“Relax,” said Hugo. “There’s always a way to give the president what he needs.”

“You mean you’ll do it?”

“I mean there’s a way.” Hugo wrote something on a pad and tore off the sheet. “Call this guy. He used to do these jobs officially. He’s retired now, which just means he does them unofficially.”

Cam was uncomfortable with the idea of doing things unofficially. What did that mean, he wondered? But he sensed this was not the moment to quibble.

He took the piece of paper. It bore the name “Tim Tedder” and a phone number. “I’ll call him today,” Cam said.

“From a pay phone,” said Hugo.

• • •

The mayor of Roath, Mississippi, sat in George Jakes’s office at Fawcett Renshaw. His name was Robert Denny, but he said: “Call me Denny. Everyone knows Denny. Even my little lady wife calls me Denny.” He was the kind of man George had been fighting for a decade: an ugly, fat, foul-mouthed, stupid white racist.

His city was building an airport, with help from the government. But recipients of federal funding had to be equal-opportunity employers. And Maria in the Justice Department had learned that the new airport would have no black staff other than skycaps.

This was typical of the kind of work George got.

Denny was as condescending as a man could be. “We do things a little differently in the South, George,” he said.

Don’t I fucking know it, George thought; you thugs broke my arm eleven years ago, and it still aches like a bastard on a cold day.

“People in Roath wouldn’t have confidence in an airport run by coloreds,” Denny went on. “They would fear things might not be done right, you know, from a safety point of view. I’m sure you understand me.”

You bet I do, you racist fool.

“Old Renshaw is a good friend of mine.”

Renshaw was not a friend of Denny’s, George knew. The senior partner had met this client just twice. But Denny was hoping to make George nervous. If you mess up, your boss is going to be real mad at you.

Denny went on: “He tells me that you’re the best person in Washington to get the Justice Department off my back.”

George said: “Mr. Renshaw is right. I am.”

With Denny were two city councilors and three aides, all white. Now they sat back, showing relief. George had reassured them that their problem could be solved.

“Now,” George said, “there are two ways we could achieve this. We could go to court and challenge the Justice Department’s ruling. They’re not that smart over there, and we can find flaws in their methodology, mistakes in their reports, and bias. Litigation is good for my firm, because our fees would be high.”

“We can pay,” said Denny. The airport was clearly a lucrative project.

“Two snags with litigation,” George said. “One, there are always delays—and you want to get your airport built and operating as soon as you can. Two, no lawyer can put his hand on his heart and tell you what the court’s decision will be. You never know.”