Rogue Lawyer

1.

Rich people tend to avoid death row. Link Scanlon has not been so lucky, though you couldn’t find three people in this city who care about Link or his luck. There are about a million people here, and when Link was finally convicted and sent away, virtually everyone felt some measure of relief. Drug trafficking was dealt a severe blow, though it soon recovered. Several strip clubs closed, which pleased many young wives. Parents of teenage girls told themselves their daughters were safer. Owners of fancy sports cars relaxed as auto thefts plummeted. Most important, the police and narcotics agents relaxed and waited for the dip in crime. It happened, but didn’t last long.

Link was sentenced to death by an untampered jury for killing a judge. Soon after he arrived on death row, his lead defense lawyer was found strangled. So I suppose the City’s bar association was also relieved to see Link put away.

On second thought, there must have been several hundred people here who truly missed Link, at first. Morticians, strippers, drug runners, chop shop operators, and crooked cops, to name a few. But it doesn’t matter now. That was six years ago, and once in prison Link proved capable of running most of his businesses from behind bars.

All he ever wanted was to be a gangster, an old-style Capone-like character with a lust for blood and violence and unlimited cash. His father had been a bootlegger who died of cirrhosis. His mother had remarried often and badly. Unrestrained by a normal family life, Link hit the streets at the age of twelve and soon mastered petty thievery. By fifteen, he had his own gang and was selling pot and porn in our high schools. He was arrested at sixteen, got a slap on the wrist, and thus began a long and colorful relationship with the criminal justice system.

Until he was twenty, his name was George. It didn’t fit, so he adopted and discarded several nicknames, jewels such as Lash and Boss. He finally settled on Link because he, George Scanlon, was so often linked to various crimes. Link fit him nicely and he hired a lawyer to make it legal. Just Link Scanlon, no middle initial, nothing stuck on the end. The new name gave him a new identity. He was a new man with something to prove. He became reckless in his desire to become the toughest mobster in town, and he was quite successful. By the time he was thirty, Link’s thugs were killing regularly as he took over the City’s skin business and cornered his share of the drug traffic.

He has been on death row for only six years and his execution is scheduled for 10:00 tonight. Six years is not long on death row; on the average, at least in this state, the appeals drag on for fourteen years before an execution. Twenty is not unusual. The shortest was two years, but that guy begged for the needle. It’s fair to say Link’s case has been rushed along, or expedited. Kill a judge and all the other judges take offense. His appeals were met with surprisingly few delays. His conviction was affirmed, affirmed, and reaffirmed. All rulings were unanimous, not a single dissent anywhere, state or federal. The U.S. Supremes refused to consider his case. Link pissed off those who truly run the system, and tonight the system gets the ultimate revenge.

Judge Nagy was the one Link killed. He, Link, didn’t actually pull the trigger; instead he sent word down the line that he wanted Nagy dead. A career hitter called Knuckles got the assignment and carried things out in splendid fashion. They found Judge Nagy and his wife in bed, in their pajamas, bullet holes in their heads. Knuckles then talked too much and the cops had a wire in the right place. Knuckles was on death row too, for about two years, until they found him with Drano packed in his mouth and throat. The cops quizzed Link but he swore he didn’t know a thing about it.

What was Judge Nagy’s offense? He was a tough law-and-order type who hated drugs and was famous for throwing the book at traffickers. He was about to sentence two of Link’s favorite henchmen—one was his cousin—to a hundred years each, and this upset Link. It was his town, not Nagy’s. He, Link, had been wanting to knock off a judge for years; sort of the ultimate takedown. Kill a judge, walk away from it, and the world knows you are indeed above the law.

After his defense lawyer was murdered, folks thought I was a fool to take his case. Another bad outcome for Link, and they might find me at the bottom of a lake. But that was six years ago, and Link and I have gotten along just fine. He knows I’ve tried to save his life. He’ll spare mine. What would he gain by killing his last lawyer?

2.

Partner and I pull in to the main gate at Big Wheeler, the maximum security prison where the State maintains its death row and does its executing. A guard steps to the passenger door and says, “Name?”

“Rudd, Sebastian Rudd. Here to see Link Scanlon.”

“Of course.” The guard’s name is Harvey and we’ve chatted before, but not tonight. Tonight Big Wheeler is locked down and there is a thrill in the air. It’s execution time! Across the road, some protesters with candles sing a solemn hymn while others chant support for the death penalty. Back and forth. There are TV news vans lining the highway.

Harvey scribbles something on a clipboard, says, “Unit Nine,” and as we’re about to drive away he leans in and whispers, “What are your chances?”

“Slim,” I say as we begin moving. We follow a prison security truck with gunmen standing in the back; another one trails us. Floodlights nearly blind us as we inch along, passing brightly lit buildings where three thousand men are locked in their cells and waiting for Link to die so things can return to normal. There is no sensible reason for a prison to go nuts when there’s an execution. Extra security is never needed. No one has ever escaped from death row. The condemned men there live in isolation, and thus do not have a gang of friends who might decide to storm the Bastille and free everyone. But rituals are important to the men who run prisons, and nothing gets their adrenaline pumping like an execution. Their little lives are mundane and monotonous, but occasionally the world tunes in when it’s time to kill a killer. No effort at heightened drama is to be missed.

Unit Nine is far away from the other units, with enough chain link and razor wire around it to stop Ike on the beaches of Normandy. We eventually reach a gate where a platoon of jumpy guards can’t wait to search Partner and me and our briefcases. These boys are far too excited about the evening’s festivities. With escorts we enter the building, and I’m led to a makeshift office where Warden McDuff is waiting, chewing his fingernails, obviously wired. When we’re alone in a room with no windows he says, “Have you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Ten minutes ago, a bomb went off in the Old Courthouse, same courtroom Link got convicted in.”

I’ve been in that courtroom a hundred times, so, yes, I am shocked to hear it’s been bombed. On the other hand, I’m not at all surprised to discover that Link Scanlon does not intend to go quietly.

“Anybody hurt?” I ask.

“Don’t think so. The courthouse had just closed.”

“Wow.”

“Wow’s right. You better talk to him, Rudd, and quick.”

I shrug and give the warden a hopeless look. Trying to talk sense to a gangster like Link Scanlon is a waste of time. “I’m just his lawyer,” I say.

“What if he hurts somebody…”

“Come on, Warden. The State’s executing him in a few hours. What else can it do to him?”

“I know, I know. Where are the appeals?” he asks, crunching a sliver of a thumbnail between his front teeth. He’s about to jump out of his skin.

“Fifteenth Circuit,” I say. “A Hail Mary. They’re all Hail Marys at this point, Warden. Where’s Link?”

“In the holding room. I got to get back to my office and talk to the governor.”

“Tell him I said hello. Tell him he still hasn’t ruled on my last request for a reprieve.”

“I’ll do that,” the warden says as he’s leaving the room.

“Thanks.”

Few people in this state love an execution as much as our handsome governor. His routine is to wait until the last possible moment, then appear somberly in front of the cameras and announce to the world that he cannot, in good conscience, grant a reprieve. On the verge of tears, he’ll talk about the victim and declare that justice must be done.

I follow two guards dressed in full military gear through a maze and come to the Boom Boom Room. It’s nothing more than a large holding cell where the condemned is placed precisely five hours before his big moment. There, he waits with his lawyer, spiritual adviser, and maybe some family. Full contact is allowed, and there can be some pretty sad moments when Momma arrives for the final hug. The last meal is served precisely two hours before the final walk, and after that only the lawyer can hang around.

In decades past, our state used a firing squad. Cuffed and bound, the condemned was strapped to a chair, a black veil was dropped over his head, and a bright red cross was attached to his shirt, over his heart. Fifty feet away, five volunteers waited behind a curtain with high-powered rifles, though only four were loaded. The theory was that none of the five would ever know for sure that he killed a man, and this was somehow supposed to assuage his guilt later in life, in the event that he had a change of heart and became burdened. What a crock! There was a long list of volunteers, all eager to put a bullet dead center in another man’s heart.

Anyway, prison lingo is vibrant and creative, and over time the execution room picked up its nickname. Legend has it that an air vent was intentionally left open so the cracking sound of the rifles echoed over the prison. When we adopted the needle, for humane reasons, less space was needed. Death row was reconfigured; walls were added here and there. Supposedly, the current Boom Boom Room includes the very spot where the condemned men sat and waited for the bullets.

They frisk me again and I walk through the door. Link is alone, sitting in a folding chair that is leaning against a cinder-block wall. The lights are low. He’s glued to a small muted television screen hanging in a corner, and he does not acknowledge my arrival. His favorite movie is The Godfather. He’s watched it a hundred times, and years ago began working on his imitation of Marlon Brando. Scratchy, painful voice, one he blames on smoking. Clenched jaw. Slow delivery. Aloof. Completely devoid of emotion.

Our death row has a unique rule that allows the condemned man to die in any clothing he chooses. It’s a ridiculous rule because, after living here for ten, fifteen, or twenty years, these guys have nothing in the way of a wardrobe. Standard-issue coveralls; maybe a pair of frayed khakis and a T-shirt to wear during visitation; sandals; thick socks for the winter. Link, though, has money and wants to be buried in solid black. He’s wearing a black linen shirt with long sleeves buttoned at the wrists, black denim jeans, black socks, and black running shoes. It’s not nearly as stylish as he thinks, but at this point who cares about fashion?

Finally he says, “I thought you were going to save me.”

“I never said that, Link. I even put it in writing.”

“But I paid you all that money.”

“A fat fee is no guarantee of a good outcome. That’s in writing too.”

“Lawyers,” he grunts in disgust, and I don’t take this lightly. I have never forgotten what happened to his last one. He slowly leans forward, tipping his chair onto all fours, and stands up. Link is fifty now, and for most of his time on the Row he’s managed to maintain his good looks. But he’s aging quickly, though I doubt if anyone with a firm execution date worries too much about wrinkles and gray hair. He takes a few steps and turns off the television.

The room is maybe fifteen by fifteen, with a small desk, three folding chairs, and a cheap Army-style cot, just in case the condemned might want to catch a few winks before being sent to his eternal rest. I was here once before, three years ago, when my client came within thirty minutes of getting the needle before we were handed a miracle by the Fifteenth Circuit.

Link will not be so lucky. He sits on a corner of the desk and looks down at me. He grunts and says, “I trusted you.”

“And with good reason, Link. I fought like hell for you.”

“But I’m insane, legally, and you haven’t convinced anyone of it. Crazy as hell. Why can’t you make them see this?”

“I have tried and you know it, Link. No one listened because no one wanted to listen. You killed the wrong person, a judge. Kill a judge, and his brethren take offense.”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“Well, the jury said you did. That’s all that matters.” We’ve had this conversation a thousand times, and why not have it again? Right now, with less than five hours to go, I’ll chat with Link on any subject.

“I’m insane, Sebastian. My mind is gone.”

It is often said that everyone goes crazy on death row. Twenty-three hours a day in isolation breaks a man mentally, physically, and emotionally. Link, though, has not exactly suffered like the rest. Years ago I explained to him that the U.S. Supreme Court has ruled that a state cannot execute a person who is either mentally retarded or who becomes mentally unsound. Soon thereafter, Link decided he should go insane and he’s been acting so ever since. The warden at that time agreed to move Link to the psych unit, where he enjoyed a much more comfortable lockup. Link lived there for three years before a journalist dug deep enough to discover a money trail between various members of the warden’s immediate family and a certain crime syndicate. The warden quickly retired and dodged an indictment. Link got slammed back to death row, where he stayed for about a month before getting moved to PC—protective custody. There, he had a larger cell and more privileges. The guards gave him anything he wanted because Link’s boys on the outside were taking care of the guards with cash and drugs. In time, Link manipulated a transfer back to the psych unit.

In his six years at Big Wheeler, he’s spent about twelve months locked up with the other killers on death row.

I say, “The warden just told me the courthouse got bombed this afternoon. Same courtroom where you got convicted. What a coincidence, huh?”

He frowns and offers a casual, Brando-like shrug, revealing nothing. “I got an appeal floating somewhere right now?” he says.

“It’s at the Fifteenth Circuit, but don’t get excited.”

“Are you telling me I’m gonna die, Sebastian?”

“I told you that last week, Link. The fix is in. The last-minute appeals are worthless. Everything’s been litigated. Every issue covered. There’s little we can do right now but wait and hope for a miracle.”

“I shoulda hired that radical Jew lawyer, what’s his name, Lowenstein?”

“Maybe, but you didn’t. He’s had three clients executed in the past four years.”

Marc Lowenstein is an acquaintance of mine and a fine lawyer. Between the two of us, we handle most of the untouchable cases in our end of the state. My cell phone vibrates. It’s a text message—the Fifteenth Circuit has just denied.

I say, “Bad news, Link, the Fifteenth just turned us down.”

He says nothing but reaches over and turns on the television. I turn the switch for more lighting and ask, “Is your son stopping by tonight?”

He grunts, “No.”

He has one child, a son who just got out of federal prison. Extortion. He grew up in the family business and loves his old man, but no one can blame him for avoiding a prison, if only for a visit. Link says, “We’ve said good-bye already.”

“So no guests tonight?”

He grunts, says nothing. No, no visitors for the last hug. Link was married twice but hates both ex-wives. He hasn’t spoken to his mother in twenty years. His only brother mysteriously disappeared after a bad business deal. Link reaches into his pocket, produces a cell phone, and makes a call. Inmate cell phones are violently forbidden, and they’ve caught Link with a dozen over the years. The guards sneak them in; one who got caught said he was paid $1,000 in cash by a stranger in a Burger King parking lot, after lunch.

It’s a quick call—I can’t understand a word—and Link returns the phone to his pocket. Using the remote, he changes channels and we watch a local cable news show. There’s a lot of interest in his execution. A reporter does a nice job of recapping the Nagy murders. They flash photos of the judge and his wife, a pretty lady.

I knew the judge well and appeared several times in his courtroom. He was a hard-ass but fair and smart. We were shocked when he was murdered, but not too surprised when the trail led to Link Scanlon. They run a clip of Knuckles, the gunman, as he’s leaving court in handcuffs. What a nasty one.

I say, “You know you’re entitled to the counsel of a spiritual adviser?”

He grunts. No.

“The prison has a chaplain, if you’d like a word with him.”

“What’s a chaplain?”

“A man of God.”

“And what might he say to me?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Link. I’m told that some folks, right before they pass, like to get things right with God. Confess their sins, stuff like that.”

“That might take some time.”

Contrition would be an inexcusable act of weakness for a mobster like Link. He has absolutely no remorse, for the Nagy murders or for all those before them. He glares at me and says, “What are you doing here?”

“I’m your lawyer. It’s my job to be here, to make sure the final appeals run their course. To give advice.”

“And your advice is to talk to a chaplain?”

We’re startled by a loud knock on the door. It opens immediately and a man in a cheap suit strolls in, with two guards as escorts. He says, “Mr. Scanlon, I’m Jess Foreman, assistant warden.”

“A real pleasure,” Link says without taking his eyes off the television.

Foreman ignores me and says, “I have a list of all those who will witness the execution. There’s nobody on your list, right?”

“Right.”

“Are you sure?”

Link ignores this. Foreman waits, then says, “What about your lawyer?” He looks at me.

“I’ll be there,” I say. The lawyer is always invited to watch.

“Anybody from Judge Nagy’s family?” I ask.

“Yep, all three of his children.” Foreman places the list on the desk and leaves. As the door slams behind him, Link says, “Here it is.” He lifts the remote, increases the volume.

It’s a breaking story—a bomb just exploded in the stately courthouse where the Fifteenth Circuit does its work. The scene outside is frantic as police and firemen scurry about. Smoke boils from a second-floor window. A breathless reporter is moving along the street with his cameraman in tow, looking for a better angle and gushing on about what’s happening.

Link’s eyes glow as he watches. I say, “Wow, another coincidence.” But Link does not hear me. I try to act cool, calm, as if this is no big deal. A bomb here, a bomb there. Couple of phone calls from death row and the fuses get lit. But I am astonished.

Who might be next? Another judge, perhaps the one who presided over his trial and sentenced him to death? That was Judge Cone, since retired, and for about two years, during and after the trial, he had armed protection. Perhaps the jurors? They lived cautiously thereafter with the cops close by. No one was hurt or threatened.

Link grunts, “Where does the appeal go now?”

I guess he plans to bomb every courthouse from here to Washington. He knows the answer to his question; we’ve discussed it enough. I reply, “The Supremes, in D.C. Why do you ask?”

He ignores this. We watch the television for a while. CNN picks up the story and in its usual, hysterical fashion soon has us on red alert, as if jihadists were invading.

Link is smiling.

Half an hour later, the warden is back, fidgeting more than ever. He pulls me out of the room and hisses, “You’ve heard about the Fifteenth Circuit?”

“We’re watching it.”

“You gotta stop him.”

“Who?”

“Don’t ‘Who’ me, dammit! You know what I’m talking about.”

“We’re not in control here, Warden. The courts run their own schedules. Link’s boys have their orders, evidently. Besides, the bombings might be coincidental.”

“Yeah, right. The FBI is on the way here right now.”

“Oh, that’s real good, real smart. My client gets the needle in exactly three hours and fourteen minutes, yet the FBI wants to grill him about these bombings. He’s a seasoned thug, Warden, a gangster from the old school. Battle hardened. He’ll spit on any FBI agent within twenty feet.”

He looks like he’s about to faint. “We gotta do something,” he says, wild-eyed. “The governor’s yelling at me. Everybody’s yelling at me.”

“Well, it’s up to the gov, if you ask me. He grants the reprieve, and I suppose Link stops the bombing campaign. Not sure, though, because he’s not listening to me.”

“Can you ask him?”

I laugh out loud. “Sure, Warden, I’ll just have a little heart-to-heart with my client, get him to confess, and convince him to stop whatever he’ll admit to doing. No problem.”

He’s too ashen to strike back, so he leaves, shaking his head, chewing his nails, another bureaucrat thoroughly overwhelmed with decision making. I step back into the room and take a chair. Link is glued to the television.

“That was the warden,” I say. “And they’d really appreciate it if you’d call off the dogs.”

No response. No acknowledgment.

CNN finally connects the dots, and suddenly my client is the hour’s hottest story. They flash a mug shot of Link, a much younger version, as they interview the prosecutor who sent him away. From across the desk, Link curses under his breath, though he’s still smiling. None of my business, but if I were inclined to plant bombs, this guy’s office would be at the top of my list.

His name is Max Mancini, the City’s chief prosecutor and a true legend in his own mind. He’s been popping off in the press all week as the countdown grew louder. Link will be his first execution, and he wouldn’t miss it for anything. Frankly, I’ve never understood why Link chose to rub out his own defense lawyer instead of going after Mancini. But I won’t ask.

Evidently, Link and I are on the same page. Just as the reporter is wrapping up the interview, there is a loud noise somewhere in the background, behind Mancini. The camera pulls back and it’s clear to me that they’re standing on the sidewalk outside his downtown office.

Another explosion.

3.

The courtroom was bombed at precisely 5:00 p.m.; the Fifteenth Circuit, precisely at 6:00; the prosecutor’s office, precisely at 7:00.

As we approach 8:00 p.m., many people who’ve had the misfortune of crossing paths with my client are nervous. CNN, now in full unbridled frenzy, is reporting that security has been beefed up around the Supreme Court Building in Washington. Their reporter on the scene keeps showing us a few offices with lights on and we’re supposed to believe the justices are up there, hard at work, debating the merits of Link’s case. They are not. They’re all safely at home or at dinner. One of their clerks will deny our petition any minute now.

The Governor’s Mansion is crawling with state police, some armed from head to toe in full combat regalia, as if Link might decide to mount a ground assault. With so many cameras around, so much drama everywhere, our handsome governor couldn’t help himself. Ten minutes ago he dashed out from his bunker to chat with the reporters, live of course. Said he wasn’t frightened, justice must go on, he’d do his job without fear, et cetera, ad nauseam. He tried to act as though he’s really wrestling with the reprieve issue, so he’s not ready to announce his decision. He’ll save it for later, say around 9:55. He hasn’t had this much fun in years.

I’m tempted to ask Link, “Who’s next?” but let it pass. We’re playing gin rummy as the clock ticks and Rome burns. He’s told me several times I could leave, but I’m hanging around. I won’t admit that I’m keen to watch his execution, but I am fascinated by it.

No one has been hurt. The three bombs were mainly gasoline, according to some so-called expert CNN dragged in for authenticity. Low-tech time bombs, probably in small packages, designed to make a little noise and a lot of smoke.

At 8:00 p.m., everyone takes a deep breath. All’s quiet for the moment. They knock on the door and wheel in the last meal. For the occasion, Link has chosen a steak with fries and coconut pie for dessert, but he has no appetite. He takes two bites of the steak and offers me the fries. I say no thanks and shuffle the deck. There’s something about eating another man’s last meal that doesn’t seem right. At 8:15, my cell phone vibrates. Our petition has been denied at the Supreme Court. No surprise there. There’s nothing left. All Hail Marys have been thrown and dropped.

We go Live! outside the Supreme Court Building in Washington, where the CNN reporter is practically praying for some type of explosion. Dozens of cops loiter about, their trigger fingers just itching. A small crowd has gathered to watch the carnage, but there’s nothing. Link keeps one eye on the television as he deals the cards.

I suspect he’s not finished.

4.

The prison has a food storage warehouse on the west side of its vast complex and a vehicle maintenance facility on the east side. The buildings are about three miles apart. At 8:30, both mysteriously catch on fire, and the prison goes berserk. Evidently, there are a couple of news helicopters in the area. They are not allowed to fly over Big Wheeler, so they’re hovering above farmland next door, and thanks to their long-range lenses we’re able to watch the excitement courtesy of CNN.

As Link toys with his coconut pie and plays gin rummy, the anchor wonders why the State doesn’t speed up his execution before he burns down the prison. A stuttering spokesperson with the governor’s office tries to explain that the rules and laws do not allow this. It’s 10:00 p.m., period, or as soon thereafter as possible. Link watches this as if it’s a movie about some other guy on death row.

At 8:45, a bomb goes off in the administration building, not far from the warden’s office.

Ten minutes later, the warden bursts into the Boom Boom Room and screams, “You gotta stop this!” Link ignores him as he shuffles the cards.

Two nervous guards grab Link, lift him up, search him, find his cell phone, then throw him back into his chair. His face does not change expression.

“You got a phone, Rudd?” the warden yells at me.

“Yes, but you can’t have it. Rule 36, section 2, paragraph 4. Your rule. Sorry.”

“You son of a bitch!”

“So you think I’m making phone calls to the bad guys? You think I’m a part of the conspiracy, with all my calls being traced? That right, Warden?”

He is too panic-stricken to respond. From behind the warden, a guard yells into the room, “There’s a riot in Unit Six!”

5.

The riot started when an inmate, an old lifer with a history of heart problems, faked cardiac arrest. At first the guards decided to ignore him and let him go, but on second thought they got involved. His cell mate stabbed two guards with a shank, grabbed their Tasers, fried them, then beat them senseless. The inmates quickly put on the guards’ uniforms and managed to open the doors to about a hundred cells. With near flawless coordination, the inmates flooded other wings in the unit and soon several hundred extremely dangerous convicts were on the loose. They began burning mattresses, laundry, anything that could possibly be ignited. Eight guards were beaten; two would later die. Three guards with pistols hid in an office and called for help. Before long, the inmates found weapons and gunfire could be heard across the prison. In the melee, four snitches were hanged with electrical extension cords.

We wouldn’t know these details until later, so at the time Link and I casually play cards while Big Wheeler explodes around us. It takes CNN less than five minutes to pick up the riot story, and when we hear it we stop and watch the television. After a few minutes I say, “So, Link, are you in charge of prison riots, too?”

To my surprise he says, “Yes, at this moment anyway.”

“Oh really? Then tell me how this one started?”

“It all goes back to personnel,” he says like a polished CEO. “You gotta have the right people in the right place at the right time. You got three guys in Unit Six doing life with no parole, so they got nothing to lose. You set up an outside contact who promises all sorts of stuff, like a van and a driver waiting in the woods if the guys make it out. And lots of cash. You give them plenty of time to plan it all, and at exactly 9:00 on this night, when the warden and his goons are thinking of only one thing—giving me the needle—you launch your assault. Unit Four should blow up any minute.”

“I won’t tell a soul. And the bombs? Who rigged the bombs?”

“Can’t give you the names. You gotta understand prisons and how stupid the men are who run them. Everything here is designed to keep us in, with little thought to keeping bad stuff out. Those incendiary devices were planted two days ago, well hidden; they’ve got timers and all, really basic stuff. No one was looking, piece of cake.”

It’s a relief to hear him talking like this. I suppose his nerves are starting to jump, though he looks as calm as ever.

“What’s the endgame tonight, Link? Are these guys gonna attack death row and rescue you?”

“Wouldn’t work. Too many guns around here. Just having some fun, that’s all. I’m at peace.”

As he says this, they flash another image of the prison burning, another camera shot from a helicopter nearby. We’re too deep in the building to hear anything, but it looks like total chaos. Buildings on fire, a million red and blue lights flashing, an occasional gunshot. Link can’t help but smile. Just fun and games.

“It’s the warden’s own stupid fault,” he says. “Why all the pomp and ceremony, just for an execution? He brings in every available guard, gives them automatic weapons and Kevlar vests as if someone—me, the guy getting the needle—might somehow put together an offensive. Goons everywhere. Then he turns on all the lights and locks down the entire prison. Why exactly? No good reason. Hell, two guards without guns could just as easily walk me down the hall at the appointed hour and strap me onto the table. No big deal. No cause for all this drama. But no, the warden likes his rituals. It’s a big moment for law enforcement and, hell, they gotta make the most out of it. What any fool can see, anyone but the warden, is that he’s dealing with men who live in cages and who hate anybody in a uniform. They’re already looking for trouble, so you crank up the pressure on them and they blow a gasket. Just takes someone like me to facilitate things.”

He sips a cherry cola and nibbles a french fry. He’s got forty minutes.

The door opens again and Assistant Warden Foreman is back, now with three heavily armed warriors. Foreman says, “How you guys doing in here?”

“Swell,” I say.

Nothing from Link.

I say, “Looks like you boys got your hands full out there.”

He says, “Things are hopping. Just wanted to check on the prisoner and make sure everything is okay.”

Link glares at him and says, “This is my last hour. Why can’t I have some peace and quiet? Please, you and your goons just get the hell outta here, okay?”

“We can accommodate you,” Foreman says.

“And take him too,” Link says, pointing at me. “I need to be alone.”

Foreman says, “Well, sorry, Link, but there’s no place for Mr. Rudd to go. The roads are blocked right now. We’re in super lockdown. It’s not safe out there.”

“And for some reason I don’t feel so safe in here,” Link sneers. “Can’t imagine why.”

“Looks like we should postpone the execution,” I say.

“Probably not going to happen,” Foreman says, backing away.

They leave, slamming the door and locking it from the outside.

The governor feels the need to address his people. On the screen we see his troubled face. He’s at a podium with mikes and cameras before him, a politician’s dream. Random questions are hurled at him, and we soon learn that the situation at Big Wheeler is “tense.” There are casualties, even deaths. There are about two hundred inmates “out of their cells,” though none have yet to penetrate the exterior fences of the prison. Several fires are now under control. Yes, it seems as though some of this activity was coordinated from outside the prison, and, no, there is no evidence that Link Scanlon is behind it, not yet anyway. He, the governor, has called in the National Guard, though the state police have things under control. And, oh, by the way, he is denying the final request for a reprieve.

6.

Protocol requires that the condemned man be handcuffed at 9:45 and escorted for his final walk to the death room. There he is strapped to a gurney with six thick leather bands, from his feet to his forehead. While he is being strapped down, a doctor pokes around his arms looking for a suitable vein while a medic of some variety checks his vital signs. Ten feet away, behind glass windows and black curtains, the witnesses wait in two separate rooms, one for the victim, one for the killer.

An IV is inserted and secured with tape. A large clock on the wall allows the unlucky soul to count down his last minutes. At precisely 10:00 p.m., the prison attorney reads the death warrant, and the warden asks the condemned if he has any last words. He can say whatever he wants. It’s recorded and available online. He’ll say a few words, maybe proclaim his innocence again, maybe forgive everyone, maybe beg for forgiveness. When he’s finished, the warden nods to a guy hidden in a nearby room, and the chemicals are released. The condemned begins to float away and his breathing becomes labored. Some twelve minutes later, the doctor pronounces him dead.

Link knows all this. Evidently, he has other plans. I’m just a guy in the wrong place at the wrong time.

At 9:30, all electricity at Big Wheeler is cut off—a complete blackout. They would later trace the power failure to a utility pole that got chainsawed in two. The backup generator for Unit Nine—death row—failed to start because its fuel injectors had been vandalized.

At 9:30, we don’t know this. All we know is that the Boom Boom Room is pitch-black. Link jumps to his feet and says, “Get out of the way.” He slides the desk to jam the door. There is a quick flash of light above us, and noise, grunting. A panel in the false ceiling opens up and a voice says, “Link, here.” The flashlight sweeps down and through the room. A rope drops and Link grabs it. “Slow, now,” the voice says, and Link inches upward, literally hanging on for his life. There are sounds up there, grunting and scuffling, but I can’t tell how many men are involved.

Within seconds Link is gone, and if I were not so stunned I would laugh. Then I realize that I’ll probably get shot. I take off my coat and tie and stretch out on the Army cot. Guards kick the door open and burst in with guns and a flood of light.

“Where is he?” one guard barks at me.

I point to the ceiling.

They yell and curse as two of them yank me up and drag me into the hall, where dozens of guards and cops and officials are running around in complete panic.

“He’s gone! He’s gone!” They are yelling. “Check the roof.”

In the hall, and in the midst of an incredible racket, I can hear the thumping of a helicopter. They drag me into a room, then another. In the chaos I hear a guard yell that Link Scanlon has vanished. It takes an hour for the lights to come on. I am eventually arrested by the state police and taken to the nearest county jail. Their initial theory is that I am an accomplice.

7.

The pieces soon come together, and because I am being partially blamed for the escape, I have access to the information. I’m not worried about the charges; they can’t stick.

At 9:30 that night, there were two news helicopters buzzing around the fringes of Big Wheeler. The prison officials and police had warned them to stay away, but they were close by. In a show of muscle, the state police flew in two of its own helicopters to secure the airspace over the prison, and this proved helpful when the trouble started. It also proved distracting. There was a tremendous amount of smoke hanging over the prison as six different fires were blazing at one time. Witnesses said the noise was deafening—four helicopters in the area, dozens of emergency vehicles with sirens, radios squawking, guards and police yelling, guns being shot, fires roaring. On cue, and with impeccable timing, Link’s small black helicopter arrived from nowhere, descended through the clouds of smoke, and snatched him off the roof of Unit Nine. There were witnesses. Several guards and prison employees saw the helicopter as it hovered for a few seconds, dropped a line, then disappeared back into the smoke with two men swinging from the lifeline. A guard in a tower at the unit managed to fire a few shots but hit nothing.

One of the State’s choppers gave chase, but was no match for whatever brand and model Link leased for the night. It was never found; no record of it was ever traced. It flew low to avoid radar; air traffic control did not see it. A farmer sixty miles away from Big Wheeler told authorities he saw a small helicopter land on a county road a mile from his front porch. A car met it, then both disappeared.

An investigation dragged on and three officials got fired. It was eventually revealed that (1) the Boom Boom Room is part of an old section of Unit Nine and was built back in the 1940s; (2) its roof is three feet higher than the rest of death row; (3) between the ceiling and the roof there is a crawl space crammed with ductwork, heating vents, and electrical work; (4) the crawl space winds around and branches off, and one section of it leads to an old door that opens onto the flat roof; and (5) the two guards who had roof duty that night had been dispatched to help with the riot, so there was no one on the roof when Link made his dramatic escape.

What if the guards had been there? Given the skill and expertise of the operative who fetched Link, it’s safe to speculate that the guards would have been shot between the eyes. This Spider-Man, as he was nicknamed by the investigators, is already a legend.

There are a lot of what-ifs but few answers. Faced with certain death, Link Scanlon figured he had nothing to lose by attempting a ridiculous escape. He had the money to hire the right commandos and equipment. He got lucky and it worked.

There was a possible but unconfirmed sighting in Mexico.

I haven’t heard from my client and don’t really expect to.

8.

In addition to Big Wheeler, there are a dozen or so prisons in this state, each with a different security classification. I have clients in most of them, and they write me letters begging for money and demanding I do something to get them out. For the most part I ignore this correspondence. I have learned that a letter from me only encourages an inmate to write again and demand more. For those of us who defend criminals, there is always the possible scenario in which an ex-client with a grudge shows up after years in the pen and wants to discuss mistakes made at trial. But I don’t dwell on this. It’s just part of the job and another reason I carry a gun.

To keep me in my place, our esteemed prison officials ban me from visiting any prison for an entire month after the Scanlon escape. However, as it becomes clear that Link outfoxed them with no help from me, they eventually relent.

There are a few clients that I visit occasionally. These little road trips get me out of town for a day. Partner and I are driving to a medium-security facility affectionately called Old Roseburg, named after a governor from the 1930s who himself was later sent to prison. He died there, in a slammer bearing his own name. I’ve often wondered what that felt like. According to legend, his family tried in vain to get him paroled so he could die at home, but the sitting governor wouldn’t allow it. He and Roseburg were blood enemies. The family then tried to change the name of the prison, but that would have ruined a colorful story and the legislature declined. The prison officially remains the Nathan Roseburg Correctional Facility.

We are cleared through the main gate and park in an empty visitors’ lot. Two guards with high-powered rifles watch us from the tower, as if we might haul in some weapons or a pound or two of cocaine. At the moment, there’s no one else to watch, so we get their full attention.

9.

After Partner was acquitted for killing a narc, he begged me for a job. I wasn’t hiring at the time, and I haven’t hired since, but I couldn’t say no. He was headed back to the streets, and if I didn’t help him he would end up either dead or in prison. Unlike most of his friends, he had a high school diploma and had even managed to pick up a few credits at a community college. I paid for more classes, most at night. He blitzed through a paralegal curriculum and got himself certified.

Partner lives with his mother in a subsidized apartment in the City. Most of the units in his building are packed with large families, but none of the traditional variety—mother, father, children. Almost all the fathers are gone, either locked up or living elsewhere and producing more children. The typical apartment belongs to a grandmother, a long-suffering soul who’s stuck with a passel of kids who may or may not be blood related. Half the mothers are in prison. The other half work two and three jobs. Young cousins drop in and out; almost every family is in a chaotic state of flux. The primary goal is to keep the kids in school, away from the gangs, alive, and hopefully out of prison. Partner guesses that half of them will drop out anyway and most of the boys will end up in jail.

He says he’s lucky because it’s just him and his mother in the small apartment. There is a tiny spare bedroom that he uses as an office for his work—our work. Many of my files and records are stored there. I often wonder what my clients would do if they knew their confidential files were actually kept in Army surplus cabinets in a tenth-floor apartment in a government housing project. I don’t really care because I trust Partner with my life. He and I have spent hours in the little room digging through police reports and plotting trial strategies.

His mother, Miss Luella, is partially disabled by severe diabetes. She does some sewing for friends, keeps a spotless apartment, and cooks occasionally. Her primary job, as far as I’m concerned, is answering the telephone for the Honorable Sebastian Rudd, Attorney-at-Law. As I said, I’m not listed in any phone book, but my “office” number does get passed around. In fact, people call that number all the time, and they get Miss Luella, who sounds as crisp and efficient as any receptionist sitting at a fine desk in a tall building and directing calls for a firm with hundreds of lawyers.

She’ll say, “Sebastian Rudd, Attorney-at-Law. How may I direct your call?” As if the firm has dozens of divisions and specialties. No caller ever gets me the first time because I’m never at the office. What office? She’ll say, “He’s in a meeting,” or “He’s in a deposition,” or “He’s in a trial,” or, my favorite, “He’s in federal court.” Once she has effectively stiff-armed the caller, she zeroes in on his or her legal problem with “And this is regarding what?”

A divorce. The caller will get “I’m sorry, but Mr. Rudd does not handle family matters.”

A bankruptcy, real estate closing, will, deed, contract. The same response—Mr. Rudd doesn’t do those.

A criminal matter might get her attention but she knows that most lead nowhere. So few of the accused can afford a fee. She’ll lead the caller through her standard questions to determine whether or not they can pay.

Someone’s been injured? Now we’re talking. She’ll go into her sympathy mode and extract all manner of information. She won’t let them off the phone until she’s picked them clean and gained their trust. If the facts fall into place and the case shows real potential, she’ll promise to have Mr. Rudd stop by the hospital that very afternoon.

If the caller is a judge or some other important person, she treats them with great respect, ends the call, and immediately sends me a text message. I pay her $500 a month in cash and an occasional bonus when I settle a good car wreck. Partner, too, is paid in cash.

Miss Luella’s people were from Alabama and she learned to cook the southern way. At least twice a month she’ll fry chicken and boil collards and bake corn bread and I’ll eat until I can hardly breathe. She and Partner have managed to transform the small, cheap, mass-produced apartment into a home, a place of warmth. There is a sadness, though, a cloud that hangs like a thick fog and will not go away. Partner is only thirty-eight, but he has a nineteen-year-old son at Old Roseburg. Jameel is serving ten years for gang-related crap, and he’s the reason for our visit today.

10.

After we do the paperwork and get patted down, Partner and I walk half a mile along sidewalks lined with chain link and razor wire to Camp D, a tough unit. We go through security again and deal with grim-faced guards who would like nothing better than to turn us away. Because Partner is a certified paralegal and carries the paperwork to prove it, he is allowed into the visiting wing with me. A guard selects a consultation room for attorneys and we take our seats facing a screen.

Attorneys can visit anytime, with notice, while the families are limited to Sunday afternoons only. As we wait, Partner, who says little, now says even less. We check on Jameel at least once a month, and the visits take a toll on my confidant. He carries heavy burdens because he blames himself for many of his son’s problems. The kid was headed for trouble, but after Partner’s acquittal the cops and prosecutors were out for revenge. Kill a cop, even in self-defense, and you make some nasty enemies. When Jameel was arrested, there was no room for negotiation. The max was ten years and the prosecutors wouldn’t budge. I represented him, pro bono of course, but there was nothing I could do. He was caught with a backpack full of pot.

“Only nine years to go,” Partner says softly as we stare at the screen. “Man oh man. I lie awake at night and wonder what he’ll be like in nine years. Twenty-eight years old and back on the streets. No job, no education, no skills, no hope, no nothing. Just another convict looking for trouble.”

“Maybe not,” I say cautiously, though I have little to add. Partner knows this world far better than me. “He’ll have a father waiting on him, and a grandmother. I’ll be around, I hope. Between the three of us we’ll think of something.”

“Maybe you’ll need another paralegal by then,” he says with a rare smile, though a brief one.

“Never know.”

A door opens on the other side and Jameel walks through it, followed by a guard. The guard slowly unsnaps the handcuffs and looks at us. “Morning, Hank,” I say.

“Hello, Rudd,” he says. Hank is one of the good guys, according to Jameel. I suppose it’s some sort of commentary on my law practice that I’m on such good terms with some of the prison guards. Some, but certainly not all.

“Take your time,” he says and disappears. The length of the visit is determined by Hank and Hank alone, and since I’m nice to him he doesn’t care how long we stay. I’ve had hard-asses say things like “You got one hour, max,” or “Make it quick,” but not Hank.

Jameel smiles at us and says, “Thanks for coming.”

“Hello, son,” Partner says properly.

“Great to see you, Jameel,” I say.

He falls into a plastic chair. The kid is six feet five, skinny, and seemingly made out of rubber. Partner is six two and built like a fireplug. He says the kid’s mother is tall and lanky. She’s been out of the picture for years, vanished into the black hole of street life. She has a brother who played basketball at a small college, and Partner has always assumed Jameel came from that gene pool. He was six three in the ninth grade and scouts were beginning to notice. At some point, though, he discovered pot and crack and forgot about the game.

“Thanks for the money,” he says to me. I send him $100 a month, which he’s supposed to use for canteen food and basics such as pencils, paper, stamps, and soft drinks. He bought a fan—Old Roseburg is not air-conditioned. None of our prisons are. Partner sends him money too, though I have no idea how much. Two months after he landed here, they raided his cell and found some pot hidden in his mattress. A snitch had squealed, and Jameel spent two weeks in solitary. Partner would have choked him if he could have penetrated the screen, but the kid swore it would never happen again.

We talk about his classes. He’s taking remedial courses in an effort to get his high school equivalent, but Partner is not impressed with his progress. After a few minutes, I excuse myself and leave the room. Father and son need time alone, which is why we’re here. According to Partner, the conversations get rough and emotional. He wants his son to know that his father cares deeply and is watching from a distance. Old Roseburg is full of gangs and Jameel is easy prey. He swears he’s not involved, but Partner is skeptical. Above all, he wants the kid to be safe, and membership in a gang is often the best protection. It also leads to warfare and revenge and the circle of violence. Seven inmates were killed last year at Old Roseburg. It could be worse. Down the road is a U.S. penitentiary, a federal joint, and they average two murders a month.

I buy a soft drink from a vending machine and find a spot in a row of empty plastic chairs. No other lawyer is visiting today and the place is empty. I open my briefcase and spread papers on a table covered with old magazines. Hank appears and says hello again. We chat for a few minutes. I ask how the kid is doing.

He says, “All right. Nothing great. He’s surviving and he hasn’t been hurt. He’s been here a year and knows his way around. Doesn’t want to work, though. I got him a job in the laundry and he lasted a week. Goes to most of his classes, but not all of them.”

“A gang?”

“Don’t know, but I’m watching.”

Another guard enters through a door far away and Hank suddenly has to go. He can’t be seen fraternizing with a lowly criminal defense lawyer. I try and read a thick brief, but it’s too boring. I walk to a window that looks out upon a vast yard lined with double rows of chain link. Hundreds of inmates, all in prison whites, are killing time as guards look down from a tower.

Young and black, almost all of them. According to the numbers, they’re in for nonviolent drug offenses. The average sentence is seven years. Upon release, 60 percent will be back here within three years.

And why not? What’s on the outside to prevent their return? They are now convicted felons, a branding they will never be able to shake. The odds were stacked against them to begin with, and now that they’re tagged as felons, life in the free world is somehow supposed to improve? These are the real casualties of our wars. The war on drugs. The war on crime. Unintended victims of tough laws passed by tough politicians over the past forty years. One million young black men now warehoused in decaying prisons, idling away the days at taxpayer expense.

Our prisons are packed. Our streets are filled with drugs. Who’s winning the war?

We’ve lost our minds.

11.

After two hours, Hank says it’s time to wrap things up. I knock and reenter the room, an unventilated little box that’s always stuffy. Jameel sits with his arms crossed, his eyes on the floor. Partner sits with his arms crossed too, staring at the screen, and I get the feeling that, though much has been said, no words have passed in some time. I say, “We gotta go.”

This is what both want to hear. They manage to say good-bye with some fondness. Jameel thanks us for coming, passes along greetings and love to Miss Luella, and stands as Hank enters the room from behind him.

Driving away, Partner says nothing for an hour.

12.

Link Scanlon is not my first mobster. That honor goes to a sensational crook named Dewey Knutt, a man I do not visit in prison. While Link relished the blood, broken bones, intimidation, and notoriety, Dewey went about his life of crime as quietly as possible. While Link dreamed of being a Mafia don from childhood, Dewey was actually an honest furniture salesman who didn’t break bad until he was in his mid-thirties. While Link’s net worth was substantial but largely untraceable, a business magazine claimed Dewey was worth $300 million before his troubles. They sent Link to death row; Dewey got forty years in a federal slammer. Link managed to escape; Dewey has hair down to his waist and grows organic herbs and vegetables in a prison garden.

Dewey Knutt was a fast-talking salesman who moved a ton of cheap furniture, and with his earnings he bought a rental house. Then another, then several more. He learned the trick of using other people’s money and acquired a prodigious appetite for risk. He parlayed his properties and loans into shopping centers and subdivisions. During a short recession, a bank said no to a loan, so he bought the bank and fired all the suits who worked there. He memorized banking regulations and found all of the gaping loopholes. During a longer recession, he picked up a few more banks and some regional mortgage companies. Money was cheap and Dewey Knutt proved to be a master at the borrowing game. His downfall, as we later learned, began with his penchant for double- and even triple-collateralizing assets. A visionary in the world of shady profits, he was one of the first to churn the fertile fields of subprime mortgages. He fine-tuned the intricacies of loan-sharking. He became a skilled briber of politicians and regulators. Add tax evasion, money laundering, mail fraud, insider trading, and the outright looting of pension funds, and Dewey richly deserved his forty years.

Those still searching for hidden remnants of his fortune include an entire cast of present and former enemies, some banking regulators, at least two bankruptcy courts, his ex-wife’s lawyers, and several branches of the federal government. So far, they’ve found nothing.

When Dewey was forty-nine, his shiftless son, Alan, was caught with a trunk load of cocaine. Alan was twenty, a real mess of a kid, and was trying to impress his father with his own style of entrepreneurship. Dewey was so incensed and embarrassed that he refused to hire a lawyer for Alan. A friend referred him to me. I took one look at the seizure and realized the cops had blown it. They’d had no warrant and no probable cause to search the car. It was cut-and-dried, black-and-white. I filed the proper motions and briefs and the City halfheartedly contested the issue. The cocaine bust was ruled unconstitutional, the evidence was thrown out, and all charges against Alan were dismissed. It was a big story for a few days and I got my picture in the papers for the first time.

Dewey used his favorite lawyers for his heavy work, but he was so impressed with my slick maneuvers he decided to throw me a few scraps. Most of it was outside the scope of my expertise, but one case intrigued me and I signed on.

Dewey loved golf but had a hard time working it into his frenetic schedule. In addition, he had little patience for the staid traditions of most golf and country clubs, few of which, if any, would consider such an outlaw as a member. He became obsessed with the idea of building his own course and lighting it so he could play at night, either alone or with a few pals. At the time, there were only three other lit courses in the entire country, and none within a thousand miles of here. Eighteen holes, all private, under lights—the ultimate rich boy’s toy. To avoid the City’s zoning Nazis, he selected two hundred acres a mile from the city limits. The county objected. The neighbors sued. I handled the legal work and eventually won approval. More headlines.

However, the real notoriety was just around the corner. A housing bubble popped. Interest rates spiked. A perfect storm blew in and Dewey couldn’t borrow fast enough. His house of cards collapsed in spectacular fashion. With flawless timing, the FBI, IRS, SEC, and a trainload of other tough guys with badges arrived on the scene, all waving warrants. The indictment was an inch thick and loaded with brutal allegations against Dewey, the obvious target. It also alleged grand conspiracies involving his bankers, accountants, partners, lawyers, a stockbroker, and two city councilmen. It detailed, in very convincing narratives, dozens of violations under the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act. RICO for short, the greatest gift Congress has ever bestowed upon federal prosecutors.

I was investigated and became convinced I would be indicted too, though I had done nothing wrong. Thankfully, I had managed to remain on the fringes. For a while it seemed to be a shoot-now-and-ask-questions-later inquisition. But the Feds backed off and lost interest in me. They had much bigger crooks to nail.

Alan was indicted, basically for being Dewey’s son. When the FBI threatened to indict Dewey’s daughter, he caved and agreed to a forty-year deal. The bogus charges against his kids were dismissed, and most of his co-indictees pled to light sentences. All avoided serious jail time. In short, Dewey did the honorable thing and took a mighty fall.

He was building his golf course—grandly named the Old Plantation—just as the Feds moved in. All the money vanished in a matter of weeks and construction stopped—after the fourteenth green.

Today, it is the only fourteen-hole course with lights in the entire world, as far as anyone knows. In honor of Dewey, it’s called Old Rico. Its membership consists solely of his cronies and conspirators. Alan’s job these days is taking care of the course and keeping it playable, which he manages to do. He plays nonstop himself and dreams of becoming a pro. He collects enough in dues to hire a few groundskeepers, all undocumented workers, plus we suspect he knows where some of Dewey’s old loot is buried. I pay $5,000 a year and it’s worth it just to avoid the crowds. The greens and tee boxes are usually in good shape. The fairways can get rough, but no one cares. If we wanted a manicured course we would join a real club, though none of us at Old Rico could survive the vetting process.

Every Wednesday night at seven o’clock we gather for Dirty Golf, a game that bears little resemblance to what you might see on CBS. Dewey’s original plans were to build the course first, so he would have a place to play, and then build the clubhouse, so he would have a place to drink. Absent a proper clubhouse, we meet for pregame drinks and wagering in a converted tractor barn where Dewey once enjoyed cockfighting, perhaps the only crime not covered by his indictment. Alan lives upstairs with two women, neither his wife, and he’s the organizer of Dirty Golf. The two gals work the bar, absorb the crudities, and banter with the crowd. The rituals call for the first pint—in fruit jars—to be lifted in a toast to Dewey, who’s smiling down from a bad portrait above the bar. Tonight there are eleven of us, a workable number since Old Rico has only twelve golf carts. As we drain the first pints, Alan goes through the rather raucous chore of bracketing the tournament, establishing handicaps, and collecting money. Dirty Golf costs $200 each, winner take all, not a bad pot but I’ve never won it.

Winning takes skill, of course, but also a higher handicap and the ability to cheat without getting caught. The rules are flexible. For example, a bad shot that goes outside the fairway boundaries is always in play if it can be found. There’s really no such thing as out-of-bounds at Old Rico. If you find it, play it. A putt of three feet or less is always conceded, unless an opponent is having a bad night and wants to play hard-ass. Every player has the right to require another player to putt everything. A foursome can agree that each guy can take a mulligan, or a free shot in the aftermath of a bad one. And, if all four are in the right mood, each can take one mullie on the front seven and another on the back. Needless to say, the sponginess of the rules leads to disagreement and conflict. Since not one golfer in ten knows the real rules anyway, each round of Dirty Golf is loaded with incessant carping, bitching, complaining, and even threats.

Partner drives my golf cart and I’m not the only one here with a bodyguard. Since I play alone, tonight I’m paired up with Toby Chalk, a former city councilman who served four months in the wake of Dewey’s demise. He drives his own golf cart. Caddies are forbidden at Old Rico.

After an hour of drinking and preliminaries, we head for the course. It’s getting dark, the lights are on, and we do indeed feel privileged to be playing golf at night. It’s a shotgun start. Toby and I are assigned the fifth tee, and when Alan yells “Go” we race away, carts bouncing, clubs rattling and jangling, grown men half-drunk and puffing on big cigars, whooping and yelling happily into the night.

Partner grins and shakes his head. Crazy white men.