The Professor
here. Don’t tell my boy to apologize. Build him a goddamn statue and stay the hell out of his way.”
    It was a pretty good impression, and Tom laughed.
    The judge walked around the desk and put his arm on Tom’s shoulder.
    “Tom, I’m seventy-seven years old. I’ve gotten too old to give a shit about anything but the things that really matter.” He paused. “I’m gonna tell you something, and I want you to listen. I understand why you came here to teach, but I also understand that it would’ve been a shame if Picasso had never painted. Or if Elvis Presley had never recorded a song.” He paused. “Or if the Man had never coached. You have a gift for trying cases, and you’re not too old. I think it would be great if the Professor made a comeback.”
    Tom scoffed. “A comeback. At sixty-eight years old? Are you out of your mind?”
    “What does Augustus keep saying in Lonesome Dove ?‘The older the violin, the sweeter the music.’ ” He patted Tom’s shoulder and winked at him. “Think about it, Tom. It’d probably make some folks in this state piss in their pants.” Judge Hancock laughed and walked to the door. Before leaving, he turned around. “I wouldn’t refer out that Henshaw case too soon.” Again, he winked. “Sounds like the perfect case for a guy I used to know.”

13
     
    Tom locked the door and took the stairs to the second floor. He was about to walk out the glass double doors that led to the faculty parking lot when he remembered that he had parked in the student lot adjacent to Coleman Coliseum. There was a basketball game tonight, and he had thought he might go to the game. He and Julie had gone to basketball games on a routine basis. Since her death, he had planned to go several times, but he had never followed through. And I won’t tonight , Tom knew, feeling depressed as he walked slowly down the second-floor hallway that led to the next staircase. As he walked, it was hard not to gaze at the composites that hung on the walls. Class of 1969. 1972. 1977. He could still remember a lot of the faces. When he reached the first floor, there were more recent classes. 1997. 1999. 2004. 2009. In the 2009 composite, he searched out the face of Rick Drake, finding it in the third row. Rick was smiling, and Tom again felt a sense of guilt.
    I can help him , Tom knew. Rick was from Henshaw, and Ruth Ann’s case could jump-start his career. The Cock has lost his mind. I’m way too old and out of practice to take on Ruth Ann’s case. Shouldn’t I just refer the case to Rick and try to work things out with the school? Do I really want to let Lambert run me off? Tom closed his eyes. But what if the boy’s temper gets the best of him again? This isn’t a trial competition, this is real.
    Tom opened his eyes and shook his head, frustrated by his indecision. He walked away from the composites toward the door that led to the student lot. At the door a security guard sat with his legs propped up on a desk. When he saw Tom, he instantly shot to his feet.
    “Hello, Professor. Do you need an umbrella or anything?”
    Tom blinked, looking first at the guard—a first-year student named Jeffrey working his way through school by doing security at night—and then out the glass door, where he saw rain pelting the sidewalk and heard a clap of thunder.
    “No, I’m good, Jeff,” Tom said, reaching into his briefcase and pulling out a small umbrella. “Jesus, it’s coming down.”
    “Yes, sir.” They both looked out the door, and Tom caught sight of a lone figure carrying a pile of books down the sidewalk, the weight of the books causing the person to walk in zigzag fashion.
    “That stack of books is bigger than her,” Jeffrey said, beginning to walk toward the door. “She must’ve come out the doors to the student lounge. I should probably—”
    “Don’t worry about it,” Tom said, catching his arm. “I’m headed that way. You stay here.”
    “Uh . . . OK . . .” Jeffrey said,

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