Rogue Lawyer

1.

Jury selection in the trial of Tadeo Zapate begins on Monday. It will be a circus because the press is giddy with anticipation and the courthouse is buzzing. The YouTube video of Tadeo laying waste to the referee Sean King has over sixty million hits. Our fearless Action News! heroes show it repeatedly during the evening and morning broadcasts. Same video, same drivel, same grim shaking of heads as if it just can’t be believed. It seems as though everyone has an opinion and few of them favor my client. On three occasions I have asked the court for a change of venue, and all three requests have been quickly rejected. Two hundred prospective jurors have been summoned for Monday, and it will be fascinating to see how many claim to have no knowledge of the case.

Right now, though, it’s Friday, around midnight, and I’m lying naked under the sheets with Ms. Naomi Tarrant close by. She is sleeping, purring in long deep breaths, dead to the world. Our second session began around ten, after pizza and beer, and though it lasted for less than half an hour it was nonetheless thrilling and utterly exhausting. We both admit that we’ve been a bit on the inactive side, and we’re having a grand time catching up. I have no idea where this nascent relationship might be headed, and I’m always overcautious—a result no doubt of the permanent damage inflicted by Judith—but as of right now I adore this girl and would like to see her as often as possible, naked or otherwise.

I wish I could sleep like that. She’s in a coma and I’m lying here wide awake, not aroused—that would be normal—but thinking of so many things other than sex. The trial Monday; Swanger and his tale about the Kemp girl; the bloody bodies of Tubby and Razor, rolled up in old cheap carpet and dumped in the landfill, probably by Miguel Zapate and his gang of drug dealers. I think of Detective Reardon and almost shudder at the idea that he and others in the police department suspect, either slightly or strongly, that I had something to do with the murders of Link’s thugs. I wonder if Link has decided to leave me alone, now that I can snap my fingers and get people whacked.

So many thoughts, so many problems. I’m tempted to ease out of bed and go find some booze, then I remember that Naomi doesn’t keep the stuff in her apartment. She’s a light drinker and a healthy eater, and she does yoga four days a week to keep things superbly toned. I don’t want to wake her, so I lie still and stare at her back, at the smooth perfect skin that rises and falls over her shoulder blades and lifts again to form the cutest bottom I’ve ever seen. She’s thirty-three years old, recently divorced from a creep she wasted seven years with, childless and seemingly unconcerned by it. She doesn’t talk much about her past but I know she has suffered greatly. Her first love was her college boyfriend who was killed by a drunk driver a month before their wedding date. With moist eyes, she told me she could never love another man that much.

I’m not really looking for love.

I cannot shake the thoughts of Jiliana Kemp. She is or was a beautiful girl, like my companion here, and there is a good chance that she is alive and living a life that is indescribable. Arch Swanger is a psychopath, and probably a sociopath, and he would rather lie than tell the truth about anything. But he wasn’t lying about young Heather Farris, late of the village of Lamont, Missouri, a twenty-year-old dropout who was working the graveyard shift at a convenience store when she vanished with no clues. They’re still combing the woods and bringing in bloodhounds and offering rewards but nothing has worked so far. How did Swanger know about her? It’s possible he caught an early news report, but that’s not likely. I went online immediately, found her story, and began following it in the Columbia newspaper. Lamont is over five hundred miles away from here, and, sadly, she’s just another missing girl from a small town. Heather has not made the national news.

What if Swanger is telling the truth? That Jiliana Kemp and Heather Farris are two girls out of a dozen who’ve been kidnapped by a sex-trafficking ring and forced to strip, screw, and breed while they live on heroin? The fact that I know this, or at least suspect it, makes me feel like an accomplice. I am not Swanger’s lawyer and I made that very clear. Indeed, I felt a real rush of adrenaline when I gripped my Glock and thought about putting him out of his misery. There are no ethical constraints binding me to silence and confidentiality with this scumbag. And even if there were, I would be inclined to ignore them if doing so might save some girls.

I stopped worrying about ethics a long time ago. In my world, my enemies are ruthless. If I make nice, I get crushed.

It is now 1:00 a.m. and I’m even wider awake. Naomi rolls over and flings a leg in my direction. I gently stroke her thigh—how can flesh be so smooth—and she whimpers as if somewhere in her deep sleep she likes the touching. I manage to get still and close my eyes.

My last thought is of Jiliana Kemp, living in our generation’s version of slavery.

2.

Partner and I spend most of Saturday in the basement of the law offices of Harry & Harry, poring over juror questionnaires and ponderous reports put together by Cliff, a jury consultant, who, so far, has billed me $30,000. The tally for Tadeo’s defense is just under $70,000, all from my pocket of course, and it will continue to climb. He and I have not discussed the payment of fees because it’s a waste of time. He’s broke, and Miguel and the rest of the drug gang have little interest in my compensation. They figure I made enough money from Tadeo’s brief career. I assume they also think that in the rules of the streets the removal of Tubby and Razor is worth a bundle. Tit for tat. We’re all even.

Cliff is of the opinion that the defense of Tadeo Zapate has quite a mountain to climb. He and his firm have done their usual work of (1) polling a thousand registered voters in this metropolitan area and asking hypothetical questions; (2) hurriedly researching the backgrounds of all two hundred prospective jurors; and (3) reviewing every news report that mentions the ugly incident in which Sean King was beaten. From the poll, an astonishing 31 percent of those questioned know a little or a lot about the case, and the vast majority of these favor conviction. Eighteen percent have seen the video. In the garden-variety murder case, regardless of how sensational, finding 10 percent who are aware of it is unusual.

Unlike most consultants, Cliff is known for his bluntness. That’s why I use him. His bottom line: “Chances of an acquittal are slim. Chances of a conviction are high. Cut a deal; negotiate a plea bargain. Run for the hills.”

When I first read his report, I called him immediately and said, “Come on, Cliff, I’m paying you all this money and your best advice is to run for the hills?”

He’s a real smart-ass and his reply was “No, actually, I’d sprint for the hills. Your client is toast and the jury will throw the book at him.”

Cliff will be in the courtroom Monday watching and taking notes. As much as I love the cameras and the attention, I’m not looking forward to it.

3.

At 4:00 p.m., Partner and I climb into my sparkling-new customized Ford cargo van, complete with all the usual finery I need for such a splendid mobile office, and head for the university. At Partner’s suggestion, I agreed to tone it down, to move away from conspicuous black to more of a soft bronze exterior color. Painted on both sides, in small block letters, are the words “Smith Contractors,” another nice touch Partner really wanted. He’s convinced that we will now blend in with the world and be harder to spot by the police, Link, my own clients, and all the other bad guys, real and potential, lurking out there.

He drops me off in front of the university’s aquatic center and leaves in search of a suitable parking place. I drift inside, hear the echoing voices, find the pool, and send a text message to Moss Korgan. Swarms of small, skinny kids are heavily involved in a swim meet. The bleachers are half-packed with noisy parents. A breaststroke race is under way and little girls splash and kick in all eight lanes of the fifty-meter pool.

Moss replies, “Right side, third section, top row.”

I look and see no one, but I’m sure he’s watching. I’m wearing a leather jacket with my long hair under the collar, along with jeans and a blue-and-orange Mets cap. This is really not my crowd and I don’t expect to be recognized, but I rarely take chances. Just last week Partner and I were having a sandwich in a café when a jerk walked over and informed me that, in his opinion, my little cage fighter should rot in jail for the rest of his life. I thanked him and asked him to please leave us alone. He called me a crook. Partner stood and the guy got lost.

As I climb the steps I get a nose full of the smell of chlorine. Starcher once mentioned swimming, but one of his mothers told him the sport was too dangerous because of all the chemicals they put in the water. I’m surprised they don’t keep the kid in a bubble.

I sit alone for a moment, far away from anyone else, and watch the action in the pool. The parents yell and the noise gets louder and louder until it suddenly stops and the race is over. The kids pull themselves out of the water as their mothers wait with towels and advice. From here, they appear to be about ten years old.

Moss rises from a group of parents across the pool and slowly walks around it. He climbs the bleachers in front of me and eventually takes a seat, about three feet away. His body language says it all—he hates where he is and would rather be talking to a serial killer. “This better be good, Rudd,” he says without looking at me.

“And hello to you too, Moss. Which one is your kid?” Stupid question; there are about a thousand of them down there crawling around the pool.

“That one,” he says with a slight nod. What a smart-ass, but then I asked for it. “She’s a twelve-year-old freestyler. Won’t get wet for another thirty minutes. Can we get on with this?”

“I have another deal for you, and it’s even more complicated than the last one.”

“That’s what you said. I almost hung up, Rudd, until you mentioned the Kemp girl. Let’s have it.”

“Swanger tracked me down again. We met. He claims to know where she is, that she went full term with the pregnancy, the baby got sold by some traffickers who feed her heroin in exchange for all manner of sexual activities.”

“Swanger is a proven liar.”

“He certainly is but some of what he says is true.”

“Why did he contact you?”

“He says he needs help and, not surprisingly, he needs money. There’s a chance he’ll contact me again, and if he does I can possibly put the police on his trail. That trail might lead to Jiliana Kemp, or not. There’s no way to know, but right now the police have nothing else.”

“So you’re sacrificing your client again.”

“He’s not my client. I made that clear to him. He may think of me as his lawyer, but it’s a waste of time to analyze what Arch Swanger might be thinking.”

A loud buzzer goes off and eight boys plunge into the water. Instantly, the parents start yelling, as if the kids can hear them. Other than “Swim faster!” what can you scream at a splashing kid in the heat of a race? We watch them until they make the turn. Moss says, “And what do you want from us?”

“I go to trial Monday with my cage fighter. I want a better deal. I want a five-year plea bargain with a guarantee that he serves his time in the county penal farm. It’s a softer place. There’s a nice gym. The kid can stay in shape, serve about eighteen months, get paroled when he’s, say, twenty-four, and still have a future in the ring. Otherwise, he’ll serve fifteen and come out a hardened street thug with only one thing on his mind—more crime.”

He’s already rolling his eyes. He exhales in disbelief, as if everything I’ve just said is a complete joke. He shakes his head; I must be an idiot.

Finally, with great effort, he manages to say, “We have no control over the prosecutor. You know that.”

“Mancini was appointed by the mayor and confirmed by the city council, same as you. Our interim police chief was appointed by the mayor and confirmed by the city council. Same for Roy Kemp, who’s still on leave. Can’t we find a way to work together here?”

“Mancini won’t listen to Woody. He hates him.”

“Everybody hates Woody, and he hates everybody right back. Somehow he’s survived three terms. Here’s how you sell it to Woody. Are you listening?”

He has yet to look at me, but now he turns and glares. He looks back at the pool and crosses his arms over his chest, my signal to spill it.

“Okay, play along, Moss, help me walk through this. Let’s assume I can lead the cops to Swanger, assume further that Swanger can lead the cops to Jiliana Kemp. Somewhere in west-central Chicago, by the way. Assume they rescue the girl, and guess what? Our beloved mayor, the Honorable L. Woodrow Sullivan III, gets to hold the first press conference. Imagine that scene, Moss. You know how Woody loves a press conference. It will be his finest moment. Woody in a dark suit, all smiles, a row of cops behind him, all grim-faced but happy because the girl has been saved. Woody makes the announcement as if he personally found her and pulled off the miracle. An hour later we get our first glimpse of the happy Kemp family reunited, with Woody, of course, wedging himself into the photo as only he can do. What a moment!”

Moss softens a bit as he absorbs this visual. It rattles around his brain. He wants to dismiss it and tell me to go to hell, but it’s simply too rich. Creativity fails him, as usual, so he simply says, “You’re crazy, Rudd.”

No surprise. I press on with “Since we’re grasping for the truth here, and making bold assumptions, let’s say that Swanger is not lying. If so, Jiliana is one of many girls snatched from their families and sold into bondage. Almost all are white American girls. If their ring is busted and the traffickers are caught, then the story echoes from coast to coast. Woody gets more than his share of the credit; certainly enough to shine in this town.”

“Mancini will never go along.”

“Then fire Mancini. On the spot. Call him on the carpet and force his resignation. The mayor has that power under our version of democracy. Replace him with one of those little ass-kissing bureaucrats. There are only a hundred of them.”

“I think there are fifteen,” he says.

“Sorry. So out of fifteen assistant city prosecutors, I’m sure you and Woody can find one with a bit of ambition, one who’ll do what you tell him or her to do in exchange for the big office. Come on, Moss, this is not that complicated.”

He leans forward, deep in thought, elbows on knees. The noise fades. The crowd goes quiet as one race ends and the next one starts to get organized. Thankfully, I’ve never been to a swim meet, but it appears as if this ordeal goes on for hours. I thank Starcher’s mothers and their fear of chlorine.

He needs some help, so I prod on. “Woody has the power, Moss. He can make this happen.”

“Why does it have to be a deal? Why can’t you just do the right thing and cooperate with the police? If you believe Swanger, and if he’s really not your client, then help out the cops here. Hell, you’re talking about an innocent young woman.”

“Because I don’t work that way,” I say, though I’ve lost sleep trying to answer his question. “I have a client to represent, one who’s guilty, as most are, and I’m desperate for ways to help him. I don’t get clients who have the potential to make a lot of money, legally, but this kid is different. He could lift himself and his rather large and growing family out of the ghetto.”

“A ghetto here is better than where they came from,” he blurts, and immediately wishes he hadn’t said it.

Wisely, and uncharacteristically, I let it pass.

We watch a group of taller boys limber up and stretch nervously at the start. I say, “There’s something else.”

“Oh, a multipart deal. What a surprise.”

“About a month ago, the cops found a couple of bodies at the landfill. Two thugs who worked for Link Scanlon. For some reason, I’m a suspect. Don’t know how serious things are, but I’d rather not deal with it.”

“I thought Link was your client.”

“He was, but let’s say that when he vanished he was less than pleased with my services. He sent the two thugs to squeeze some money out of me.”

“Who whacked them?”

“I don’t know but it wasn’t me. Seriously, you think I’d run the risk?”

“Probably.”

I snort a cheap laugh. “No way. These guys are career goons with lots of enemies. Whoever whacked them comes from a long list of folks who wanted to.”

“So, let me get this straight. First, you want the mayor to force Mancini to lighten up on your cage fighter so he can plead to a sweet deal and protect his career. Second, you want the mayor to lean on the police department to look elsewhere for whoever rubbed out Link’s boys. And, third, what was third?”

“The best part. Swanger.”

“Oh right. And in return for the mayor putting his neck on the block, you might be able to help the police find Swanger, who just might be telling the truth and who just might be able to lead them to the girl. That right, Rudd?”

“That covers it.”

“What a crock of shit.”

I watch him as he walks down the aisle in the bleachers and circles around the far end of the pool. On the other side, he walks up four rows and returns to his seat beside his wife. From far away, I stare at him for a long time, and he never casts even the slightest glance in my direction.

4.

C, for Catfish Cave. It’s a few miles east of town in a dingy suburb, a bedroom community of tract houses built sixty years ago with materials designed to last fifty years. The restaurant offers bargain buffets of fish and vegetables, all now battered and fried to hell and back but previously frozen for months, even years. For only ten bucks, the customers can graze and gorge for hours without limits. They heap their platters as if they’re starving, and wash it all down with gallons of sugary tea. For some reason alcohol is served but people do not come here for the booze. Tucked away in a dark, neglected corner is an empty bar, and it is here that I occasionally meet Nate Spurio.

The last time we met it was B for a bagel shop. The time before it was A, for an Arby’s roast beef joint in another suburb. Nate’s career hit a dead end a decade ago. He can’t be fired, and, evidently, he can’t be promoted. But if by some chance he was spotted having an off-duty drink with me, he would find himself directing traffic in front of an elementary school. He’s too honest for police work in this town.

His boss is a Captain Truitt, a decent guy who’s very close to Roy Kemp. If I want to deliver a message to Kemp, the path begins here over a couple of drinks. I lay it all on the table. Nate is surprised that I hold even the faintest hope that Jiliana Kemp is still alive. I assure him that I don’t know what to believe and believing anything Swanger says is probably a mistake. But, what is there to lose? He certainly knows something, which is a lot more than our investigators can say. The more we talk and drink, the more Nate is convinced that the police department and its union can pressure both the mayor and Max Mancini. Our former chief of police was an idiot who allowed our force to become what it is, but Roy Kemp is still held in high regard by his brothers. Saving his daughter is worth a reduced plea bargain for every defendant now sitting in jail.

I repeatedly caution Nate that finding her is against the odds. First, I’m not sure I can find Swanger, or that he’ll want to see me again. The last time we met I almost shot him. I have the prepaid cell phone but haven’t used it since our last meeting. If it doesn’t work, or if he doesn’t answer it, then we’re out of luck. And if I meet him and the police are able to follow him, what are the odds that he’ll lead them to the strip club in west-central Chicago? Pretty slim, I think.

Nate has the emotional range of a monk but he can’t hide his excitement. When we leave the bar he says he’s headed to Truitt’s house. There, they’ll talk off the record, and he expects Truitt to immediately inform Roy Kemp that a possible deal is brewing. It’s a long shot, but when it’s your daughter you’ll try anything. I urge him to hustle up; the trial starts tomorrow.

5.

Late Sunday night, Partner and I go to the city jail for the last pretrial meeting with our client. After half an hour of sniping with the jailers, I’m finally allowed to see Tadeo.

The kid frightens me. During his time in jail, he has absorbed a lot of free advice from his new pals, and he’s also convinced himself that he’s famous. Because of the video, he gets a lot of mail, almost all of it from admirers. He thinks he’s about to walk away from the trial a free man, beloved by many and ready to continue his brilliant career. I’ve tried to bring him back to reality and convince him that the people writing him letters are not necessarily the same type of people who’ll be sitting in the jury box. The letter writers are from the fringe; several have even proposed marriage. The jurors will be registered voters from our community, few of whom have any fondness for cage fighting.

As always, I pass along the latest plea offer of fifteen years for second-degree murder. He laughs with a cocky smirk, same as before. He doesn’t ask for my advice and I don’t offer it. He’s turned down fifteen years so many times it’s not worth discussing. Wisely, he has followed my advice and shaved and trimmed his hair. I’ve brought along a secondhand navy suit, with a white shirt and tie, an outfit his mother found at Goodwill. On his neck below his left ear is a tattoo of some baffling origin, and it will be partially visible above his collar. Since most of my clients have tattoos I deal with this issue all the time. It’s best to keep them away from the jurors. In Tadeo’s case, though, our jurors will be treated to his astonishing display of ink when they see the video.

Evidently, when a guy makes the decision to become a cage fighter, his first stop on the way to the gym is the tattoo parlor.

There’s a gap between us that’s been growing for some time. He thinks he’ll walk. I think he’ll go to prison. He sees my doubts of a successful outcome as not only a lack of confidence in him but also in my own ability in the courtroom. What’s really bothersome is his insistence on testifying. He truly believes he can take the stand and con the jury into believing (1) the fight was stolen from him by Sean King, and (2) he snapped, attacked, blacked out, and went temporarily insane, and (3) now feels real bad about it. After he explains everything to the jury, he wants to make a dramatic, emotional apology to the King family. Then all will be well and the jury will rush back with the proper verdict.

I have attempted to describe the rough treatment he’ll get when I turn him over to Max Mancini for a bit of cross-examination. But, as usual, he has no appreciation for what happens in the heat of a trial. Hell, I’m not always sure what’s about to happen.

None of my warnings register with Tadeo. He tasted enough glory in the cage to know what’s out there. Money, fame, adulation, women, a big house for his mother and family. It will all be his soon enough.

6.

It’s impossible to sleep the night before a jury trial opens. My brain is in a state of hyped-up overdrive as I struggle to remember and organize details, facts, things to do. My stomach roils with anxiety and my nerves are frayed and popping. I know it’s important to rest and appear fresh and relaxed before the jury, but the truth is I’ll look the same as always—tired, stressed, eyes bloodshot. I sip coffee just before dawn and, as usual, ask myself why I do this. Why do I subject myself to such unpleasantness? I have a distant cousin who’s a great neurosurgeon in Boston, and I often think about him at moments like this. I suppose his world is quite tense as he cuts into the brain, with so much at stake. How does he handle it physically? The nerves, the butterflies, yes even diarrhea and nausea? We rarely speak, so I’ve never inquired. I remind myself that he does his job without an audience, and if he makes a mistake he simply buries it. I try not to remind myself that he makes a million bucks a year.

In many ways, a trial lawyer is like an actor onstage. His lines are not always scripted, and that makes his job harder. He has to react, to be quick on his feet and with his tongue, to know when to attack and when to shut up, when to lead and when to follow, when to flash anger and when to be cool. Through it all, he has to convince and persuade because nothing matters but the jury’s final vote.

I eventually forget about sleep and go to the pool table. I rack the balls and break them gently. I run the table and drop the 8 ball into a side pocket.

I have a collection of brown suits and I carefully select one for opening day. I wear brown not because I like the color but because no one else does. Lawyers, as well as bankers and executives and politicians, all believe that dress suits should be either navy or dark gray. Shirts are either white or light blue; ties, some variety of red. I never wear those colors. Instead of black shoes, today I’ll wear ostrich-skin cowboy boots. They don’t really match my brown suit but who cares? With my ensemble laid out on the bed, I take a long shower. In my bathrobe, I pace around the den, delivering at low volume another version of my opening statement. I break another rack, miss the first three shots, and lay down my cue stick.

7.

The courtroom is packed by 9:00 a.m., the appointed hour for all two hundred potential jurors to show up and get processed. And, since capacity is only two hundred, there is gridlock when a horde of spectators and a few dozen reporters also show up and jockey for position.

Max Mancini struts about in his finest navy suit and sparkling black wingtips, flashing smiles at the clerks and assistants. With all these people watching, he’s even nice to me. We huddle and chat importantly as the bailiffs deal with the throng.

“Still fifteen years?” I ask.

“You got it,” he says, smiling and looking at the audience. Obviously, between Moss and Spurio, the word has not yet made its way to Max’s ears. Or maybe it has. Maybe Max was told to cut a deal and get a plea, and maybe Max did what I would expect him to do: told Woody and Moss and Kemp and everybody else to go to hell. This is his show, a big moment in his career. Just look at all those folks out there admiring him. And all those reporters!

Presiding this week is the Honorable Janet Fabineau, quietly known among the lawyers as Go Slow Fabineau. She’s a young judge, still a bit on the green side, but maturing nicely on the bench. She’s afraid to make mistakes, so she’s very deliberate. And slow. She talks slow, thinks slow, rules slow, and she insists that the lawyers and witnesses speak clearly at all times. She pretends this is for the benefit of the court reporter who must take down every word, but we suspect it’s really because Her Honor also absorbs things…real slow.

Her clerk appears and says the judge wants to see the lawyers in chambers. We file in and take seats around an old worktable, me on one side, Mancini and his flunky on the other. Janet sits at one end, eating slices of apple from a plastic bowl. They say she’s always fussing over her latest diet and her latest trainer, but I’ve noticed no progress on the reduction front. Mercifully, she does not offer us any of her food.

“Any more pretrial motions?” she asks as she looks at me. Chomp, chomp.

Mancini shakes his head no. I do the same and add, for reasons that are solely antagonistic, “Wouldn’t do any good.” I’ve filed dozens and they’ve all been overruled.

She absorbs this cheap shot, swallows hard, takes a sip of what looks like early morning urine, and says, “Any chance of a plea bargain?”

Mancini says, “We’re still offering fifteen years on a second degree.”

I say, “And my client still says no. Sorry.”

“Not a bad offer,” she says, slinging a cheap shot back at me. “What would the defendant take?”

“I don’t know, Your Honor. At this point, I’m not sure he’s willing to plead guilty to anything. Things might change after a day or two of trial, but right now he’s looking forward to his day in court.”

“Very well. We can certainly accommodate him.”

We talk about this and that and kill time while the bailiffs process the jurors and get things organized. Finally, at 10:30, the clerk says the courtroom is ready. The lawyers leave and take their places. I sit next to Tadeo, who looks a bit awkward all dressed up. We whisper and I assure him things are going swell, just as I expected, so far anyway. Behind us, the prospective jurors stare at the back of his head and wonder what awful crime he has committed.

When instructed, we all rise in deference to the court, as Judge Fabineau enters, her bulky figure nicely camouflaged by the long black robe. Because so much of their dreary work is done without an audience, judges love crowded courtrooms. They are the supreme rulers over everything in sight and they like to be appreciated. Some tend to grandstand, and I’m curious to see how Janet conducts herself with so many watching. She welcomes everyone to the proceedings, explains why we’re all here, rambles on a bit too long, and finally asks Tadeo to stand and face the crowd. He does so, smiles as I instructed him to do, then sits down. Janet introduces Mancini and me. I simply stand and nod. He stands and grins and sort of opens his arms as if welcoming the people into his domain. His phoniness is hard to stomach.

The jurors have now been numbered and Fabineau asks those holding 101 through 198 to leave the courtroom and take a break. Call the clerk at 1:00 p.m. and see if you’re needed. Half of them file out, some in a hurry, some actually smiling at their luck. On one side of the courtroom, the bailiffs place the remaining prospects in rows of ten, and we get our first look at the likely jurors. This drags on for an hour and Tadeo whispers that he’s bored. I ask him if he prefers staying in jail. No, he does not.

The pool is purged of those over the age of sixty-five and those with doctors’ excuses. The ninety-two we are now staring at are ready to be examined. Fabineau breaks for lunch and we’re told to be back at 2:00 p.m. Tadeo asks if there’s any chance of a proper lunch in a nice restaurant. I smile and say no. He’s headed back to the jail.

As I huddle with Cliff, the jury consultant, a uniformed bailiff approaches and asks, “Are you Mr. Rudd?”

I nod and he hands me some papers. Domestic Relations Court. A summons for an emergency hearing to terminate all parental rights. I curse under my breath, walk to the jury box, and take a seat. That bitch Judith has waited until this moment to further complicate matters. I read on and my shoulders begin to sag. Yesterday, Sunday, was my day to spend with Starcher; twelve hours, from 8:00 a.m. to 8:00 p.m., a modified, verbal agreement between Judith and me. Being preoccupied with the trial, I of course forgot about this and stiffed my kid. In Judith’s twisted way of thinking, this is clear proof that I’m an unfit father and should be completely banished from my son’s life. She demands an emergency hearing as if Starcher is in imminent danger, and if one is granted it will be the fourth in the past three years. She’s 0 for 3! And she’s perfectly willing to go 0 for 4 to prove something. What, I don’t know.

I buy a once-frozen Fresh! Sandwich out of a machine and stroll down to Domestic Relations. Machine food is often underrated. Carla, a deputy clerk I once hit on, pulls the file and we look it over, our heads just inches apart. When I hit on her about two years ago she was “in a relationship,” whatever the hell that means. What it really meant was that she had no interest in me. I took it in stride. I’ve had my balls busted so many times I’m surprised when a woman says, “Maybe.” Anyway, Carla must be out of her relationship because she’s all smiles and come-ons, which is not that unusual among the army of deputy clerks and secretaries and receptionists who clog these offices and hallways. A single straight male lawyer with a little cash and a nice suit gets plenty of looks from the unmarried ladies, and from some of the married ones as well. If I played the game, had the time and interest, I could run these gals into the ground. Carla, though, has chubbed up considerably in recent months and is not looking nearly as good as before.

She says, “Judge Stanley Leef.”

“Same one as last time,” I reply. “I’m surprised he’s still alive.”

“Looks like your ex is a tough one.”

“That’s a huge understatement.”

“She’s in here from time to time. Not very friendly.”

I thank her, and as I’m leaving she says, “Call me sometime.”

I want to say, “Well, if you’ll hit the gym for about six months, then I’ll take a look and consider it.” Instead, and because I’m such a gentleman, I say, “Sure.”

Judge Stanley Leef stiff-armed Judith in her last effort to strip me of parental rights. He had no patience with her and ruled on the spot in my favor. The fact that she rolled the dice with this latest filing and got stuck with Leef again says a lot about her integrity, and her naïveté. In my world, if the case is critical—and what could be more drastic than cutting off a respectable father’s right to see his child—all measures must be taken to insure a fair hearing before the proper judge. This might require the filing of a motion to ask an unwanted judge to step aside. It might require a complaint with the State Board of Judicial Ethics. My preferred method, though, is simply a cash bribe to the right clerk.

Judith would never consider any of these tactics. Thus, she’s stuck with Leef again. I remind myself that this is not about winning or losing, not about this judge or that one. It’s nothing but abuse of the court system to harass a former spouse. She has no worries about legal fees. She has no fears of retribution. She roams this section of the Old Courthouse every day, so this is her turf.

I find a bench and read her petition as I finish my sandwich.

8.

For the afternoon session, we move our chairs to the other side of our tables and stare directly at the jurors. And they stare at us as if we’re aliens. Under Fabineau’s selection scheme—and every trial judge is given great leeway in devising methods to pick juries—those with numbers one through forty are seated in the first four rows, and from there we’ll likely find our final twelve. So, we zero in on them as Her Honor rambles on about the civic importance of jury service.

Of the first forty, there are twenty-five whites, eight blacks, five Hispanics, one young lady from Vietnam, and another one from India. Twenty-two females, eighteen males. Thanks to Cliff and his team, I know their names, addresses, vocations, marital situations, church memberships, and histories of litigation, unpaid debts, and criminal convictions, if any. For most of them, I have photographs of their homes or apartments.

Picking the right ones will be tricky. Carved in stone is the belief that you want all the black jurors you can get in a criminal trial, because blacks have more sympathy for the accused and a greater distrust of the police and prosecutors. Not so today. The victim, Sean King, was a nice young black man with a good job, a wife, and three clean-cut kids. For a few bucks on the side, he refereed boxing matches and cage fights.

When Fabineau finally gets around to the matters at hand, she asks how many in the pool are familiar with the facts surrounding the death of Sean King. Out of the ninety-two, about a quarter of the hands go up, an enormous percentage. She asks them all to stand so we can jot down their names. I glance at Mancini and shake my head. Such a response is unheard of and, in my opinion, clear proof that the trial should be moved. But Mancini just keeps smiling. I write down twenty-two names.

To prevent further contamination, Judge Fabineau decides to take each of the twenty-two and quiz them individually. We return to her chambers and gather around the same table. Juror number three is brought in. Her name is Liza Parnell and she sells tickets for a regional airline. Married, two kids, age thirty-four, husband sells cement. Mancini and I are all charm as we attempt to curry favor with this potential juror. Her Honor takes charge and starts questioning. Neither Liza nor her husband is an MMA fan, in fact she calls the sport disgusting, but she remembers the riot. It was all over the news and she saw the video of Tadeo pounding away. She and her husband discussed the incident. They even prayed at church for the recovery of Sean King, and were saddened by his death. She would have a difficult time keeping an open mind. The more she is quizzed, the more she realizes how firmly she believes Tadeo is guilty. “He killed him,” she says.

Mancini asks a few of the same questions. I take my turn but do not waste time. Liza will get the boot soon enough. For now, though, she is instructed to return to her seat on row one and not say a word.

Juror number eleven is the mother of two teenage boys, both of whom love cage fighting and have spent hours discussing Tadeo and Sean King. She hasn’t watched the video, though her boys begged her to. She does, however, know all about the case and admits to having plenty of preconceived notions. Mancini and I politely poke and prod but get nothing. She, too, will be excused.

The afternoon grinds on as we work through the twenty-two jurors, all of whom, it turns out, know far more than they should. A couple claim they can set aside their initial opinions and decide the case with open minds. I doubt this, but then I am the defense lawyer. Late in the day, after we have finished with the twenty-two, I renew my motion for a change of venue. Armed with fresh and irrefutable evidence, I argue that we’ve just seen clear proof that too many people in this city know far too much about the case.

Go Slow listens and acts as though she believes me, which I think she does. “I’ll overrule your motion for now, Mr. Rudd. Let’s proceed and see what tomorrow brings.”

9.

After court, Partner drives me to the warehouse where Harry & Harry conduct their operations. I meet with Harry Gross and we review Judith’s latest petition. He’ll prepare a response, one similar to the other three already on file, and I’ll sign and file it tomorrow.

Partner and I go to the basement, where Cliff and his team are already at work. From the first four rows of the pool, numbers one through forty, nine people were quizzed privately during the afternoon session. I expect all nine to be excused for cause, or for good reason. Each side has four challenges, four automatic hooks that can be used for no reason whatsoever. That’s a total of eight. There is no limit on the number who can be excused for cause. The trick, the skill, the art, is reading the jurors and trying to determine which to challenge. I get only four strikes, same as the prosecution, and one mistake can be fatal. Not only do I decide whom to keep and whom to strike, but I also play chess with Mancini. Whom will he get rid of? Certainly the Hispanics.

I do not expect an acquittal, so I’m angling for a hung jury. I have to find the one or two jurors who might show some sympathy.

For hours, over bad carryout sushi and bottles of green tea, we dissect each potential juror.

10.

There are no phone calls in the middle of the night; nothing from Arch Swanger, nor Nate Spurio. Not a word from Moss Korgan. Evidently, my brilliant offer of a deal didn’t get very far. As the sun rises, I’m at my computer responding to e-mails. I decide to send one to Judith. It reads, “Why can’t you stop the war? You’ve lost so many battles and you’ll lose this one. The only thing you’ll prove is how ridiculously stubborn you are. Think about Starcher, not yourself.” The response will be predictably harsh and well crafted.

Partner drops me off in a strip mall out in the suburbs. The only store open is a bagel shop where smoking is illegally permitted. The owner is an old Greek who’s dying of lung cancer. His nephew has rank at City Hall and health inspectors don’t bother the place. It features strong coffee, real yogurt, decent bagels, and a layer of rich, blue cigarette smoke that’s a throwback to the days not long ago when it was common to eat in a restaurant while inhaling the fumes and vapors of those close by. Nowadays, it’s still hard to believe we tolerated that. Nate Spurio goes through two packs a day and loves this place. I take a deep breath out front, fill my lungs with clear air, walk inside, and see Nate at a table, coffee and newspaper in front of him, a fresh Salem screwed into the corner of his mouth. He waves at a chair and puts the paper away. “You want coffee?” he asks.

“No thanks. I’ve had enough.”

“How are things going?”

“You mean life in general or the Zapate trial?”

He grunts, tries to smile. “Since when do we talk about life in general?”

“Good point. Nothing from Mancini. If he’s in on the deal, he damned sure doesn’t act like it. Still offering fifteen years.”

“They’re working on him, but, as you know, he’s a prick who’s going places. Right now he’s onstage and that means a lot to him.”

“So Roy Kemp is hammering away?”

“You could say that. He’s tightening every screw he can find. He’s desperate—can’t say I blame him. And he hates you because he thinks you’re withholding information.”

“Gee, I’m sorry. Tell him I hate him too because he kidnapped my kid, but nothing personal. If he’ll get to the mayor, who can then get to Mancini, we might have us a deal.”

“It’s in the works, okay. Things are moving.”

“Well, things need to move faster. We’re picking a jury and based on what I’ve seen and heard so far my guy is in deep trouble.”

“That’s what I hear.”

“Thanks. We’ll probably start calling witnesses tomorrow and there aren’t many of them. This could be over by Friday. We need to cut the deal quickly. Five years, county penal farm, early parole. Got it, Nate? Does everybody up the food chain understand the terms of the deal?”

“Plain as day. It’s not that complicated.”

“Then tell them to make it happen. My guy is about to get slammed by this jury.”

He pulls on the cigarette, fills his lungs, asks, “Are you around tonight?”

“You think I’m leaving town?”

“We should probably talk.”

“Sure, but now I gotta run. I have this trial today and we’re out here beating the bushes looking for some jurors to bribe.”

“I didn’t hear a word, and I’m certainly not surprised.”

“See you, Nate.”

“A real pleasure.”

“And you really should stop smoking.”

“Just take care of yourself, okay. You got your own problems.”

11.

Go Slow is late for court, which, on the one hand, is not that unusual because she is a judge and the party doesn’t start until she arrives. On the other hand, though, this is a high-water mark for her career and you’d think she would arrive early and savor the moment. But I learned a long time ago not to waste time analyzing why judges do the things they do.

Everyone has been waiting for at least an hour, with no word on what’s causing the delay, when her courtroom deputy snaps to attention and calls us to order. Her Honor sweeps onto the bench as if she’s already terribly burdened and tells everybody to sit down. No apology, no explanation. She launches into some introductory remarks, not a single word of which is even remotely original, and when she runs out of gas she says, “Mr. Mancini, you may examine the panel for the State.”

Max is quickly on his feet, strutting along the mahogany railing that separates us from the spectators. With ninety-two jurors on one side, and at least that many reporters and spectators on the other, the courtroom is again packed. They’re even leaning against the rear wall. Max rarely has such an audience. He begins with a dreadful, sappy monologue about how honored he feels to just be in the courtroom representing the good people of our city. He feels a burden. He feels an honor. He feels an obligation. He feels a lot of things, and within a few minutes I notice some of the jurors start to frown and look at him as if to say, “Is this guy serious?”

After he’s talked about himself for too long, I slowly stand, look at Her Honor, and say, “Judge, can we please get on with this?”

She says, “Mr. Mancini, do you have some questions for the pool?”

He replies, “Of course, Your Honor. I didn’t realize we were in such a hurry.”

“Oh, there’s no hurry, but I really don’t want to waste time.” This, from a judge who was an hour late.

Max begins with textbook questions about prior jury service, and experiences with the criminal justice system, and prejudices against the police and law enforcement. By and large, it’s a waste of time because people rarely reveal their true feelings in such a setting. It does, however, give us plenty of time to study the jurors. Tadeo is taking pages of notes, at my direction. I’m scribbling too, but I’m primarily watching body language. Cliff and his associate are on the pews across the aisle, watching everything. By now, I feel as though I’ve known these people, especially the first forty, for years.

Max wants to know if any of them have ever been sued. A standard question but not a great one. This is, after all, a criminal matter, not a civil one. Out of the ninety-two, about fifteen admit to being sued at some point in their past. I’ll bet there are at least another fifteen who are not admitting it. This is, after all, America. What honest citizen has never been sued? Max seems thrilled with this response, as if he’s really found fertile dirt to dig in. He asks if their experiences within the court system would in any way affect their ability to deliberate in this case.

Naw, Max. Everybody loves to get sued. And we do so without the slightest resentment toward the system. But he flails away with follow-up questions that go nowhere.

For nothing but spite, I stand and say, “Your Honor, could you remind Mr. Mancini that this is a criminal case, not a civil one?”

“I know that!” Max growls at me and we exchange nasty looks. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Move along, Mr. Mancini,” Her Honor says. “And please keep your seat, Mr. Rudd.”

Max fights his anger and lets it pass. Changing gears, he wades into a sensitive matter. Has anyone in your immediate family ever been convicted of a violent crime? He apologizes for intruding into such a private matter, but he has no choice. Please forgive him. From the rear, juror number eighty-one slowly raises a hand.

Mrs. Emma Huffinghouse. White, age fifty-six, a freight company dispatcher. Her twenty-seven-year-old son is serving twelve years for a drug-fueled home invasion. As soon as Max sees her hand he throws up his and pleads, “I don’t want the details, please. I know this is a very private matter and very hurtful, I’m sure. My question is this: Was your experience with the criminal justice system satisfactory or unsatisfactory?”

Seriously, Max? We’re not filling out a survey for consumer satisfaction.

Mrs. Huffinghouse stands slowly and says, “I think my son was treated fairly by the system.”

Max almost leaps over the bar to run hug her. Bless you, dear, bless you. What an endorsement for the forces of good! Too bad, Max, she’s useless. We won’t get close to number eighty-one.

Juror number forty-seven raises his hand, stands, says his brother spent time in jail for aggravated assault, and, unlike Mrs. Huffinghouse, he, Mark Wattburg, was not favorably impressed with the criminal process.

But Max thanks him profusely anyway. Anybody else? No more hands. There are three others, and I suppose I know it but Max doesn’t. This confirms that my research is better than his. It also alerts me to the fact that these three are not altogether forthcoming.

Max moves on as the morning drags. He steps into another delicate minefield, that of victimhood. Have any of you been the victim of a violent crime? You, your family members, close friends? Several hands go up and Max does a nice job of eliciting information that’s useful, for a change.

At noon, Her Honor, no doubt exhausted by two hours on the bench and probably craving apple slices, announces a ninety-minute break. Tadeo wants to stay in the courtroom for lunch. I make a pleasant request to his handler, who agrees, to our surprise. Partner hustles down the street to a deli and returns with sandwiches and chips.

As we eat, we talk softly, keeping our voices low so the deputies and bailiffs cannot hear us. There is no one else in the courtroom. The gravity of the setting and surroundings has settled in and Tadeo has lost some of his cockiness. He’s absorbed the unforgiving stares from those who might be called upon to judge him. He no longer believes that they are his peers. Softly, he says, “I get the feeling they don’t like me.”

Such a perceptive young man.

12.

Max finishes up around three and hands off to me. By now, I know more than enough about these people and I’m ready for the selection. However, this is my first chance to speak directly to the pool, and it’s an opportunity to lay the groundwork for what every lawyer hopes will become some level of trust. I watched their faces and I know many of them found Max to be obsequious, even a bit goofy. I have an abundance of flaws and bad habits, but fawning is not part of my act. I don’t thank them for being there—they were summoned, they have no choice. I don’t pretend that we’re doing something great and they’re a part of it. I don’t brag on our judicial system.

Instead, I talk in broad terms about the presumption of innocence. I urge them to ask themselves if they haven’t already decided that my client is guilty of something or else he wouldn’t be here. Don’t raise your hand, just nod along with me if you think he’s guilty. It’s human nature. It’s the way our society and culture work these days. There’s a crime, an arrest, we see the suspect on television, and we’re relieved that the police have caught their man. Presto, just like that. Crime solved. Guilty party in custody. These days we never, never stop and say, “Wait, he’s presumed to be innocent and he’s entitled to a fair trial.” We rush to judgment.

“Questions, Mr. Rudd?” Go Slow squawks into her microphone.

I ignore her, point to Tadeo, and ask if they can truthfully say that, at this moment, they believe he’s completely innocent.

Of course, there is no response because no prospective juror will ever say she’s made up her mind already.

I move on to the burden of proof and discuss it until Max has had enough. He stands, arms open wide in complete frustration, and says, “Your Honor, he’s not quizzing the panel. He’s giving a law school lecture.”

“Agreed. Either ask your questions or sit down, Mr. Rudd,” Go Slow says, rather rudely.

“Thank you,” I reply like the smart-ass I really am. I look at the first three rows and say, “Tadeo doesn’t have to testify, doesn’t have to call any witnesses. Why? Because the burden of proving him guilty lies with the prosecution. Now, let’s say he doesn’t take the stand. Will that matter to you? Will you tend to think he’s hiding something?”

I use this all the time and rarely get a response. Today, though, juror number seventeen wants to say something. Bobby Morris, age thirty-six, white, a stonemason. He raises his hand and I nod at him. He says, “If I’m on the jury, then I think he should testify. I want to hear from the defendant.”

“Thank you, Mr. Morris,” I reply warmly. “Anybody else?” With the ice broken, several others raise their hands and I gently ask follow-up questions. As I had hoped, it becomes a discussion as more and more lose their inhibitions. I’m easy to talk to, a nice guy, a straight shooter with a sense of humor.

When I’m finished, Her Honor informs us we will pick the jury before we go home and gives us fifteen minutes to look at our notes.

13.

The e-mail from Judith reads, “Starcher is still upset. You are such a pathetic father. See you in court.”

I’m tempted to fire something back, but why bother? Partner and I are driving away from the courthouse. It’s dark, after 7:00 p.m., and it’s been a hard day. We stop at a bar for a beer and a sandwich.

Nine whites, one black, one Hispanic, one Vietnamese. With their names and faces so fresh I have to talk about them. Partner, as always, listens dutifully with little comment. He has been in the courtroom for most of the past two days and he likes the jury.

I stop at two beers, though I really want several more. At nine o’clock, Partner drops me off at an Arby’s, and I fiddle with a soft drink for fifteen minutes waiting on Nate. He finally arrives, orders some onion rings, apologizes for being tardy. “How’s the trial going?” he asks.

“Got a jury late this afternoon. Opening statements in the morning, then Mancini starts calling witnesses. Should go pretty fast. We got a deal?”

He shovels in a large, crusty ring and chews fiercely while looking around. The place is empty. He swallows hard, says, “Yep. Woody met with Mancini two hours ago and fired him. He replaced him with a flunky who was planning to move for a mistrial first thing in the morning. Mancini backed down and agreed to play along. He wants to meet with you and the judge at 8:30 tomorrow.”

“The judge?”

“You got it. Seems Woody and Janet Fabineau have some mutual dealings, friends, whatever, and Woody insisted on putting her in the loop. She’s good to go. She’ll take the plea, approve the bargain, sentence your boy to five years at the penal farm, recommend early release. Just like you said, Rudd.”

“Marvelous. And Link’s thugs?”

“That investigation is going nowhere. Forget about it.” He sucks on his straw and selects another onion ring. “Now, Rudd, the fun part.”

“The last time I saw Swanger, the meeting was arranged through a prepaid cell phone he left behind for me in a pharmacy. I still have the phone. It’s right outside in my van. I haven’t used it since, so I don’t know if it’ll work. But if I get Swanger on the phone I’ll try to set up a meeting. I’ll have to give him some cash.”

“How much?”

“Fifty grand, unmarked. He’s not stupid.”

“Fifty grand?”

“That’s about a third of the reward money. I’m assuming he’ll grab it because he’s broke. Anything less might cause problems. Last year you guys cashed in forfeited assets to the tune of four million bucks, all retained by the department, pursuant to our brilliant state law. The money’s there, Nate, and Roy Kemp would spend anything for the chance to see his daughter again.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll pass it along. That’s all I can do.”

I leave him with his onion rings and hurry to the van. As Partner drives away, I open the cheap phone and call the number. Nothing. An hour later, I call again. And again. Nothing.

14.

Aided by exhaustion, the two beers, and a couple of whiskey sours, I fall asleep with the television on. I wake up in my recliner, still wearing a suit but no tie, socks but no shoes. My cell phone is ringing; caller ID says “Unknown.” It’s 1:40 a.m. I take a chance and say hello.

“You looking for me?” Swanger asks.

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” I say, collapsing the footrest and bolting to my feet. Things are foggy and my brain needs blood. “Where are you?”

“Dumb question. Any more stupidity and I’m hanging up.”

“Look, Arch, there could be a deal in the works. That is if you’re telling the truth, which, frankly, no one involved believes you’re capable of.”

“I didn’t call to get insulted.”

“Of course not. You called because you want money. I think I can broker a deal, act as the middleman, without a fee of course. I’m not your lawyer, so I won’t be sending you a bill.”

“Very funny. You’re not my lawyer because you can’t be trusted, Rudd.”

“Okay, next time you snatch a girl, hire somebody else. You want the money or not, Arch? I really don’t care.”

There is a brief pause as he thinks about how much he needs cash. Finally, “How much?”

“Twenty-five thousand now to tell us where the girl is. If they find her, then twenty-five more.”

“That’s only a third of the reward money. You taking the rest?”

“Not a dime. As I said, I’m getting nothing, and that’s the very reason I’m asking myself what the hell I’m doing in the middle of all this.”

Another pause as he contemplates a counteroffer. “I don’t like the deal, Rudd. I’ll never see the other twenty-five.”

And we’ll never see the girl, I think but don’t say. “Look, Arch, you’re getting twenty-five thousand bucks from the very people who would shoot you on sight. That’s a lot more than you made last year with honest work.”

“I don’t believe in honest work. Neither do you. That’s why you’re a lawyer.”

“Ha-ha. You’re clever. You want a deal, Swanger? If not, I’m butting out. I got more important things on my mind these days.”

“Fifty grand, Rudd. Cash. Fifty grand and I’ll tell you and you alone where the girl is right now. If this is a setup or if I smell a cop anywhere around, I’ll bolt, make a call, and the girl will be gone for good. Understand?”

“I got it. I’m not sure about the money, but all I can do is pass this along to my contact.”

“Work fast, Rudd, my patience is running thin.”

“Oh, you’ll find the time if the money’s on the table. Who are you kidding, Swanger?”

The line goes dead. So much for a good night’s sleep.

15.

Three hours later, I stop at an all-night convenience store and buy a bottle of water. Outside, I’m approached by a cop in plain clothes who grunts, “You Rudd?” Since I am, he hands me a brown paper grocery bag with a cigar box inside. “Fifty grand,” he says. “All in hundreds.”

“That’ll do,” I say. What am I supposed to say? “Thanks”?

I leave the City, alone. During my last conversation with Swanger, about an hour ago, he instructed me to ditch my “thug” and do the driving myself. He also told me to forget the fancy new van and drive something else. I explained that, at the moment, I had nothing else and didn’t have time to run get a rental. The van will have to do.

I try not to dwell on the fact that this guy is watching me. He knew the moment Partner and I began buzzing around in a U-Haul van. Now he knows I have new wheels. It’s astonishing that he’s in the City enough to know these things, yet still undiscovered by the police. I suspect he’ll finally disappear when he gets the money, which will not be a bad thing.

As instructed, I call him as I leave the City on the southern bypass of the interstate. His directions are precise: “Go sixteen miles south to exit 184, take Route 63 east to the town of Jobes.” As I drive, I remind myself that I have this trial that’s supposed to kick off in just a few hours, or is it? If Judge Fabineau is really in the loop, what does that mean for the rest of the day?

I have no idea how much surveillance is tracking me right now, but I’m sure it is substantial. I didn’t ask questions, didn’t have time to, but I know Roy Kemp and his team have called in all the bloodhounds. There are two mikes in my van and a tracking device inside the rear bumper. I’ve allowed them to listen to my cell phone, but just for the next few hours. I’ll bet they already have people closing in on the town of Jobes. A helicopter or two in the air above me would not be a surprise. I’m not frightened—Swanger has no reason to harm me—but my nerves are jumping nonetheless.

The money is unmarked and cannot be traced. The police don’t care if they get it back; they just want the girl. They’re also assuming Swanger is smart enough to spot anything fishy.

Jobes is a small town of three thousand. When I pass a Shell station on the edge of town, I call Swanger, as instructed. He says, “Stay on the line. Turn left just past the car wash.” I turn left onto a dark, paved street with a few old houses on both sides. He says, “You swear you got fifty grand, Rudd?”

“I do.”

“Take a right and go over the railroad tracks.” I do as I’m told, and he says, “Now turn right onto that first street. It has no name. Stop at the first stop sign and wait.”

When I stop, a figure suddenly appears from the darkness and yanks the passenger door handle. I press the button to unlock it and Swanger jumps inside. He points left, says, “Go that way and take your time. We’re headed back to the interstate.”

“Great to see you again, Arch.” He’s wearing a black do-rag that covers his eyebrows and ears. Everything else is black too, from the bandanna around his neck to his combat boots. I almost ask him where he parked, but why bother?

“Where’s the money?” he demands.

I nod over my shoulder and he grabs the bag. He opens the cigar box, and with a small key-chain light counts the money. He looks up, says, “Take a right,” then keeps counting. As we are leaving the town, he takes a deep, satisfied breath, and offers me a goofy grin. “All here,” he says.

“You doubt me?”

“Damned right I doubt you, Rudd.” He points to the Shell station and says, “You want a beer?”

“No. I don’t normally drink beer at five-thirty in the morning.”

“It’s the best time. Pull in.”

He goes inside without the money. He takes his time, selects a bag of chips to go with his six-pack, and strolls back to the van as if he has no concerns whatsoever. When we’re moving again, he rips off a can and pops the top. He slurps it and opens the chips.

“Where are we going, Arch?” I ask with no small amount of irritation.

“Get on the interstate and head south. This van still smells new, you know that, Rudd? I think I liked the old one better.” He crunches a mouthful of chips and washes it all down with a gulp of beer.

“Too bad. Don’t spill any crumbs, okay? Partner gets really pissed off if he finds crumbs in the van.”

“That your thug?”

“You know who it is.” We’re on Route 63, still dark and deserted. No sign of sunrise. I keep glancing around thinking I’ll see some of the surveillance, but of course they’re too good for that. They’re back there, or up there, or waiting at the interstate. Then again, what do I know about such things? I’m a lawyer.

He pulls a small phone out of his shirt pocket and holds it up for me to see. He says, “Know one thing, Rudd. If I see a cop, smell a cop, or hear a cop, all I do is push this button on this phone, and somewhere, far away, bad things happen. You understand?”

“Got it. Now, where, Arch? That’s the first thing. Where, when, how? You have the money; now you owe us the story. Where is the girl and how do we get her?”

He drains the first can, smacks his lips, reloads another mouthful of chips, and for a few miles it seems as though he has gone mute. Then he opens another beer. At the intersection, he says, “Go south.”

Traffic in the northbound lane is busy as the early commuters head for the City. The southbound, though, is practically deserted. I look at him and want to slap the smirk off his face. “Arch?”

He takes another drink and sits taller. “They’ve taken the girls from Chicago to Atlanta. They move around a lot, every four or five months. They’ll work a town pretty hard, but then after a while people start talking, the cops start sniffing around, and so they disappear, set up shop somewhere else. It’s hard to keep secrets when you’re offering pretty young women at good prices.”

“If you say so. Is Jiliana Kemp still alive?”

“Oh yes. Very much so. She’s quite active, not like she has a choice.”

“And she’s in Atlanta?”

“The Atlanta area.”

“It’s a big city, Arch, and we don’t have time to play games. If you have an address, then give it to me. That’s the deal.”

He takes a deep breath and another long drink. “They’re in a big strip mall where there’s traffic, lots of cars and people come and go. Atlas Physical Therapy is the name of the company, but it’s nothing but an upper-end brothel. No number in the phone book. Therapists on call. Appointments only, no walk-ins. Every customer has to be referred by another customer, and they—the head therapists—know who they’re dealing with. So if you’re a customer, you park in the lot, maybe step into the Baskin-Robbins for an ice cream, stroll along the sidewalk, then duck into Atlas. A guy wearing a white lab coat says hello and acts real nice, but under the coat is a loaded piece. He pretends to be a therapist, and he does in fact know a lot about broken bones. He takes your money, say $300 cash, and leads you back to some rooms. He points to one, you walk in, and there’s a small bed and a girl who’s young and pretty and almost naked. You get twenty minutes with her. You leave through another door and no one knows you’ve had your therapy. The girls work all afternoon—they get the mornings off because they’re up late—then they load ’em up and take ’em to the strip clubs where they dance and do their routines. At midnight, they take ’em home, to a fairly nice apartment complex where they’re locked down for the night.”

“Who is they?”

“They are the traffickers, some extremely nasty guys. A gang, a ring, a cartel, a disciplined band of criminals, most with ties to eastern Europe, but some local boys as well. They abuse the girls, keep them terrified and confused and hooked on heroin. Most people in this country don’t believe there’s sex trafficking in their cities, but it’s there. It’s everywhere. They, the traffickers, prey on runaways, homeless kids, girls from bad families looking for escape. It’s a sick business, Rudd. Really sick.”

I start to rebuke him and curse him, remind him of his rather important role in a business he seems to detest, but it would serve no purpose. Instead, I go along with him. “How many girls now?”

“It’s hard to say. They split ’em up, move ’em around. A few have disappeared for good.”

I don’t really want to pursue this. Only a creep involved in the business would know so much about it.

He points and says, “Turn around at this exit and go back north.”

“Where are we going, Arch?”

“I’ll show you. Just hang on.”

“Okay. Now about that address.”

“Here’s what I would do if I were the cops,” he says with a sudden voice of authority. “I’d watch the place, Atlas, and I’d nab a john when he comes out, fresh from therapy. He’s probably a local insurance agent who’s not getting any at home and he’s taken a shine to one of the girls—you can actually ask for your favorite but the request is nonbinding; they got their rules—or maybe he’s a local ambulance chaser like you, Rudd, just another sleazy lawyer who’s hitting on everything but not scoring much, and for three hundred bucks he gets his therapy.”

“Anyway.”

“Anyway, they grab the guy, scare the living shit out of him, and within minutes he’s singing like a choirboy. He tells them everything, especially the layout of the interior. They make him cry, then let him go. They, the cops, already have a warrant. They surround the place with one of those SWAT squads, and it goes down beautifully. The girls are rescued. The traffickers are caught red-handed, and if the cops do it right they can flip one of them instantly. If he sings, he’ll implicate the entire ring. There could be hundreds of girls and dozens of goons. Could be huge, Rudd, all because of you and me.”

“Yeah, we’re a real team, Swanger.”

I take the exit ramp, cross over the interstate, and reenter it headed north. All the eyes watching my van must be wondering what the hell. My passenger pops another top, his third. The chips are gone and I’m sure there are crumbs left behind. I push it to seventy miles an hour and say, “The address, Arch.”

“It’s in the suburb of Vista View, about ten miles due west of downtown Atlanta. The strip mall is called West Ivy. Atlas Physical Therapy is next door to Sunny Boy Cleaners. The girls will get there around 1:00 p.m.”

“And Jiliana Kemp is one of them?”

“I’ve already answered that, Rudd. You think I’d tell you all this if she wasn’t there. But the cops better go in quick. These people can roll up and move in a matter of minutes.”

I have what I want, so I go quiet. For some reason I say, “Can I have a beer?” For a second he looks irritated, as if he needs all six himself, but then he smiles and hands one over.

16.

A few miles down the road, and after a long, pleasant stretch of silence, Swanger nods and says, “There it is. Dr. Woo and his billboard for vasectomy reversals. Brings back memories, right, Rudd?”

“I spent a long night there, watching them dig. Why’d you do that, Arch?”

“Why do I do anything, Rudd? Why did I grab that girl? And mistreat her? And sell her? She’s not the first, you know?”

“I really don’t care at this point. I just hope she’s the last.”

He shakes his head and says with some sadness, “No way. Pull over here on the shoulder.”

I hit the brakes and the van rolls to a stop under the bright lights from Dr. Woo. Swanger grabs the sackful of money, leaves the beer behind, and yanks the door handle. He says, “Tell those dumb-ass cops they’ll never find me.” He jumps out, slams the door, and bounces down the shoulder into some tall grass, over a fence, and under the billboard. The last image is Swanger ducking low between the thick posts, scrambling fast, and making tracks, then disappearing into the tall corn.

To be safe, I drive half a mile down the interstate, pull off again, and call the cops. They’ve listened to every word spoken in the van for the past hour, so there’s little for me to say. I do stress that it would be a mistake to try and corner Swanger until the raid takes place in Atlanta. They seem to agree. I see no activity in and around the cornfield by the billboard.

As I’m driving back to the City, my cell phone buzzes. Max Mancini. I say, “Good morning.”

“I just spoke with Judge Fabineau. Seems as if she’s been stricken with severe food poisoning. No court today.”

“Gee, that’s awful.”

“I knew you’d be disappointed. Get some sleep and we’ll talk later.”

“Okay. Am I supposed to check in with you?”

“Yes. And, Rudd, nice work.”

“We’ll see.”

I pick up Partner at his apartment and we settle in for a long breakfast at a waffle place. I recount the adventures of the past seven hours, and he, typically, listens without a word. I need to lie down and try to sleep, but I’m too wired. I try to kill time around the courthouse, but I’m so preoccupied with the raid in Atlanta I can think of nothing else.

Normally, I would be frantically preparing for Tadeo’s trial, but now I doubt it will take place. I’ve kept my end of the bargain, and regardless of what happens to Jiliana Kemp, we should have a deal. A nice little plea bargain that will allow my client to fight again, and soon. But I trust no one I’m dealing with at the moment. If the raid produces nothing, it would not be a surprise if the mayor, Max Mancini, Moss Korgan, Go Slow Fabineau, and the police brass all get together in a room and decide, “Screw Rudd and his client! Let’s go to trial.”

17.

By 2:00 p.m. eastern time the parking lot of the West Ivy Shopping Center is crawling with federal agents, all dressed in a wide variety of casual garb and driving nondescript vehicles. Those with more substantial weapons are hiding in unmarked vans.

The unlucky john is a forty-one-year-old car salesman named Ben Brown. Husband, father of four, nice home not far away. After therapy, he leaves Atlas through an unmarked door, makes it to his vehicle, a demo, and is allowed to drive half a mile before being pulled over by a local cop. Ben’s first words are to the effect that he damned well wasn’t speeding, but when a black SUV wheels to a stop in front of him he suspects deeper trouble. He is introduced to two FBI agents and led to the rear seat of their vehicle. He is placed under arrest for soliciting prostitution and told he will probably be indicted for all manner of federal offenses at a later date. Atlas, he is informed, is part of an interstate sex ring; thus the federal charges. Ben’s life flashes before his eyes and he’s barely able to hold back tears. He tells the agents he has a wife and four kids. They are not sympathetic. He’s facing years in jail.

The agents, however, are willing to deal. If he tells them everything, they will allow him to hop in his car and drive away, a free man. On the one hand, something tells Ben to clam up and demand an attorney. On the other, he wants to trust them and save his skin.

He starts talking. This is his fourth or fifth visit to Atlas. He usually had a different girl; that’s what he likes about the place, the variety. Three hundred bucks a pop. No paperwork, of course not. He was recommended by a friend at the car dealership. Everything is kept very quiet. Yes, he has vouched for two other buddies. Recommendations are required; security seems tight; confidentiality ensured. Inside, there is a small reception area where he always meets the same man, Travis, who wears a white lab coat, tries to look the part. Through a door there are six to eight rooms, all about the same—small bed, small chair, naked girl. Things go quick. It’s sort of like a drive-through sex shop, in and out, unlike one time in Vegas where the girl hung around and they ate chocolates and drank champagne.

No smiles from the FBI. “Any other men there?”

Yes, maybe, seems like there was one other guy one time. Everything’s real clean and efficient, except the walls are pretty thin and it’s not unusual to hear some rather graphic sounds from other therapy sessions. The girls? Well, of course there is a Tiffany and a Brittany and an Amber, but who knows what the real names are.

Ben is told to go and sin no more. He speeds away, eager to run tell his buddies to stay away from Atlas.

The raid happens moments later. With all doors blocked by heavily armed agents, there is no time to even think about resistance or escape. Three men are handcuffed and hauled away. Six girls, including Jiliana Kemp, are rescued and taken into protective custody. Just before 3:00 p.m., she calls her parents, sobbing hysterically. She had been abducted thirteen months earlier. And, she had given birth in captivity. She has no idea what happened to her baby.

Under enormous pressure, one of the three men, an American, takes the bait and starts singing. Names pour forth, then addresses, then everything else he can think of. As the hours pass, the web grows rapidly. FBI offices in a dozen cities put everything else on hold.

One of Mayor Woody’s banker buddies has a corporate jet and the guy is eager to send it. By 7:00 p.m. on a day when she would normally be ending another nightmare at Atlas and preparing for a night of stripping and table dancing, Jiliana Kemp is suddenly flying home. A flight attendant takes care of her and will later say she cried all the way.

18.

Once again, Arch Swanger slips through the net. There is no sign of him after he disappears into the cornfield. The police think they could have caught him then and there, but since they were ordered to wait until after the raid, they somehow lost him. It’s apparent that he has an accomplice. From the point where I picked him up at the stop sign in Jobes, it’s about forty miles to Dr. Woo’s sign beside the interstate. Someone had to be driving a getaway car.

I doubt I’ve heard the last of him.

19.

After dark, Partner and I drive to the jail to deliver the great news to Tadeo. He is being offered the deal of all deals—a light sentence, an easier prison, a guarantee of early parole for good behavior. With some luck, he’ll be back in the ring in two years, his career bolstered by the ex-con aura and that famous YouTube video. I have to admit I’m getting excited thinking about his comeback.

With great satisfaction, I lay it all on the table. Or most of it. I spare him the details of the Swanger adventure, and instead place emphasis on my prowess as a negotiator and much-feared trial lawyer.

Tadeo is not impressed. He says no. No!

I attempt to explain that he cannot simply say no. He’s facing a decade or more in a tough prison, and now I’m delivering a deal so fantastic that the presiding judge can’t believe it. Wake up, man! No.

I am stunned, incredulous.

He sits with his arms crossed over his chest, such an arrogant little punk, and says no over and over. No deal. He will not plead guilty under any circumstances. He has seen his jurors, and, after a few doubts, he is once again confident they will not convict him. He will insist on taking the stand and telling his side of the story. He is cocky, hardheaded, and irritated by my desire to see him plead guilty. I keep my cool and go back to the basics—the charges, the evidence, the video, the shakiness of our expert testimony, the composition of the jury, the bloodbath that awaits him on cross-examination, the likelihood of ten or more years in prison, everything. Nothing registers. He’s an innocent man who sort of accidentally killed a referee with nothing but his hands, and he can explain it all to the jury. He’ll walk out a free man, and when he does, well, then it’ll be payback time. He’ll find a new manager and a new lawyer. He accuses me of being disloyal. This makes me angry and I tell him he’s being stupid. I ask him whom he’s listening to back there in the cell block. Things go from bad to worse, and after an hour I storm out of the room.

I thought I might sleep tonight, but it looks like I’ll go through the usual pretrial insomnia.

20.

At 5:00 on Thursday morning, I’m drinking strong coffee and reading the Chronicle online. It’s all about the rescue of Jiliana Kemp. The largest photo on page one is just what I envisioned: Mayor Woody at the podium in all his glory, with Roy Kemp beside him, a wall of blue behind them. Jiliana is not in the photo, though there is a slightly smaller one of her getting off the jet at the airport. Baseball cap, big sunglasses, collar turned up, you can’t tell much but she looks reasonably good. She is resting at home with her family and friends, it says. The sex-trafficking story runs for pages, and the FBI operation is obviously still in progress. Arrests are being made across the country. So far, about twenty-five girls have been rescued. There was a shooting in Denver but no serious injuries.

Thankfully, there’s not a word about Jiliana’s heroin addiction, or about the lost baby. One nightmare is over; others continue. I suppose I should take some measure of quiet satisfaction in having had a hand in this, but I don’t. I bartered information to benefit a client. That’s all. Now that client has gone stupid and I get nothing out of the deal.

I wait until 7:00 a.m. to send a text message to both Max Mancini and Judge Fabineau. It reads, “After extensive discussions, my client refuses to accept the plea agreement now being offered by the prosecution. I have strongly advised him to accept it, to no avail. It appears as though the trial must go on, pending the health of the judge. Sorry. SR.”

Mancini responds, “Let’s tee it up. See u soon.” He, of course, is thrilled because he’s back on center stage. Evidently, Judge Fabineau has made a quick recovery. She texts, “Ok, the show must go on. We’ll meet in chambers at 8:30. I’ll inform my bailiff.”

21.

The players assemble in the courtroom as if nothing happened yesterday, or at least nothing that would in any way affect the trial. A few of us know—me, the prosecutor, the judge, Partner—but no one else knows, nor should they. I whisper to Tadeo. He has not changed his mind; he can win this trial.

We retire to the judge’s chambers for our early morning update. To cover my ass, I inform her and Max that I want to put my client on the record, so there will be no doubt in the years to come about his refusal to take a plea. A bailiff brings him in, no cuffs, no restraints. He’s smiling and being very polite. He’s put under oath and says he has a clear mind and knows what’s going on. Fabineau asks Mancini to recite the terms of the plea agreement: five years for a guilty plea to manslaughter. Her Honor says that she cannot promise any particular prison facility, but is of the opinion that Mr. Zapate would do quite well just down the road at the county penal farm. Only six miles away; his mother can visit frequently. Furthermore, she does not control parole, but as the sentencing judge she has the authority to recommend an early release.

Does he understand all of this? He says he does, and goes on to say that he ain’t pleading guilty to anything.

I state that I have advised him to take the deal. He says yes, he understands my advice, but he’s not taking it. We go off the record and the court reporter shuts down. Judge Fabineau folds her fingers together like a veteran kindergarten teacher, and in a painfully deliberate manner tells Tadeo that she has never seen such a good deal for any defendant charged with the death of another person. In other words, boy, you’re a fool to refuse this deal.

He doesn’t budge.

Next, Max explains that he, as a career prosecutor, has never offered a plea deal as lenient as this one. It’s extraordinary, really. Eighteen months or so in the pen, full access to the weight room, and there are excellent facilities at the penal farm, and you’ll be back in the cage before you know it.

Tadeo just shakes his head.

22.

The jurors file in and glance around expectantly, nervously. There is an air of excitement in the courtroom as this drama is about to unfold, but I feel nothing but the usual thick knot in my stomach. The first day is always the hardest. As the hours pass, we’ll settle into a routine and the butterflies will slowly dissipate. At the moment, though, I’d like to go vomit. An old trial lawyer once told me that if the day came when I walked into a courtroom and faced a jury without fear, then it was time to quit.

Max rises purposefully and walks to a spot in front of the jury box. He offers his standard welcoming smile and says good morning. Sorry about the delay yesterday. Again, his name is Max Mancini, chief prosecutor for the City.

This is a grave matter because it involves the loss of life. Sean King was a fine man with a loving family, a hardworking guy trying to earn a few bucks on the side as a referee. There is no dispute as to the cause of death, or who killed him. The defendant, sitting right over there, will try and confuse you, try and convince you that the law makes exceptions for people who temporarily, or permanently, lose their minds.

Baloney. He rambles on a bit without notes, and I’ve known for some time that Max gets in trouble when he goes off script. The more skilled courtroom advocates convey the impression that they are speaking extemporaneously, while in truth they have spent hours memorizing and rehearsing. Max is not one of those, but he’s not as bad as most prosecutors. He does a very smart thing by promising the jurors that they will soon see the now famous video. He makes them wait. He could, even at this initial stage of the trial, show the video. Go Slow has already said so. But he teases them with it. Nice move.

His opening statement is not long because his case is ironclad. Impulsively, I stand and tell Her Honor that I will reserve my opening statement until the beginning of our defense, an option under our rules. Max bounces forth and calls as his first witness the widow, Mrs. Beverly King. She’s a nice-looking lady, dressed for church, and terrified of the witness chair. Max walks her through the standard sympathy ritual and within minutes she’s in tears. Though such testimony has nothing at all to do with guilt or innocence, it is always allowed to hammer home the fact that the deceased is indeed dead and that he or she left behind loved ones. Sean was a faithful partner, devoted father, hard worker, breadwinner, loving son to his dear mother. Between sobs we get the picture, and, as always, it is dramatic. The jurors swallow it whole and a few glare at Tadeo. I’ve yelled at him not to look at the jurors, but instead sit attentively at the table and scribble nonstop on a legal pad. Do not shake your head. Do not show any reaction or emotion. At any given time, at least two members of the jury are looking at you.

I do not cross-examine Mrs. King. She is excused and returns to her seat next to her three children in the front row. It’s a lovely family, on display for everyone, but especially the jurors.

The next witness is the medical examiner, a forensic pathologist named Dr. Glover, a veteran of these battles. Because my career has involved a number of grisly murder cases, Dr. Glover and I have tangled before in front of juries. Indeed, in this very courtroom. He conducted an autopsy on Sean King the day after he died and has photos to prove it. A month ago Mancini and I almost came to blows over the autopsy photos. Normally, they are not admitted because their gruesomeness is so prejudicial. However, Max convinced Go Slow that three of the milder ones are probative. The first is of Sean lying on the slab, naked but for a white towel over his midsection. The second is a close-up of his face with the camera directly above him. The third is of his shaved head, turned to the right to reveal considerable swelling from several incisions. The twenty or so photos wisely excluded by Go Slow are so graphic that no sane trial judge would allow the jury to see them: sawing off the top of the skull; tight photos of the damaged brain; and the last one of the brain sitting alone on a lab table.

The ones deemed admissible are projected on a tall, wide screen. Mancini walks the doctor through each one. The cause of death was blunt-force trauma inflicted by repeated blows to the upper face. How many blows? Well, we have the video to show us. This is another smart move by Max—to introduce the footage with the medical expert on the stand. The lights go dim, and on the large screen we get to relive the tragedy: the two fighters in the center of the ring, both confident of victory; Sean King raises the right hand of Crush, who seems surprised; Tadeo’s shoulders slump in disbelief, then suddenly he hits Crush from the side, a real sucker punch; before Sean King can react, Tadeo lands a hard right to his nose, then a left; Sean King falls back and lands against the wire cage, where he sits, slumped over, defenseless, out cold; and Tadeo springs on him like an animal, pounding away.

“Twenty-two blows to the head,” Dr. Glover tells the jurors, who are mesmerized by the violence. They’re watching a perfectly healthy man get beaten to death.

And my idiot client thinks he’ll walk.

The video ends when Norberto rushes into the ring and grabs Tadeo. At that point, Sean King’s chin is on his chest and his face is nothing but blood. Crush is out cold. Chaos ensues as others scramble into the picture. As the riot breaks out, the screen goes black.

Doctors tried everything to relieve the intense swelling of Sean King’s brain, but nothing worked. He died five days later without regaining consciousness. An image of a CT scan takes the place of the video, and Dr. Glover talks about cerebral contusions. Another image, and he talks about hemorrhaging within the hemispheres. Another reveals a large subdural hematoma. The witness has been discussing autopsies and causes of death with juries for many years, and he knows how to testify. He takes his time, explains things, and tries to avoid esoteric words and phrases. This must be one of his easier cases because of the video. The victim was perfectly healthy when he walked into the cage. He left on a stretcher and the world knows why.

Arguing with a true expert in front of a jury is always tricky business. More often than not, the lawyer loses both the fight and his credibility. Because of the facts in this case, I have very little credibility to begin with. I’m not willing to lose any more. I stand and politely say, “No questions.”

When I sit down, Tadeo hisses at me, “What’re you doing, man? You gotta go after these dudes.”

“Knock it off, okay?” I say through gritted teeth. I’m really tired of his arrogance and he’s obviously distrustful of me. I doubt if things will improve.

23.

As we break for an afternoon recess, I get a text message from Miguel Zapate. I’ve seen him in the courtroom throughout the morning, one of several relatives and friends clustered in the back row, watching intently but from as far away as possible. We meet in the hallway and stroll outside. Norberto, the former manager of Team Zapate, joins us. Partner follows at a distance. I make sure they understand that Tadeo is refusing a very good plea bargain. He could be out in eighteen months and fighting again.

But they have a better deal. Juror number ten is Esteban Suarez, age thirty-eight, a truck driver for a food supply company. Fifteen years ago he emigrated legally from Mexico. Miguel says he has a friend who knows him.

I hide my surprise as we wade into treacherous waters. We turn down a narrow one-way street with all sunlight blocked by tall buildings. “How does your friend know him?” I ask.

Miguel is a street punk, a low-end drug runner for a gang that is heavily involved with cocaine smuggling but not heavily involved with its profits. In the murky chain of distribution, Miguel and his boys are stuck in the middle with no room to grow. This is where Tadeo was when we met less than two years ago.

Miguel shrugs and says, “My friend knows lots of people.”

“I’m sure he does. And when did your friend meet Mr. Suarez? Within the past twenty-four hours?”

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is the fact that we can deal with Suarez, and he’s not that expensive.”

“Bribing a juror can land you in the same pen with Tadeo.”

“Senor, please. For ten grand Suarez hangs the jury, maybe even gets an acquittal.”

I stop walking and stare at this small-time thug. What does he know about acquittals? “If you think that jury is going to let your brother walk, then you’re crazy, Miguel. Ain’t going to happen.”

“Okay, then we hang it. You said yourself that if they hang once, then hang twice, then the prosecutor will dismiss everything.”

I start walking again, slowly because I’m not sure where we’re headed. Partner trails fifty yards behind. I say, “Fine, go bribe a juror, but I’m not getting involved.”

“Okay, senor, give me the cash and I’ll get it done.”

“Oh, I see. You need the money.”

“Yes, senor. We don’t have that kind of cash.”

“I don’t either, especially not after representing your brother. I’ve forked over thirty grand for a jury consultant and twenty for a shrink, plus twenty more for other expenses. Keep in mind, Miguel, in my business I’m supposed to get paid by the client, cash fees for representation. And the client also covers all expenses. It’s not the other way around.”

“Is that why you’re not fighting?”

I stop again and glare at him. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, Miguel. I’m doing the best I can with the facts I have. You guys are under some misguided notion that I can fit your brother into a big, mysterious loophole in the law and walk him out of there a free man. Guess what? It ain’t going to happen, Miguel. Tell that to your hardheaded brother.”

“We need ten thousand, Rudd. And now.”

“Too bad. I don’t have it.”

“We want a new lawyer.”

“Too late.”

24.

D is for donut. After another sleepless night I meet Nate Spurio at a bakery near the university. For breakfast he’s having two honey-glazed filled with jelly, and black coffee. I’m not hungry, so I choke down the coffee. After a few minutes of small talk, I say, “Look, Nate, I’m pretty busy these days. What’s on your mind?”

“The trial, huh?”

“Yes.”

“I hear you’re getting hammered.”

“It’s pretty ugly in there. You called. What’s up?”

“Not much. I’ve been asked to pass along some kind words from Roy Kemp and family. They took the girl off to rehab someplace. She’s a mess, obviously, but at least she’s safe and with her family. I mean, look, Rudd, these people thought she was dead. Now they got her back. They’ll do whatever it takes to make her whole again. And, they might have a lead on the baby. This thing is still unfolding all over the country. More arrests last night, more girls taken into custody. They got a tip related to the baby-selling angle and they’re all over it.”

I nod, take a sip, say, “That’s good.”

“Yes it is. And Roy Kemp wants you to know that he and his family are very grateful to you for getting the girl back and making all this happen.”

“He kidnapped my child.”

“Come on, Rudd.”

“His daughter was kidnapped, so he must know how it feels. I don’t care how grateful he is. He’s lucky I called off the FBI or he might be sitting in jail.”

“Come on, Rudd. Let it go. There’s a happy ending here, thanks to you.”

“I deserve nothing and I want no part of it. Tell Mr. Kemp to kiss my ass.”

“Will do. They got a lead on Swanger. Last night, a tip from a bartender in Racine, Wisconsin.”

“Great. Can we meet in a week or so and have a beer? I’m rather preoccupied right now.”

“Sure.”

25.

I huddle with Partner and Cliff in the hallway before the trial resumes Friday morning. At this point Cliff’s job is to sit in various places among the spectators and watch the jurors. His reaction to yesterday is not surprising: The jurors have no sympathy for Tadeo and they’ve made up their minds. Grab the plea deal if it’s still on the table, he keeps saying. I tell him about my conversation with Miguel the day before. Cliff’s response: “Well, if you can bribe one you’d better do it quick.”

As the jury files in, I steal a look at Esteban Suarez. I planned to just glance at him quickly, as I normally do during trials. However, he’s gawking at me as if he expects me to hand over an envelope. What a goofball. There is little doubt, though, that someone has made contact with him. There’s also little doubt that he can’t be trusted. Is he already counting his money?

Judge Fabineau says good morning and welcomes everyone back to her courtroom. She goes through the standard routine of quizzing the jurors about any unauthorized contact with sinister people hoping to sway them. I glance back at Suarez. He’s staring at me. I’m sure others are noticing this.

Mr. Mancini stands and announces, “Your Honor, the State rests. We may have additional witnesses for rebuttal, but for now we’ll rest.”

This is not surprising because Max gave me a heads-up. He’s called only two witnesses because that’s all he needs. Again, the video says it all, and Max is wise to let it speak for itself. He’s clearly established the cause of death and he’s certainly nailed the perpetrator.

I walk to the jury box, look at everyone but Suarez, and begin by stating the obvious. My client killed Sean King. There was no premeditation, no planning. He hit him twenty-two times. And Tadeo doesn’t remember it. In the fifteen or so minutes before he attacked Sean King, Tadeo Zapate was struck in the face and head a total of thirty-seven times by Crush, also known as Bo Fraley. Thirty-seven times. He wasn’t knocked out, but he was mentally impaired. He remembers little past the second round, when Crush landed a knee to his jaw. We will show you, the jury, the entire fight, count the thirty-seven blows to the head, and prove to you that Tadeo did not know what he was doing when he attacked the referee.

I am brief because there’s just not much I can say. I thank them and leave the podium.

My first witness is Oscar Moreno, Tadeo’s trainer and the man who first saw his potential as a sixteen-year-old boxer. Oscar is about my age, older than Tadeo’s gang, and he’s been around the block. He hangs out in a gym for Hispanic kids and offers to train the more talented ones. He also happens to have a clean record, a real asset when calling witnesses to the stand. Past criminal convictions always come back to bite you. Juries are tough on felons under oath.

With Oscar, I lay the groundwork for the events leading up to the fight. It’s an effort to appeal to the jury’s sense of compassion. Tadeo is a poor kid from a poor family whose only real chance in life so far has been inside the cage. We finally get around to the fight and the courtroom lights go down. The first time through, we watch the fight without interruption. In the semidarkness, I watch the jurors. The women are turned off by the sport’s brutality. The men are thoroughly engrossed. During the rerun, I stop the tape each time Tadeo takes a shot in the face. The truth is that most of these were not that damaging and Crush scored only minor points with them. But to jurors who don’t know any better, a punch to the face, especially one blown out of proportion by Oscar and me, becomes a near-lethal blow. Slowly, methodically, I count them. When they are displayed in such exaggerated manner, one can easily ask how in the world Tadeo stayed on his feet. With 1:20 to go in the second round, Crush is able to yank Tadeo’s head down and bang it into his right knee. It’s a nasty shot all right, but one that hardly fazed Tadeo. Now, though, Oscar and I make it look like the cause of permanent brain damage.

I stop the video after the end of the second round, and through carefully rehearsed questions and answers I elicit from Oscar his impressions of his fighter between rounds. The kid’s eyes were glazed over. He could only grunt, not speak. He was unresponsive to questions fired at him by Norberto and Oscar. He, Oscar, thought about waving the ref over and stopping the fight.

I would put Norberto on the stand to verify these lies, but he has two felony convictions and would be humiliated by Mancini.

Left unsaid in this testimony is the fact that I was also in the corner. I was wearing my bright yellow “Tadeo Zapate” jacket and trying to act as though I was somehow needed. I have explained this to Max and Go Slow and assured them that I saw and heard nothing crucial. I was just a spectator; thus I cannot be considered a witness. Max and Go Slow know I’m here out of love and not money.

We watch the third round and count more blows to Tadeo’s head. Oscar testifies that when the fight was over Tadeo thought he had one more round. He was out of it, barely conscious but still on his feet. After he attacked Sean King and was pulled off by Norberto and others, he was like an enraged animal, unsure of where he was or why he was being restrained. Thirty minutes later, as he was changing in the dressing room while the police watched and waited, he began to come around. He wanted to know what the cops were doing there. He asked who won the fight.

All in all, not a bad job of creating some doubt. However, even a casual viewing of all three rounds clearly shows a fight that was fairly even. Tadeo dished out as much damage as he absorbed.

Mancini gets nowhere on cross. Oscar sticks to the facts he has created. He was there, in the corner, talking to his fighter, and if he says the kid took too many shots to the head, so be it. Max can’t prove otherwise.

Next I call our expert, Dr. Taslman, the retired psychiatrist who now works as a professional witness. He wears a black suit, crisp white shirt, tiny red bow tie, and with his horn-rimmed glasses and long, flowing gray hair he looks incredibly smart. I slowly walk him through his qualifications and tender him as an expert in the field of forensic psychiatry. Max has no objections.

I then ask Dr. Taslman to explain, in layman’s terms, the legal concept of volitional insanity, the standard adopted by our state a decade ago. He smiles at me, then looks at the jurors in much the same way an old professor would enjoy chatting with his adoring students. He says, “Volitional insanity means simply that a person who is mentally healthy does something wrong, and at the time he knows it’s wrong, but at that moment he is so mentally unbalanced, or deranged, he cannot prevent himself from doing it anyway. He knows it’s wrong, but he cannot control himself and thereby commits the crime.”

He has watched the fight many times, and the video of its aftermath. He has spent a few hours with Tadeo. During their first meeting, Tadeo told him he did not remember the attack on Sean King. Indeed, he remembered virtually nothing after the second round. However, during a later session, Tadeo seemed to recollect certain things that happened. For example, he said he remembered the smug look on Crush’s face as his arm was raised in victory. He remembered the crowd screaming its disapproval of the decision. He remembered his brother Miguel yelling something. But he remembered nothing to do with the assault on the referee. Regardless, though, of what he remembered, he was blinded by emotion and had no choice but to attack. He had been robbed and the nearest official was Sean King.

Yes, in Dr. Taslman’s opinion, Tadeo was so deranged he could not stop himself. Yes, he was legally insane, and therefore unaccountable for his actions.

And there is another, quite unusual factor in play here that makes the case unique. Tadeo was in a cage designed for fighting. He had just spent nine long minutes trading punches with another fighter. He makes his living punching people. To him, at that crucial moment, it was okay to settle the matter with more punches. Put in context, and in the environment of that instant, he felt as if he had no choice but to do what he did.

When I’m finished with Taslman, we break for lunch.

26.

I stop by Domestic Relations to check the court file. As expected, old Judge Leef has denied Judith’s request for an emergency hearing, and has scheduled the matter four weeks from now. His order also states that regular visitation will continue unchanged. Take that, sweetheart.

Cliff, Partner, and I walk a few blocks to a diner and hide in a booth for a quick sandwich. The morning’s testimony could not have gone better for Tadeo. All three of us are surprised at how well Oscar did on the stand, and how believable he was in telling the jurors that Tadeo had been knocked out, but was still standing. Few fight fans would believe that, but there are none on our jury. For $20,000, I expected Dr. Taslman to perform admirably, and he did. Cliff says the jurors are thinking now, with some doubt firmly planted. However, an acquittal is impossible. A hung jury is still our only chance. And it could be a long afternoon as Mancini goes after our expert.

Back in court, Max begins by asking, “Dr. Taslman, at what moment did the defendant become legally insane?”

“There is not always a clear beginning and ending. Obviously, Mr. Zapate became furious over the judges’ decision awarding the fight to his opponent.”

“So, before that moment, was he insane by your definition?”

“It’s not clear. There is a strong likelihood that Mr. Zapate had been mentally impaired during the last few minutes of the fight. This is a very unusual situation, and it’s not possible to know how clearly he was thinking before the decision was announced. It’s pretty obvious, though, that he snapped quickly.”

“How long was he legally insane?”

“I don’t think it’s possible to say.”

“Okay, under your definition, when the defendant whirled around and struck Sean King with the first punch, was that an assault?”

“Yes.”

“And punishable by some standard?”

“Yes.”

“And excusable, in your opinion, because of your definition of legal insanity?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve seen the video many times. It’s clear that Sean King made no effort to defend himself once he fell to the deck and was sitting against the cage, right?”

“That appears to be the case.”

“Do you need to see it again?”

“No, not at this time.”

“So, after only two punches, Sean King is down and out, unable to protect himself, right?”

“That appears to be the case, yes.”

“Ten punches later, his face is bleeding and basically pulverized. He cannot protect himself. The defendant has hit him twelve times around the eyes and forehead. Now, at that point, Doctor, was the defendant still legally insane?”

“He could not control himself, so the answer is yes.”

Mancini looks at the judge and says, “Okay. I want to run the video again in slow motion.” The lights are dimmed yet again, and everyone stares at the large screen. Max runs it in super slow-mo and announces loudly as each punch lands, “One! Two! He’s down now. Three! Four! Five!”

I glance at the jurors. They may be tired of this footage but they’re still captivated by it.

Max stops with blow number twelve and asks, “Now, Doctor, you’re telling this jury that they’re looking at a man who knows he’s doing wrong, violating the law, but cannot physically or mentally stop himself. Is that right?” Max’s tone is one of incredulity and mockery, and it’s effective. What we’re watching is a slaughter by one pissed-off fighter. Not a man driven insane.

“That’s correct,” Dr. Taslman says, not yielding an inch.

Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, Max counts them off slowly and stops at twenty. Max calls out, “Now, at this point, Doc, is he still insane?”

“He is, yes.”

Twenty-one, twenty-two, and bodies land on Tadeo as Norberto finally dives on and stops the carnage. Max asks, “How about now, Doc, they’ve pulled him off and the attack is over? At what point does the boy return to sanity?”

“It’s hard to say.”

“A minute later? An hour later?”

“It’s hard to say.”

“It’s hard to say because you don’t know, right? In your opinion, legal sanity is like a switch that flips on and off, rather conveniently for the defendant, right?”

“That’s not what I said.”

Max pushes a button and the screen disappears. The lights are brightened as everyone takes a breath. Max whispers to an assistant and picks up another legal pad covered with notes. He shuffles to the podium, glares at the witness, and asks, “What if he hit him thirty times, Dr. Taslman? You’d still diagnose him as legally insane?”

“Under the same set of facts, yes.”

“Oh, we’re talking about the same facts. Nothing has changed. What about forty times? Forty blows to the head of a man who’s clearly unconscious. Still legally insane, Doc?”

“Yes.”

“This defendant showed no signs of stopping after only twenty-two. What if he landed a hundred shots to the head, Doc? Still legally insane in your book?”

Taslman earns his money with “The greater number of punches is clearer evidence of a deranged mind.”

27.

It’s Friday afternoon and there’s no way we can finish the trial today. Like most judges, Go Slow likes to jump-start the weekend. She warns the jurors about unauthorized contact and recesses early. As the jurors file out, Esteban Suarez glances my way one more time. It’s as if he’s still looking for the envelope. Bizarre.

I spend a few minutes with Tadeo and recap the week. He still insists on taking the stand, and I tell him that will probably happen Monday morning. I promise to stop by the jail on Sunday and go through his testimony. I repeat my warning that it’s never a good idea for the accused to testify. He’s taken away in handcuffs. I spend a few minutes with his mother and family and answer their questions. I’m still pessimistic but I try to hide it.

Miguel follows me out of the courtroom and down a long hallway. When no one is listening, he says, “Suarez is waiting. Contact confirmed. He’ll take the money.”

“Ten grand?” I ask, just to make sure.

“Sí, senor.”

“Then go for it, Miguel, but just leave me out of it. I’m not bribing a juror.”

“I guess then, senor, that I need a loan.”

“Forget it. I don’t make loans to clients, and I don’t make loans that’ll never be repaid. You’re on your own, pal.”

“But we took care of those two thugs for you.”

I stop and glare at him. This is the first time he’s mentioned Link’s boys—Tubby and Razor. Slowly, I say, “For the record, Miguel, I know nothing about those two. If you whacked ’em, you did it on your own.”

He’s smiling and shaking his head. “No, senor, we did it as a favor for you.” He nods to Partner in the distance. “He asked. We delivered. Now we need the favor returned.”

I take a deep breath and stare at a huge stained-glass window the taxpayers paid for a century earlier. He has a point. Two dead thugs are worth more than ten grand, at least in the currency of the street. The breakdown comes with the communication. I didn’t request two dead thugs. But now that I benefit from their demise, am I obligated to return the favor?

Suarez is probably wearing a wire and maybe even a camera. If the money can be traced to me, then I’m disbarred and headed for prison. I’ve had close calls before, and I prefer life on the outside. I swallow hard and say, “Sorry, Miguel, but I will not be involved.”

I turn and he grabs my arm. I shake him off as Partner approaches. Miguel says, “You’ll be sorry, senor.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No. A promise.”

28.

There are fights tonight, but I’ve seen enough bloodshed for one week. I need to find another sport, and at the moment it happens to be chasing the most lovely Naomi Tarrant. Since we’re still meeting on the sly, or at least afraid of being seen by someone who might recognize her as a teacher, we are visiting dark bars and low-end restaurants. Tonight we go to a new place, a Thai restaurant east of town, far away from the school where Naomi teaches Starcher. We are confident we will not be seen by anyone we know.

Not quite. Naomi sees her first, and since she can’t believe it, she asks me to verify. It’s not easy because we don’t want to get caught. The restaurant is sufficiently dark and it has a series of meandering nooks and alcoves. It’s a great place to hide and have a meal without seeing many people. As Naomi returns from the ladies’ room, she sees three booths in the rear of a dining room. Seated in one of them, side by side and deep in conversation, are Judith and another woman. Not Ava, the current partner, but someone else. A curtain of beads is partially closed at the booth and blocking some of the view, but she is certain it’s Judith. Common sense would say that the two women, if only friends or associates or colleagues, would be sitting across the table from each other. But these two women are shoulder to shoulder and lost in another world, according to Naomi.

I sneak around to the men’s room, duck behind some fake potted plants on a shelf, and see what I desperately want to see. I hustle back to the table and confirm it all with Naomi.

I consider leaving and avoiding an embarrassing situation. We don’t want Judith to see us, and I’m absolutely certain she doesn’t want us to see her.

I consider sending Naomi to the car, then crashing Judith’s little rendezvous. How cool it would be to watch her melt and start lying. I’ll ask about Ava, send my regards.

I consider Starcher and what this might mean in the war being waged by his biological parents. His mothers aren’t legally married so I suppose it’s okay for one or both to see other women, though I seriously doubt they have an open relationship. How am I supposed to know the rules? But if Ava finds out, there will be even more warfare, more grief for the kid. And more ammunition for me.

I consider calling Partner and getting him to follow Judith, maybe take some photos.

As I consider all of this and sip a whiskey sour, Judith appears from around the corner and walks straight to our table. In the distance I see her friend leave hurriedly through the front door, one last furtive, tell-all glance over her shoulder. Judith, in full-bitch mode, says, “Well, well, didn’t expect to see you here.”

I’m not about to allow her to intimidate Naomi, who’s temporarily stricken. I say, “Didn’t expect to see you either. Here alone?”

“Yes,” she says. “Just picking up some takeout.”

“Oh really. Then who’s the girl?”

“What girl?”

“The girl in the booth. Short sandy hair, buzzed on one side in the current fad. The girl who just broke her neck getting out of the front door. Does Ava know about her?”

“Oh, that girl. She’s just a friend. Does the school allow its teachers to date its parents?”

“It’s frowned upon but not prohibited,” Naomi says coolly.

“Does Ava allow you to date other people?” I ask.

“Wasn’t a date. She’s just a friend.”

“Then why did you just lie about her? Why did you lie about the takeout?”

She ignores me and glares at Naomi. “I guess I should report this to the school.”

“Go ahead,” I say. “I’ll report it to Ava. Is she keeping Starcher while you’re out fooling around?”

“I’m not fooling around and my son is none of your business right now. You blew it last weekend.”

A little Thai guy in a suit eases over and with a big smile asks, “Everything okay here?”

“Yes, she’s just leaving,” I say. I look at Judith. “Please. We’re trying to order.”

“See you in court,” she hisses and turns on her heels. I watch her leave and she does not take any food with her. The little Thai guy slides away, still smiling. We drain our drinks and eventually look at the menus.

After a few minutes, I say, “Our secret is safe. She won’t say anything to the school because she knows I’ll call Ava.”

“You’d really do that?”

“In the blink of an eye. This is a war, Naomi, and there are no rules, no thoughts of fighting fair.”

“Do you want custody of Starcher?”

“No. I’m not a good enough father. But I do want to remain relevant in his life. Who knows? One day he and I might be friends.”

We spend the night at her place and sleep late Saturday morning. We’re both exhausted. We awake to the sounds of heavy rain and decide to fix omelets and eat in bed.

29.

The last witness for the defense is the defendant himself. Before he is called on Monday morning, I hand the judge and the prosecutor a letter I’ve written to Tadeo Zapate. Its purpose is to inform him in writing that he is testifying against the advice of his attorney. I grilled him for two hours the day before, and he thinks he’s ready.

He swears to tell the truth, smiles nervously at the jury, and immediately learns the frightful lesson that the view from the witness stand is quite intimidating. Everyone is gawking and waiting to hear what he might possibly say in his defense. A court reporter will record every word. The judge is scowling down, as if she’s ready for a quick reprimand. The prosecutor is eager to pounce. His mother far away in the back row looks terribly worried. He takes a deep breath.

I walk him through his background—family, education, employment, lack of criminal record, boxing career, and his success in mixed martial arts. The jury, along with everyone else in the courtroom, is sick of the video, so I won’t show it. Sticking to our script, we talk about the fight and he does an adequate job of describing what it was like getting hit so many times. He and I know that Crush did not land many serious blows, but no one on the jury understands this. He tells the jury he doesn’t remember the end of the fight, but can recollect a fuzzy image of his opponent raising his arms in a victory that he didn’t deserve. Yes, he snapped, though he can’t really recall everything. He was overwhelmed by a sense of injustice. His career was gone, stolen. He vaguely remembers the referee raising Crush’s arm, then everything went black. The next thing he remembered, he was in the dressing room, and two cops were watching him. He asked the cops who won the fight, and one of them said, “Which fight?” They put handcuffs on him and explained he was under arrest for aggravated assault. He was baffled by this, couldn’t believe what was happening. At the jail, another cop told him Sean King was in critical condition. He, Tadeo, began crying.

Even today, he still can’t believe it. His voice cracks a bit and he wipes something from his left eye. He’s not a very good actor.

As I sit down, Mancini bounces to his feet and calls out the first question: “So, Mr. Zapate, how many times have you gone insane?” It’s a brilliant opening, a great line delivered with just enough sarcasm.

He proceeds to make a fool out of Tadeo. When was the first time you went insane? How long did it last? Anybody get hurt the first time? Do you always black out when you go insane? Have you seen a doctor for your insanity? No! Why not! Since you attacked Sean King, have you been evaluated by a doctor, one not connected to this trial? Does insanity run in your family?

After thirty minutes of this assault, the word “insanity” means nothing. It’s a joke.

Tadeo works hard to stay cool, but he can’t help himself. Mancini is practically laughing at him. The jurors seem amused.

Max asks about his record as an amateur boxer. Twenty-four wins, seven losses. Max says, “Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but five years ago when you were seventeen and fighting in the Golden Gloves district tournament, you lost a split decision to a man named Corliss Beane. That right?”

“Yes.”

“Very tough fight, right?”

“Yes.”

“Were you upset by the decision?”

“I didn’t like it, thought it was wrong, thought I won the fight.”

“Did you go insane?”

“No.”

“Did you black out?”

“No.”

“Did you in any way voice your frustration with the decision?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, do you remember it or did you lose your memory again?”

“I remember it.”

“While you were still in the ring, did you hit anybody?”

Tadeo shoots me a guilty look that betrays him, but says, “No.”

Mancini takes a deep breath, shakes his head as if he hates to do what he’s about to do, and says, “Your Honor, I have another bit of video that I think might help us here. It’s the end of the fight five years ago with Corliss Beane.”

I stand and say, “Your Honor, I know nothing about this. It was not disclosed to me.”

Max is ready because he’s been planning this ambush for weeks. He says, with great confidence, “Your Honor, it wasn’t disclosed because that was not required. The State is not offering the video as proof of this defendant’s guilt; therefore, under our Rule 92F, there’s no disclosure. Rather, the State is offering the video to challenge the credibility of this witness.”

“Could I at least see it first before the jury sees it?” I ask, slowly.

“That sounds reasonable,” Go Slow responds. “Let’s take a fifteen-minute recess.”

In chambers, we watch the video: Tadeo and Corliss Beane in the center of the ring with the ref, who raises Beane’s right hand in victory; Tadeo yanks away from the ref, walks to his corner, yelling something in an angry fit; he stomps around the ring, becoming more unhinged with each second; he walks to the ropes, screams at the judges, and inadvertently bumps into Corliss Beane, who’s minding his own business and savoring the win; others are in the ring and someone starts pushing; the ref steps between the two fighters and Tadeo shoves him; the ref, a big guy, shoves back; for a second it looks as though the ring is on the verge of chaos, but someone grabs Tadeo and pulls him away, kicking and screaming.

Again, the camera doesn’t lie. Tadeo looks like a sore loser, a hothead, a brat, a dangerous man who doesn’t care if he starts a brawl.

Go Slow says, “Looks relevant to me.”

30.

I watch the jurors as they watch the video. Several shake their heads. When it’s over, the lights come up, and Max gleefully returns to the mock-insanity crap and hammers away. Tadeo’s credibility is thoroughly trashed. I cannot resurrect him on redirect.

The defense rests. Mancini calls his first rebuttal witness, a shrink named Wafer. He works for the state mental health department and has credentials that cannot be questioned. He went to colleges in this state and has our accent. He is not the brilliant expert from afar like Taslman, but he’s quite effective. He’s watched the videos, all of them, and he’s spent six hours with the defendant, more time than Taslman.

I haggle with Wafer until noon but score little. As we are breaking for lunch, Mancini grabs me and asks, “Can I talk to your client?”

“About what?”

“The deal, man.”

“Sure.”

We step to the defense table where Tadeo is sitting. Max leans down and says in a low voice, “Look, dude, I’m still offering five years, which means eighteen months. Manslaughter. If you say no, you really are insane because you’re about to get twenty years.”

Tadeo seems to ignore him. He just smiles, shakes his head no.

He’s even more confident now because Miguel has found the cash and delivered the envelope to Suarez. This, I will learn only after it’s too late.

31.

After lunch we meet in chambers, where Go Slow has on display a plastic plate covered with sliced carrots and celery, as if we’re interrupting her meal. I suspect it’s all for show. She asks, “Mr. Rudd, what about the plea bargain? I understand the deal is still on the table.”

I shrug and say, “Yes, Judge, I have discussed it with my client, as has Mr. Mancini. The kid won’t budge.”

She says, “Okay, we’re off the record here. Now that I’ve seen the evidence, I’m leaning toward a longer sentence, something like twenty years. I didn’t buy the insanity stuff, neither did the jury. It was a vicious attack and he knew exactly what he was doing. I think twenty years is appropriate.”

“May I pass this along to my client? Off the record, of course?”

“Please do.” She drowns some celery in table salt, looks at Mancini, and asks, “What’s next?”

Max says, “I have just one more witness, Dr. Levondowski, but I’m not sure we need him. What do you think, Judge?”

Go Slow bites the end of a stalk. “Your call, but I think the jury is ready.” Chomp, chomp. “Mr. Rudd?”

“You’re asking me?”

“Oh why not?” Max says. “Put yourself in my shoes and make the call.”

“Well, Levondowski is just going to repeat what Wafer said. I’ve crossed him before and he’s okay, but I think Wafer is a far better witness. I’d leave it at that.”

Max says, “I think you’re right. We’ll rest.”

United, a real team.

During Max’s closing argument, I keep glancing at Esteban Suarez, who seems to be thoroughly captivated by his feet. He’s withdrawn into a cocoon and appears to hear nothing. Something has changed with this guy, and for a second I wonder if Miguel has managed to get to him. If not with cash, then with threats, intimidation. Maybe he’s promised a few pounds of cocaine.

Max does a nice job of recapping the case. Mercifully, he does not show that damned video again. He drives home the undeniable point that Tadeo might not have planned his deadly assault on Sean King, but he clearly intended to inflict severe physical injury. He didn’t intend to kill the referee, but in fact he did. He could have thrown one punch, or two, and stopped. Guilty of assault but no major crime. But no! Twenty-two vicious shots to the head of a man who could not defend himself. Twenty-two blows delivered by a highly trained fighter whose admitted goal was to see every opponent leave the ring on a stretcher. Well, he achieved his goal. Sean King left on a stretcher and never woke up.

Max fights off the natural prosecutorial tendency to beat the drum too long. He’s got the jury and he can sense it. I think everybody senses it, perhaps with the exception of my client.

I begin by saying that Tadeo Zapate is not a murderer. He’s lived on the streets, seen his share of violence, even lost a brother to senseless gang wars. He’s seen it all and wants no part of it. That’s why his record is spotless: no history of violence outside the ring. I pace back and forth in front of the jury box, looking at each juror, trying to connect. Suarez looks like he wants to crawl into a hole.

I play for sympathy and touch slightly on the issue of insanity. I ask the jury for a not-guilty verdict, or, in the alternative, manslaughter. When I return to the defense table, Tadeo has moved his chair as far away from mine as possible.

Judge Fabineau instructs the jurors, and they retire at 3:00 p.m.

The waiting begins. I ask a bailiff if Tadeo can visit with his family in the courtroom while the jury is out. He confers with his colleagues and then reluctantly agrees. Tadeo steps through the bar and takes a seat on the front bench. His mother, a sister, and some nieces and nephews gather around him and everybody has a good cry. Mrs. Zapate has not physically touched her son in many months and she can’t keep her hands off him.

I leave the courtroom, find Partner, and head for a coffee bar down the street.

32.

At 5:15, the jurors file back into the courtroom, and there is not a single smile among them. The foreman hands the verdict to a bailiff, who hands it to the judge. She reads it, very slowly, and asks the defendant to please stand. I stand with him. She clears her throat and reads, “We, the jury, find the defendant guilty of second-degree murder in the death of Sean King.”

Tadeo utters a soft groan and drops his head. Someone in the Zapate clan gasps from the back row. We sit down as the judge polls the jurors. One by one, all guilty, unanimous. She congratulates them on a fine job, tells them their checks for jury duty will be in the mail, and dismisses them. When they’re gone, she sets deadlines for posttrial motions and such, and gives a date a month from now for sentencing. I scribble this down and ignore my client. He ignores me right back as he wipes his eyes. Bailiffs surround him and slap on handcuffs. He leaves without a word.

As the courtroom thins out, the Zapate family makes a slow exit. Miguel has his arm around his mother, who is distraught. Once they’re outside in the hallway, and within clear view of some reporters and TV cameras, three cops in suits grab Miguel and tell him he’s under arrest.

Obstruction of justice, bribery, and jury tampering. Suarez was indeed wearing a wire.

33.

Since I lost, I avoid the reporters. My phone is buzzing, so I turn it off. Partner and I go to a dark bar to lick our wounds. I knock back almost an entire pint of ale before either of us speaks. He starts with “Say, Boss, how close did you come to bribing Suarez?”

“I thought about it.”

“I know you did. I could tell.”

“But something wasn’t right. Plus, Mancini was playing it straight, not cheating. When the good guys start cheating, then I have no choice. But Mancini didn’t have to. We tried a clean case, which is unusual.”

I finish the pint and order another. Partner has had two sips of his. Miss Luella frowns on drinking and will say something if she smells it.

“What happens to Miguel?” he asks.

“Looks like he’ll be spending time with his brother.”

“You gonna defend him?”

“Hell no. I’m sick of the Zapate boys.”

“You think he’ll sing about Link’s thugs?”

“I doubt it. He’s in enough trouble as it is. A couple of murders won’t help him much.”

We order a basket of fries and call it dinner.

After we leave the bar, I keep the van and drop Partner off at his apartment. It’s Monday and Naomi is busy grading tests. “Make sure Starcher gets an A,” I tell her. “Always,” she says. I need to be loved but she can’t play tonight. I finally go home, and the place feels cold and lonely. I change into jeans and walk down to The Rack, where I drink beer, smoke a cigar, and shoot eight ball for two hours, all alone. At ten I check my phone. Every Zapate in town is looking for me: mother, an aunt, a sister, and Tadeo and Miguel from jail. Seems they need me now. I’m fed up with these people, but I know they’re not going away.

Two reporters are calling. Mancini wants to have a drink. Why, I have no idea.

And there is a voice mail from Arch Swanger. Condolences on the big loss. How in hell?

I need to leave town. At midnight, I load the van with some clothes, the golf clubs, and half a case of small-batch bourbon. I flip a coin, head north, and last for two hours before I almost fall asleep. I stop at a budget motel and pay forty bucks for one night. I’ll be on a golf course, somewhere, by noon, all alone.

This time I’m not sure I’m going back.