."

"Another lost cause."

"Someone's got to lose those cases, Judge, or they wouldn't be lost causes."

The judge gestured at a chair. Scott sat and gazed across the wide desk at the frail judge dwarfed by his leather chair and framed by tall bookcases filled with law books. Each time Scott saw the judge there seemed to be less to see; it was as if he were disappearing before Scott's eyes. And the judge now had the look of death about him, the same look Scott's mother had when the cancer had won out and she knew it. Judge Samuel Buford was a living legend in the law. But not for long.

"Scott, you can't make a difference if you can't pay your bills. It's okay to take on a few paying clients every now and then."

"Making rich people richer… I can't seem to generate any enthusiasm for that line of work anymore."

The judge gave him a knowing nod. "Once you cross over, it's hard to go back."

They regarded each other, two of a kind now.

"How are you holding up, Judge?"

"Doctors say six months."

Sam Buford had been diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. But he was determined to clear his docket before he died.

"Why don't you retire, spend your time at home?"

"Doing what? Wife's been dead ten years now, the kids and grandkids live out of state, I don't play golf…" He paused and half-smiled, as if recalling a favorite moment. "Scott, I ever tell you I almost retired two years ago, during that case?"

"The McCall murder case?"

The judge nodded.

"No, sir, you didn't."

"Well, I would've, if you hadn't come back that day, said you were ready to be that girl's lawyer. You gave me hope."

"Hope for what?"

"The law… lawyers… life. Glad you came back. Glad I didn't retire." He tossed a thumb at the law books behind him. "The law's been my life. Thirty-two years of judging, I made a difference."

Sam Buford had wielded a gavel since Scott was in first grade. All the toughest cases in Dallas had come before him, but he would forever be remembered-and reviled by many-for ordering the desegregation of public schools so black children would receive the same education as white children.

"Yes, sir, you did. You're a fine federal judge."

"You could be too."

"I could be what?"

"A fine federal judge."

" Me? A federal judge?"

"Scott, my bench will be vacant soon. I could put your name forward."

"Judge, McCall's gone but both U.S. senators from Texas are still Republicans. They're not going to put a lawyer who sues the same corporations that contribute to their campaigns on the federal bench. And the president won't nominate me unless they approve."

Under Article Two of the U.S. Constitution, the Senate must confirm every federal judge nominated by the president. For nominations to the Supreme Court, Senate confirmations become bloody battles between special interest groups pursuing single issues-abortion, gay marriage, affirmative action, the right to bear AK-47s-because they know that those nine justices-nine lawyers-will decide the most contentious issues of the day: a Supreme Court decision is the law of the land.

Appeals court nominations are only slightly less bloody, because those lawyers are justices-in-waiting. But district court judges-trial judges-must follow decisions of the appeals courts and the Supreme Court, so the special interest groups keep their powder dry on those nominations. Consequently, federal district judges are effectively nominated by the two senators from the state in which they will serve and confirmed by rubber stamp. It's called "Senatorial courtesy": You don't object to my home-state judges, I won't object to yours.

The judge gave him a sly smile. "Haven't you heard, Scott? I'm a living legend in the law." He pointed a bony finger at his phone. "I can call the president and he'll answer. He'd grant a dying legend his last wish. And our Republican senators need his signature on their pork-barrel legislation to get reelected-which is a hell of a lot more important to them than who sits on the federal bench here in Dallas."

"But I'm not sure I'm up to it, being a federal judge."

"You're up to it-because you possess the singular qualification for a federal judge."

"And what is that?"

"You care."

"But-"

"You'll be my age one day, Scott, facing death and looking back on your life, as I am now, judging the life you've lived, wondering if it was worthwhile, if the world will even know you were here. That's important to a man."

The last two years, Scott had learned that a man sitting in judgment of his own life is a harsh judge indeed.

"If you don't take my bench, Scott, a politician will-a lawyer looking to move up in the world, a lawyer who won't make the tough decisions a judge must make for fear of the political impact on his career. An ambitious judge is a dangerous animal."

"Judge, I-"

"Lifetime appointment, Scott, a lifetime of getting paid to help the… what did you call your clients?"

"The dissed."

"Yes, the dissed. You could give the dissed a fair shake in that courtroom… you could make their lives a little fairer… a little less unjust… and you could make a good living-lifetime salary, pension, life and health insurance-"

"Dental?"

"Of course. You could be proud of your life, Scott, and still take care of your girls."

The judge sat back and exhaled as if he were exhausted. Or dying. Scott felt as if he were losing a family member. If Dan Ford had been his father-figure, Samuel Buford had been his wise old grandfather-figure-not that the judge would claim any kinship to Dan Ford.

"I saw him in the courtroom. Dan Ford. He trying to lure you back to Ford Stevens?"

Scott nodded. "Ford Fenney. My name on the door and a million dollars."

"That's a lot of money." The judge coughed. "Doing good or doing well-that's a daily decision for a lawyer, like other folks deciding between oatmeal or eggs for breakfast. You'll do well at Ford Fenney. You'll do good as Judge Fenney."

"Is it a good life, Judge?"

"It is."

United States District Judge Atticus Scott Fenney. His mother would be proud.

"Scott, I'd die a happy man knowing you'd be sitting at my bench. May I put your name forward?"

"Yes, sir. And thank you."

Scott stood and shook Sam Buford's hand. He would never see the judge alive again.

For the first time in two years, A. Scott Fenney had options in life.

Option A, he could return to the downtown practice of law and a million-dollar salary-back to a professional life dedicated to making rich people richer and getting filthy rich himself in the process-and back to a personal life of Ferraris and Highland Park mansions and exclusive all-white country clubs. Maybe another trophy wife. The wife and life most lawyers dream of. Option A required only that he call Dan Ford and say yes to Ford Fenney.