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a matching jacket that turned the outfit into a business suit but left it in the closet. I put on low black heels and slipped the letter from Savannah into a small black purse.
    "May I borrow the car keys?" I asked Mama when I returned downstairs.
    "You look fancy," Emma said.
    "Like a woman preacher," Ellie added.
    Our church allowed women to exhort the congregation. Mama rarely exercised the privilege, but when she did, her eyes blazed with the fire of God so that chills ran up and down my back.
    "I'll tell Mr. Callahan to repent," I said, turning around in the center of the room. "I wore this outfit several times when I gave a presentation at school."

    Mama reached over and touched the fabric of the skirt. "That's a nice blend."
    "Is it modest enough?" I asked a bit anxiously.
    "Yes. You look very professional."
    "I'd hire you," Emma said. "And get you to sue Ellie for breaking the porcelain figurine that Aunt Jane brought back from her trip-"
    "Emma," Mama interrupted. "Open to 1 Corinthians 6 and read what Paul wrote about Christians suing each another."
    "I was joking," Emma protested. "I forgave her the next day."
    "I know, but it's a good time to learn a lesson about lawsuits between Christians." She turned to me. "Take the van. Don't worry about putting any gas in it."
    WITH A FAMILY OF SEVEN, a large passenger van was a necessity, not a luxury. Daddy selected the model, and Mama chose the color. She loved blue, and our vans were always somewhere between navy and azure. We didn't take long trips. Common destinations were town, church, and the homes of relatives. One of the boys washed the van on Saturday, but it couldn't stay spotless to the bottom of the dirt driveway. A light coat of red Georgia clay immediately coated the back bumper and created a film across the rear window.
    I turned left onto Beaver Ruin Road and followed it a mile to a freshly paved two-lane highway. The highway zigzagged across the hills of north Georgia, making sure no crossroad was left out. I knew every curve and dip of the route well enough to navigate it in a driving thunderstorm. I reached the edge of town. Powell Station had a single main street with two red lights, a business district three blocks long, and a U.S. post office. For travelers, it was a forgotten slow spot in the road. To me, it was the hub of our lives.

    Oscar Callahan was the only lawyer in town and jokingly claimed a monopoly on a business that didn't pay well. However, he'd made enough money to build a large home surrounded by a fifty-acre pasture where Angus cattle grazed in idyllic contentment. Kyle thought the lawyer's stock was the best of the breed in the area.
    The basis for Mr. Callahan's success was his representation of workers injured in the small manufacturing plants, textile mills, and chicken processing facilities scattered across the region. If a worker sprained a knee, hurt a hand, or ruptured a lumbar disc, Mr. Callahan got the case. Insurance defense lawyers from Atlanta came north to litigate against him at their peril.
    I first met Mr. Callahan when I was ten years old and Mama took me to his office for a field trip. He took an immediate interest in me, and that first field trip led to other visits during which we talked about everything from the U.S. Constitution to what it was like inside the county jail. When I graduated from high school, he sent me a check for a hundred dollars along with a note telling me I could become a lawyer if I wanted to.
    Mr. Callahan's roots in Powell Station ran deep. His grandfather was one of the most famous preachers in the early days of our church. The lawyer and his wife attended a more traditional congregation, but he understood people like my parents and me.
    I parked the van in front of a corner building at one of the two traffic lights. Mr. Callahan had remodeled the plain brick structure years before and installed nice wooden double doors with his name, "Oscar Callahan-Attorney at Law," in large brass