The slim file in my briefcase told the story. An anonymous complaint had come into the child welfare department concerning the treatment of a young boy named Daniel Rose, age four. After an investigation it was determined that the boy’s interests might best be represented by his having his own lawyer. This was not a case designed to make me rich or put my mug on the front page of the newspapers, and so my plan was to get in and get out as quickly as I could. The social worker at child welfare, a woman named Isabel, had assured me the boy was in no apparent danger. I figured the judge would lay out a series of concrete steps for the mother to follow, the mother would agree, and that would take care of that.

Julia Rose’s not being in the waiting room wasn’t helping my get-in-andget-out strategy.

I slumped in disgust on one of the hard plastic chairs and gently rubbed my swollen jaw. You can imagine my delight when a woman with an infant sat down right next to me, the baby crying and slobbering, drool flying as the baby shook in its mother’s arms. I pulled my suit as far out of harm’s way as I could. Sitting across from me, a skinny old man in a bow tie and a black porkpie hat was jiggling his leg. I caught his eye, and for an uncomfortable moment we fell into an impromptu staring contest. I lost, turning my attention to the side of the room, as if something of great import were happening there. As surreptitiously as possible, I glanced back at the old man. He was still staring, a bent smile of victory on his narrow face.

This, I thought, as I leaned away from the baby and pretended that I hadn’t noticed the old man’s stare, as children ran and squealed around me, as the smell of an unchanged diaper wafted from behind, this, I thought, was why I became a lawyer.

“Daniel Rose,” called out the clerk.

The old man glowered at me as I stood.

It was less a courtroom I entered than a small, shabby conference room. Judge Sistine, a large woman with the forearms of a wrestler and reading glasses perched on her nose, sat at the head of the table. To the judge’s right was a file clerk, to her left was the child-welfare social worker, the woman I had spoken to on the phone, Isabel Chandler, who turned out to be tall and stern and quite pretty. I sat at the far end of the table, feeling uncomfortably like I was on trial.

“Have you met your client yet, Mr. Carl?” said the judge.

“Not yet, Your Honor.”

“Don’t you think you ought to?” said Judge Sistine, peering at me over her glasses.

“I was hoping to meet him today. I called the mother, and she assured me she would show up at this hearing.”

“From what I can tell, her assurances don’t mean much. That’s why we’re here. Miss Chandler, have you been able to contact the mother today?”

“No, Judge.”

“I’m concerned about this report. I’m concerned that we can’t get a grip on the conditions in which this boy is living. How many times have you tried to visit the home, Miss Chandler?”

“Twice, Judge, both times unsuccessfully. Miss Rose continually apologizes and promises to be at home and then misses her appointments.”

“The anonymous report mentioned a boyfriend,” said the judge. “I want to talk to him, too. See if you can get him in, Miss Chandler.”

“Not likely, but I’ll try.”

“Mr. Carl, the truth is, Miss Chandler has a caseload that would choke an elephant. There is only so much she can do. You are this boy’s lawyer. I’m going to expect you to have some answers for me, and soon. I would hope you’d give this boy the same attention you give your corporate clients.”

“I don’t have any corporate clients, Judge, though if you see a herd wandering around, I’d appreciate your driving them my way.”

Isabel Chandler bit her lip to stop a smile, but the judge was having none of it.

“Do your job,” she snapped. “If you can’t handle this, let us know, and I’ll find someone who can. We’ll reschedule this matter for three weeks from today, at nine o’clock. If the mother doesn’t appear on that date, I’m going to issue a bench warrant. You tell her that, Mr. Carl. And I expect you to get the whole story from your client.”

“He’s four years old, Judge.”

“Then speak slowly.”

Outside the courtroom Isabel Chandler shook her head at me as if I were a troublemaker who was once again in some kind of trouble. She was thin and dark, with the kind of sharp, cool beauty that was like a driver’s-ed movie, so shocking you couldn’t look away.

“Judge Sistine doesn’t have much of a sense of humor, does she?” I said, trying to ingratiate myself.

“She was quite jolly when she started in family court six months ago, but I wouldn’t test her patience anymore. In fact, the most fun she’s had this month was reaming you.”

“I’ll be sore for weeks.”

She fought a smile again. “What’s with your cheek?”

“A bad tooth.”

“You ought to get it looked at.”

“So I’ve been told. But the lady at the insurance company acted like I was Cedric the Entertainer opening a bottle of beer when I asked if I had dental coverage.”

“She laughed?”

“And not just her. She put me on speakerphone, and soon the whole floor was guffawing.”

“So no coverage?”

“Bare naked.”

“That’s a shame. Look, if you want, I’ll schedule another home visit and we can go see the Roses together.”

“That would be great.”

“I’m not quite sure what’s happening with Daniel, and all we’re really going on is the anonymous report, but we ought to find out what we can. I’ll give you a call.”

“Thank you.”

“How’d you get this case, anyway?”

“My partner dumped it on my desk.”

“You ever do one of these before?”

“No.”

“Having fun yet?”

I was watching her walk down the hall when I heard a sharp bark of a voice from behind me.

“It’s a double shame, yes it is.”

I turned and saw the skinny old man who had been staring at me in the waiting room. His porkpie hat was still on, as was his scowl.

“What’s a shame?” I said.

“That someone ugly as you can be plain stupid, too.”

I must have misheard. “I’m sorry?”

“Don’t you be apologizing,” he said, accenting the consonants with a snap of his voice. “It’s not your fault you had a mama as ugly as my foot.”

“Excuse me?”

“Or a daddy as dumb as my other foot.”

“Now, stop that,” I said. “I’m the only one who’s allowed to insult my daddy.”

“You’re so ignorant, I bet you think you got a shot at that there girl.”

I looked back at Isabel. “And you don’t think I do?”

“Son, you got a face good for catching hardballs, and that’s about it.”

I turned and grinned at him. “I’ve got a better chance than you, old man.”

He took off his hat, spit on his palm, rubbed his hand across the shiny pate of his head as he whistled out of the side of his mouth. “Don’t bet against me.”

“Victor Carl,” I said, reaching out my hand.

“I know who you are, boy,” he said as he slapped my hand away. “You think I just insult any damn fool who steps in my way?”

“Why, yes,” I said. “I do.”

“The name is Horace T. Grant. My friends call me Pork Chop. You can call me sir.”

“You were in the army, I suppose.”

“Hell yes, but I wasn’t a commissioned officer, if that’s what you’re thinking. I speak out from my mouth and fart out my asshole. With those mixed-up bastards, it was the other way around.”

“So what can I do for you, sir?”

“You can buy me a cup of coffee,” he said.

And so I did.