Judge Joe Elder is one of those smart lawyers who, around the age of fifty, realized that the state retirement system was one of the best around and decided to run for the bench. He has fulfilled most of his first four-year term, and by all measures he’s been an exemplary judge. A native of Ferriday, Louisiana, Elder attended historically black Alcorn State University, where he played basketball, then Howard University School of Law in Washington, D.C. He joined a corporate firm in D.C. for a few years, but then returned to Mississippi and set up shop on Lawyers’ Row in Natchez. Like most local attorneys, he handled whatever walked through the door, and he was overqualified for most of the work. He often trounced the white Ole Miss law school graduates whom he faced in court, and I suspect that gave him more than a little enjoyment.

To my immediate left sits one of those Ole Miss lawyers. Rusty Duncan has practiced almost every kind of law imaginable, but it’s plaintiffs’ cases and divorce work that pay his four kids’ tuition at St. Stephen’s Prep. Fifty pounds heavier than when we graduated from St. Stephen’s together, the unrepentant cynic has the lobster-red skin of a guy who spent the past week water-skiing on Lake St. John with his belly hanging over his 1970s-style cutoff blue jeans. But his appearance is deceptive: Rusty can still water-ski barefoot if challenged, and he’s got as keen a grasp of courtroom psychology as any lawyer I know.

“All rise!” cries the bailiff. “All rise for the Honorable Joseph D. Elder of the Fifth Circuit Court of the great State of Mississippi!”

Conversation dies as Judge Elder, all six feet six of him, strides into the courtroom from a side door and climbs the stairs to his lofty seat. Still trim and fit, Elder moves with athletic grace, and his shaved head makes him look ten years younger than his true age, which is near sixty. His deep-set eyes radiate authority; he doesn’t need to speak to make clear that he will brook no nonsense from anyone. Judge Elder is darker than Quentin Avery, whose skin is the color of shelled pecans; and compared to Shad—who’s as yellow as a Cotton Club chorus girl—Elder looks like a Masai warrior. As the judge leans over some papers on his desk, a few brave souls in the crowd begin to whisper to each other.

“You know how I think of them?” Rusty Duncan says in my ear.

“Who?” I ask.

“Shad, Quentin, and Judge Elder.”

“How?”

“Shad is Sidney Poitier, Quentin’s Morgan Freeman, and the judge—”

“Shut up, Rusty.”

“Aw, come on, Joe’s busy.” Rusty bumps my shoulder with his. “Look, George is talking to him now.”