Rolling up to the humble Greenfield home in a long, long white stretch limo, we were taken aback.  Who was getting married?  Who was such a powerful person that commanded such a grand entrance.

The door swung open, and out came a black cowboy boot.  Then a tall, slim man, with a leather jacket and a couple days growth of beard on his face stepped out.  I stepped outside, lest this be Carlos the Jackal, a hit man sent by some competing cartel to one or another that I’ve represented over the years, coming to pay me back for freeing some nefarious competitor.  If everything was to end at that moment, at least I could protect the children from having a deep psychological fear of white limousines for the rest of their lives.

The man, behind dark gray shades, stood erect, tall, taller still with the heels of his boots elevating him far above an ordinary height person like me, with the late afternoon sun behind him, silhouetting his head and obscuring his features.  Then suddenly, without warning, the man stretched out his arms, grasped me around my shoulders and gave me a big hug.

The Texas Tornado, Mark Bennett himself, was here.

Mark had a case in the Southern District of New York, having wound its way from Texas, across the country, to wind up in my backyard, and was to appear this morning.  My initial fear turned to shock, thinking that he was so incensed by my pedantic ramblings on the  Boucher decision that he jumped on a plane from Houston’s “El Guacamole” International Airport to confront me mano a mano.  But no, he bore no ill will.

The Greenfield family was honored to share our supper and guestroom with this modern day Paladin.  Mark and I stayed up until the wee hours of the night, which at my advanced age is just after 9:30 PM, talking about the state of the law, the state of criminal practice and why Harris County is more fun than New York City.



But the surprises weren’t over when he appeared out of the back of that stretch limo.  Mark came bearing a gift from the great Nation of Texas, a wooden-boxed, picture perfect pecan pie.  There were no rhetorical exercises that could rationalize this pie with my perpetual state of Atkins, but I could never be so rude as to turn away from a gift that had traveled so far.

My wife, ever the charmer, reminded me that pecan pie was a shell containing sugar and starch, increasing my pie-lust to untenable proportions.  It was one fine pecan pie, during its brief life.  My son immediately called dibs on the wood box.  At 13 years of age, they are still fascinated more by the box.  It was a great box, though, I have to admit.  I was considering whether to fight him for the box.

If you thought, by reading Defending People, that Mark was one of the smartest, most dedicated criminal defense lawyers around, you haven’t scratched the surface.  While debating, discussing and matching wits across the internet allows folks from as far away as Texas and New York to engage with each other daily, there’s still nothing like talking to someone face to face.  Mark Bennett is one hell of a lawyer, and if you ever have need of a criminal defense lawyer down Houston way, you would be exceptionally lucky to have Mark standing beside you.