I step into the Judge’s sunlit room. He’s in a leather reading chair by the window, dressed in tan slacks and a burgundy sweater, brown loafers on his feet. His thick, gray hair is clean and combed neatly.

His name is Atticus Faulkner, but to me, he’s the Judge. He wasn’t always the way he is today. Ten years ago, he cut an imposing figure—tall, strong for his seventy years, and active, with green eyes that seemed to see straight into your soul. He was a living, breathing lie detector with a brilliantly intimidating legal mind.

And he was my hero.

Everything I wanted to be. Everything my real father never was.

But life’s a bitch sometimes. Six years ago, he was diagnosed with advanced Alzheimer’s. He’d done an impeccable job of covering the early signs. Little tricks—hidden notes and reminders—so no one could tell he didn’t know what day it was. Sometimes he’d walk home from the courthouse, but only because he couldn’t remember where he’d parked his car. Then, later, he’d spend hours in a coffee shop because he’d forgotten his address.

I was busy then—practically just out of law school—making my bones. I should’ve seen that something was off, but I missed it. So, eventually, when he didn’t have any other choice and told me what was going on, it felt like things went downhill really fast. And the hard-ass I knew, the man I feared in the best sense of the word, just . . . slipped away, practically overnight.

The Judge was a lifelong bachelor. Married to his work, respected and esteemed by friends and enemies alike. No children, just a string of “lady friends”—some younger than others, some smarter than others, but all of them gorgeous. And all of them casual. A good time.

Casual lady friends aren’t usually interested in visiting a man who no longer recognizes them, who can no longer keep them entertained with a handsome face, a sharp wit, and amusing stories. So I’m the Judge’s only regular guest. Which means come hell, high water, sweltering temperatures, or freak blizzard, I’m here, every single week.

I read him the paper—keep him up to speed on the intrigue and ridiculousness of Washington, DC. Sometimes I talk to him about my cases, the fucking lowlifes I keep out of prison. Most of the time he just listens, nods, tells me how interesting the story sounds without any real understanding. But every once in a while, there’s a spark, a glint of recognition in his eyes; sometimes it lasts a minute, sometimes ten, but for that brief time, he’s himself again. He remembers me. It’s good to know that even on the worst of days, he’s in there, somewhere.

Today he turns from gazing out the window when I walk in and watches as I pull up a chair from across the room and sit down. “Good afternoon, Judge. How’s it going?”

“It’s going well, thank you. How are you?” His tone is hesitant and polite. The way you’d speak to a stranger—and right now, that’s what I am to him.

“I’m doing good.” I unfold the newspaper from under my arm. “The Supreme Court heard oral arguments on Thursday for that health care case. We talked about it last week, do you remember?”

His eyes squint and his finger presses against the lines surrounding his lips, his hand trembling slightly. “No, I can’t recall. Which case was it?”

I open to the front page. “I’ll read it to you. It’s a good article. Lays it all out.”

He leans forward attentively, and I begin to read.

• • •

After the newspaper, we kick back and watch the basketball game. The judge grew up on the south side of Boston, so he’s a die-hard Celtics fan. Or . . . he used to be. As the game winds down, I talk about my week—Milton Bradley and the epic-fail dinner with Camille. And then I tell him about Rory McQuaid.

“He gets halfway down the block, looks me right in the eyes, and gives me the finger.” I chuckle, because it seems a lot funnier now. “Little bastard.”

The Judge smiles. “I knew a boy like that once.”

My chuckles quiet and my smile slows. “Did you?”

His whole face lights up. “Oh yes! He was delightful. Smart and stubborn—a real tough nut to crack—with gray eyes like a storm cloud. He got into some trouble, and that young boy stood before my bench with his chin raised, just daring me to send him away. Like he was ready to spit in the devil’s face. But I could see, deep down, he was terrified.”

And I had been. For the first time in my life, I knew what real fear tasted like.

“There was something special about him, a diamond in the rough. So I had him serve his probation under my supervision. For three years, I owned that kid.”

Yep, three long years.

“I had to teach him to control his temper. He had a short fuse. So I started with the lawn. Each time he finished mowing, hot and sweaty, I’d go out and inspect his work.” He wags his finger. “And I always found spots that he missed. So I’d make him . . .” He starts to cackle, the son of a bitch. “I’d make him go back over the whole lawn with . . . with . . .”

“Garden shears,” I fill in for him.

“Yes! Garden shears.” He laughs loud. “Oh, he hated me those first few months. Probably thought of ten different ways to murder me.”

It was closer to twenty.

“After the yard work, I taught him how to organize, how to repair things around the house. It was good for him—channeling all that energy. And even though he was a very hard worker, I’d always say, ‘Do it right . . .’ ”