“He’s your only son, Raymond,” the lawyer said.

“A felony record will finish his career in Texas.”

I got to my feet, holding the green binder by its cloth spine.

“My son finished his own career when he opened that gray bottle,” I said.

“Tell him I’ll see him at trial.”

The lawyer waited two seconds, searching my face for a crack, then turned and walked back to the elevator without opening his leather file.

I drove back to company headquarters on Oak Lawn as the streetlamps were flickering on along the avenue.