Every weekday morning, just for the sheer fun of it, Clay checked the price of one stock and one stock only. BVHG was currently trading at $0.87 per share.

“How’s your stock doing?” was the great slap-in-the-face Clay’d never had the nerve to use.

“Maybe tonight,” he mumbled to himself as he drove into the entrance of the Potomac Country Club. Since there was a potential marriage in the near future, Clay’s shortcomings were fair game around the dinner table. But not Mr. Van Horn’s. “Hey, congratulations, Bennett, the stock has moved up twelve cents in the past two months,” he said out loud. “Kicking ass, aren’t you, old boy! Time for another Mercedes?” All the things he wanted to say.

To avoid the tip associated with valet parking, Clay hid his Accord in a distant lot behind some tennis courts. As he hiked to the clubhouse he straightened his tie and continued his mumbling. He hated the place—hated it for all the assholes who were members, hated it because he could not join, hated it because it was the Van Horns’ turf and they wanted him to feel like a trespasser. For the hundredth time that day, as every day, he asked himself why he’d fallen in love with a girl whose parents were so insufferable. If he had a plan, it was to elope with Rebecca and move to New Zealand, far from the Office of the Public Defender, and as far away as possible from her family.

The gaze from the frosty hostess told him, I know you are not a member, but I’ll take you to your table anyway. “Follow me,” she said with the slight makings of a fake smile. Clay said nothing. He swallowed hard, looked straight ahead, and tried to ignore the heavy knot in his stomach. How was he supposed to enjoy a meal in such surroundings? He and Rebecca had eaten there twice—once with Mr. and Mrs. Van Horn, once without. The food was expensive and quite good, but then Clay lived on processed turkey so his standards were low and he knew it.

Bennett was absent. Clay gently hugged Mrs. Van Horn, a ritual both of them disliked, then offered a rather pathetic, “Happy Birthday.” He pecked Rebecca on the cheek. It was a good table, one with a sweeping view of the eighteenth green, a very prestigious spot to eat because one could watch the geezers wallow in the sand traps and miss their two-foot putts.

“Where’s Mr. Van Horn?” Clay asked, hoping he was stuck out of town, or better yet, hospitalized with some grave ailment.

“He’s on his way,” Rebecca said.

“He spent the day in Richmond, meeting with the Governor,” added Mrs. Van Horn, for good measure. They were relentless. Clay wanted to say, “You win! You win! You’re more important than I am!”

“What’s he working on?” he asked politely, once again astounded at his ability to sound sincere. Clay knew exactly why the Bulldozer was in Richmond. The state was broke and could not afford to build new roads in Northern Virginia, where Bennett and his ilk demanded that they be built. The votes were in Northern Virginia. The legislature was considering a local referendum on sales taxes so the cities and counties around D.C. could build their own highways. More roads, more condos, more malls, more traffic, more money for an ailing BVHG.

“Political stuff,” Barb said. In truth, she probably didn’t know what her husband and the Governor were discussing. Clay doubted if she knew the current price of BVHG stock. She knew the days her bridge club met and she knew how little money Clay earned, but most other details were left to Bennett.

“How was your day?” Rebecca asked, gently but quickly steering the conversation away from politics. Clay had used the word sprawl two or three times when debating issues with her parents and things had become tense.

“The usual,” he said. “And you?”

“We have hearings tomorrow, so the office was hopping today.”

“Rebecca tells me you have another murder case,” Barb said.

“Yes, that’s true,” Clay said, wondering what other aspects of his job as a public defender they had been talking about. Each had a glass of white wine sitting before her. Each glass was at least half-empty. He had walked in on a discussion, probably about him. Or was he being unduly sensitive? Perhaps.

“Who’s your client?” Barb asked.

“A kid from the streets.”

“Who did he kill?”

“The victim was another kid from the streets.”

This relieved her somewhat. Blacks killing blacks. Who cared if they all killed each other? “Did he do it?” she asked.

“As of now he is presumed to be innocent. That’s the way it works.”

“In other words, he did it.”

“It sort of looks that way.”

“How can you defend people like that? If you know they’re guilty, how can you work so hard trying to get them off?”

Rebecca took a large gulp of wine and decided to sit this one out. She had been coming to his rescue less and less in recent months. A nagging thought was that, while life would be magical with her, it would be a nightmare with them. The nightmares were winning.

“Our Constitution guarantees everyone a lawyer and a fair trial,” he said condescendingly, as if every fool should know this. “I’m just doing my job.”

Barb rolled her new eyes and looked at the eighteenth green. Many of the ladies at Potomac had been using a plastic surgeon whose specialty, evidently, was the Asian look. After the second session the eyes strained backward at the corners, and, while wrinkle-free, were grossly artificial. Ol’ Barb had been nipped and tucked and Botoxed without a long-range plan, and the transition simply was not working.

Rebecca took another long pull on the wine. The first time they had eaten there with her parents she had kicked off a shoe under the table and run her toes up and down his leg, as if to say, “Let’s blow this joint and hop in the sack.” But not tonight. She was icy and seemed preoccupied. Clay knew she wasn’t worrying about whatever meaningless hearings she would suffer through tomorrow. There were issues here, just under the surface, and he wondered if this dinner might be a showdown, a powwow with the future on the line.

Bennett arrived in a rush, full of bogus apologies for being late. He slapped Clay on the back as if they were fraternity brothers, and kissed his girls on the cheeks.

“How’s the Governor?” Barb asked, loud enough for the diners across the room to hear.

“Great. He sends his best. The President of Korea is in town next week. The Guv has invited us to a black-tie gala at the mansion.” This too was offered at full volume.

“Oh really!” Barb gushed, her redone face erupting into a contortion of delight.

Should feel right at home with the Koreans, Clay thought.

“Should be a blast,” Bennett said as he pulled a collection of cell phones from his pocket and lined them up on the table. A few seconds behind him came a waiter with a double Scotch, Chivas with a little ice, the usual.

Clay ordered an ice tea.

“How’s my Congressman?” Bennett yelled across the table to Rebecca, then cut his eyes to the right to make sure the couple at the next table had heard him. I have my very own Congressman!

“He’s fine, Daddy. He sends his regards. He’s very busy.”

“You look tired, honey, a tough day?”

“Not bad.”

The three Van Horns took a sip. Rebecca’s fatigue was a favorite topic between her parents. They felt she worked too hard. They felt she shouldn’t work at all. She was pushing thirty and it was time to marry a fine young man with a well-paying job and a bright future so she could bear their grandchildren and spend the rest of her life at the Potomac Country Club.

Clay would not have been too concerned with whatever the hell they wanted, except that Rebecca had the same dreams. She had once talked of a career in public service, but after four years on the Hill she was fed up with bureaucracies. She wanted a husband and babies and a large home in the suburbs.