The Color of Law by Mark Gimenez

was
the lawyer
—same as the bar and donut shop were fixtures. The thin walls of his office afforded him the opportunity to pick up several foreign languages, although his Spanish skills far exceeded his Korean, probably because when he wasn’t here he was usually next door in the bar shooting pool. As a general rule, Anglos were not welcome in a Mexican beer joint. But
Señor Herrin, el abogado
, was always welcome because the owner, the bartender, the waitresses, and most of the bar’s customers were his clients. Which had the added benefit of keeping his plateglass window free of bullet holes. He was the go-to lawyer when spouses, offspring, or siblings were busted, either because he showed them respect or because he offered a convenient payment plan. Often he would open the door (after stepping over the aforementioned drunk sleeping it off) and find fives and tens and every now and then a twenty on the floor with a note clipped to each so he could credit the correct client.
    It was not the life he had dreamed of in law school.
    The phone rang. If experience was any indication, Bobby Herrin would soon be driving over to the county jail to bail out one of his regulars. He reached for the phone.

SEVEN
    B OBBY H ERRIN felt like a lawyer in an out-of-town courtroom.
    He was standing in the lobby of the Downtown Club, located on the top floor of Dibrell Tower and hands-down the swankiest eating place in downtown, and watching the richest men in Dallas arrive for lunch, trailed by their lawyers like a rapper’s entourage. These were lawyers who owned the biggest law firms in town, who billed three, four, maybe five hundred dollars an hour—Bobby made $500 on a good
week
—and who wore wool suits, starched shirts, silk ties, and shoes shined by the black shoe guy downstairs. Everything Bobby was wearing had been purchased years ago off the sale racks and was made of polyester, except his shoes, which hadn’t been shined in months. He rubbed his right shoe against the back of his left trouser leg and repeated the attempt to bring something resembling a shine with the other shoe.
    “Bobby!”
    He turned and was greeted by the brightest smile on the most handsome face imaginable, the face of the friend he had once cheered and admired and envied and followed like a rock star’s groupie—and loved like a brother. Scotty Fenney. Bobby hadn’t seen Scotty in eleven years, and now he had to resist the urge to embrace his former best friend. They shook hands.
    “Glad you could make it,” Scotty said. “You haven’t been waiting long, have you, buddy?”
    Bobby shook his head. But, in fact, he had. He’d arrived fifteen minutes ago, parked in the underground garage, and rode the express elevator right to the top. Which reminded him. He pulled his parking ticket from his shirt pocket.
    “They validate?”
    If not, the ten-dollar parking fee would damn near bankrupt Bobby that day. But Scotty didn’t answer; he was looking Bobby up and down as if trying to come up with a compliment for his wardrobe. He finally gave up and slapped Bobby on the shoulder.
    “C’mon, let’s eat.”
    Scotty led the way to the maître d’s station, down a short corridor. One wall was a gallery of framed portraits of the club’s founders and board of directors, past and present, a regular Who’s Who of Dallas.
    “Ah, Mr. Fenney, a pleasure to see you today,” a middle-aged Hispanic man said with a practiced smile, as if seeing Scotty was the highlight of his day. He was trim, his hair was parted neatly and slicked over, and his face was smooth and brown, clean-shaven with a pencil mustache. The scent of aftershave hovered over him. He was dressed in a dark suit, dark tie, and white shirt. He could be the local Latino undertaker. He tucked two menus bound in leather under his arm. “Two for lunch, sir?”
    “Yes, Roberto.”
    Bobby followed Roberto and Scotty through the entryway and into a dining room illuminated by fancy chandeliers and