Walt was my mentor at the public defender’s office. He had the world-weary, hangdog expression and the cheerfully cynical attitude of a man who’s done criminal defense work all his life. He was perfect in almost every way—divorced so he didn’t have a spouse to stay home for, adventurous so he’d be inclined to take me up on a spur-of-the-moment invite, and old enough to be my dad. A man who was like a second father to me, who showed me the legal ropes at the start of my career. My intentions would not be misinterpreted.
Now, when I call Walt, it’s usually in search of something more conventional in the way of professional counsel. I figured when I told him I needed an escort to a nudie bar, it would catch him off guard a bit. I should have known better.
“Sam, you’re a pistol,” he said. Hi
