Rogue Lawyer

1.

Here’s what happened:

My clients, Mr. and Mrs. Douglas Renfro, Doug and Kitty to everyone, lived for thirty quiet and happy years on a shady street in a nice suburb. They were good neighbors, active in local charities and the church, always ready to lend a hand. They were in their early seventies, retired, with kids and grandkids, a couple of dogs, and a time-share in Florida. They owed no money and paid off their credit cards in full each month. They were comfortable and reasonably healthy, though Doug was dealing with atrial fibrillation and Kitty was rebounding from breast cancer. He had spent fourteen years in the Army, then sold medical devices for the rest of his career. She had adjusted claims for an insurance company. To stay busy, she volunteered at a hospital while he puttered in the flower beds and played tennis at a city park. At the insistence of their children and grandchildren, the Renfros had reluctantly bought his-and-her laptops and joined the digital world, though they spent little time online.

The house next door to them had been bought and sold a dozen times over the years, and the current owners were oddballs who kept to themselves. They had a teenage son, Lance, a misfit who spent most of his time locked in his room playing video games and peddling drugs through the Internet. To hide his habits, he routinely piggybacked on the Renfros’ wireless router. They, of course, did not know this. They knew how to turn their laptops on and off, send and receive e-mails, do basic shopping, and check the weather, but beyond that they had no idea how the technology worked and had little interest in it. They did not bother with passwords or security of any kind.

The state police initiated a sting operation to crack down on Internet drug trafficking and tracked an IP address to the Renfros’ home. Someone in there was buying and selling a lot of Ecstasy, and the decision was made to launch a full-scale SWAT team assault. Warrants—one to search the house and one to arrest Doug Renfro—were obtained, and at 3:00 on a quiet, starlit night a team of eight city policemen rushed through the darkness and surrounded the Renfro home. Eight officers—all in full combat gear with Kevlar vests, camouflage uniforms, panzer-style helmets, night-vision goggles, tactical radios, semiautomatic pistols, assault rifles, knee pads, some even with face masks, and a few even with black face paint for maximum drama—ducked and squatted and moved fearlessly through the Renfros’ flower beds, their itchy fingers eager for combat. Two carried flash-bang stun grenades and two carried battering rams.

Warrior cops. The vast majority, as we would later learn, were woefully untrained, but all were thrilled to be in battle. At least six later admitted to consuming highly caffeinated energy drinks to stay awake at that awful hour.

Instead of simply ringing the doorbell and waking the Renfros and explaining that they, the police, wanted to talk and search the house, the cops launched the assault with a bang by kicking in the front and rear doors simultaneously. They would later lie and claim they had called out to the occupants, but Doug and Kitty were sound asleep, as you would expect. They heard nothing until the invasion began.

What happened in the next sixty seconds took months to unravel and get straight. The first casualty was Spike, the yellow Lab who slept on the kitchen floor. Spike was twelve, old for a Lab, and hard of hearing. But he certainly heard the door crash just a few feet away. His mistake was to jump up and start barking, at which time he was shot three times by a 9-millimeter semiautomatic pistol. By then Doug Renfro was scrambling out of bed and reaching for his own gun, one properly registered and kept in a drawer for protection. He also owned a Browning 12-gauge shotgun he used twice a year to hunt geese, but it was tucked away in a closet.

In attempting to defend the home invasion, our bumbling chief of police would later claim that the SWAT assault was necessary because they knew Doug Renfro was heavily armed.

Doug had made it to the hallway, when he saw several dark figures swarming up the stairs. An Army veteran, he hit the floor and began firing away. Fire was returned. The gun battle was brief and deadly. Doug was shot twice, in the forearm and shoulder. A cop named Keestler was hit in the neck, presumably by Doug. Kitty, who had rushed in a panic out of the bedroom behind her husband, was shot three times in the face and four times in the chest and died at the scene. Their other dog, a schnauzer who slept with them, was also shot and killed.

Doug Renfro and Keestler were rushed to the hospital. Kitty was taken to the city morgue. Neighbors gawked in disbelief as their street was lit by flashing lights while ambulances rushed away with the casualties.

The police stayed at the home for hours and collected all possible evidence, including the laptops. Within two hours, before sunrise, they knew the Renfros’ computers had never been used to peddle drugs. They knew they had made a mistake, but coming clean is simply not in their playbook. The cover-up began immediately when the commander of the SWAT team gravely informed television reporters on the scene that the occupants of the home were suspected of trafficking in drugs and that the man of the house, a Mr. Doug Renfro, had attempted to kill several officers.

After his recovery from surgery, six hours after getting shot, Doug was told of his wife’s death. He was also informed that the invaders were actually police officers. He had no idea. He thought they were armed criminals invading his home.

2.

My cell phone rings at 6:45. I’m staring at an impossible bank shot to sink the 9 ball in a corner pocket and run the table. I’ve been drinking strong coffee and missing too many shots for the past hour. I grab the phone, look at the ID, and say, “Good morning.”

“Are you awake?” Partner asks.

“Guess.” I haven’t been asleep at 6:45 in years. Neither has Partner.

“Might want to flip on the news.”

“Okay, what’s up?”

“Looks like our toy soldiers just botched another home invasion. Casualties.”

“Shit!” I say and grab the remote. “Later.” Wedged into one corner of my den is a small sofa and a chair. A wide-screen HD television hangs from the ceiling against a wall. I fall into the chair just as the first image appears.

The sun is barely up but there’s enough light to capture the mayhem. The Renfros’ front yard is swarming with cops and rescue personnel. Lights flash in the background behind the breathless and stuttering reporter. Neighbors in bathrobes gawk from across the street. Bright yellow police crime scene tape is strung high and low and in all directions. It’s a crime scene all right, but I’m already suspicious. Who are the real criminals? I call Partner, tell him to get to the hospital and start snooping.

Sitting in the Renfros’ driveway is a tank, with an eight-inch barrel, thick rubber tires instead of treads, a camouflage paint job, and an open turret where, at the moment, a warrior cop is sitting, his face hidden behind biker sunglasses, his expression one of extreme readiness. The City’s police department owns only one tank and they’re proud of it. They use it whenever possible. I know this tank; I’ve dealt with it before.

Several years ago, not long after the terror attacks on September 11, our police department managed to bilk Homeland Security out of a few million bucks so it could arm up and join the national craze of ETF—Extreme Terror Fighting. Never mind that our city is far away from the major metropolitan areas, or that there has been absolutely no sign of any jihadists around here, or that our cops already had plenty of guns and ninja gear. Forget all that—we had to be ready! So in the arms race that followed, our cops somehow got a new tank. And once they learned how to drive it, then, hell, it was time to use it.

The first victim was a rather rustic old boy named Sonny Werth who lived at the edge of the city limits in a part of town that realtors tend to avoid. Sonny, his girlfriend, and a couple of her kids were asleep at 2:00 a.m. when the house seemed to explode. It wasn’t much of a house, but that really didn’t matter. The walls shook, there was a roar, and Sonny at first thought a tornado had hit.

No, only the police. They would later claim that they had knocked on the door and tried the doorbell, but no one inside the house heard anything until the tank plowed through the front window and stopped in the den. A mixed spaniel mutt tried to escape through the gaping hole but was gunned down by a brave warrior. Luckily, there were no other casualties, though Sonny spent two nights in the hospital with chest pain, after which he went to jail for a week before he could post bond. His crimes: bookmaking, gambling. The cops and prosecutors claimed Sonny was part of a ring, thus a conspirator, thus a member of organized crime, and so on.

On Sonny’s behalf, I sued the City for “excessive force” and got a million bucks. Not one dime of which, by the way, came out of the pockets of the cops who planned the raid. As always, it came from the taxpayers. The criminal charges against Sonny were later dismissed, so the raid was a complete waste of time, money, and energy.

As I sip my coffee and watch the scene, I think to myself that the Renfros were lucky in that the tank was not used to bust up their house. For reasons we’ll never know, the decision was made to keep it in the driveway, just in case. If the eight soldiers were not enough, if the Renfros had somehow managed a counterattack, then the tank would have been sent in to destroy the den.

The camera closes in on two cops standing beside the tank, each with an assault rifle. Both weigh over three hundred pounds. One is wearing a uniform of green-and-gray camouflage, as if he were hunting deer in the woods. The other is wearing a uniform of brown-and-beige camouflage, as if he were hunting insurgents in the desert. These two clowns are standing in the driveway of a suburban home, about fifteen minutes from downtown, in a well-developed city of a million people, and they’re wearing camouflage. The sad and scary thing about this image is that these guys have no idea how stupid they look. Instead, they’re proud, arrogant. They’re on display, tough guys fighting bad guys. One of their brethren has been hit, wounded, fallen in the line of duty, and they’re pissed about it. They scowl at the neighbors across the street. One wrong word, and they might start shooting. Their fingers are on the triggers.

The weather comes on and I go to the shower.

Partner picks me up at eight and we head to the hospital. Doug Renfro is still in surgery. Officer Keestler’s wounds are not life threatening. There are cops everywhere. In a crowded waiting room, Partner points to a huddle of stunned people, all sitting knee to knee and holding hands.

Not for the first time, I ask myself the obvious question: Why didn’t the cops simply ring the doorbell at a decent hour and have a chat with Mr. Renfro? Two cops in plain clothes, or maybe just one in a uniform? Why not? The answer is simple: These guys think they’re part of an extreme, elite force, and they need their thrills, so here we are in another frantic hospital with casualties.

Thomas Renfro is about forty. According to Partner, he’s an optometrist out in the suburbs. His two sisters do not live around here and are not yet at the hospital. I swallow hard and approach him. He wants to wave me off, but I say over and over it’s important that we talk. He finally steps away and we find privacy in a corner. The poor guy is waiting on his sisters so they can go to the morgue and start arranging things for their dead mother; meanwhile, their father is in surgery. I apologize for intruding but get his attention when I explain that I’ve been through this before with these cops.

He wipes his red eyes and says, “I think I’ve seen you before.”

“Probably on the news. I take some crazy cases.”

He hesitates, then, “What kinda case is this?”

“Here’s what will happen, Mr. Renfro. Your father is not coming home anytime soon. When the doctors are finished with him, the cops will take him to jail. He’ll be charged with the attempted murder of a police officer. Carries a max of twenty years. His bond will be set at a million bucks or so, something outrageous, and he won’t be able to make it because the prosecutor will freeze his assets. House, bank accounts, whatever. He can’t touch anything because this is how they rig prosecutions.”

As if this poor guy hasn’t been hit with enough crap in the past five hours. He closes his eyes and shakes his head, but he’s listening. I go on: “The reason I’m bothering you with this is that it’s important to file a civil lawsuit immediately. Tomorrow if possible. Wrongful death of your mother, assault on your father, excessive force, police incompetence, violation of rights, et cetera. I’ll throw everything at them. I’ve done it before. If we get the right judge, then I’ll have access to their internal records right off the bat. They’re covering up their mistakes as we speak, and they’re very good at it.”

He breaks down, fights it, gets some control, and says, “This is too much.”

I hand him a card and say, “I understand. Call me as soon as you can. I fight these bastards all the time and I know the game. You’re going through hell now, but, unfortunately, it will only get worse.”

He manages to say “Thanks.”

3.

Later that afternoon, the police stop by and have a chat with Lance, the shiftless kid next door to the Renfros. Just three cops, in plain clothes, bravely approaching the house without assault weapons or bulletproof vests. They didn’t even bring their tank. Things go smoothly; no one gets shot.

Lance is nineteen, unemployed, home alone, a real loser, and his world is about to change dramatically. The police have a search warrant. After they grab his laptop and cell phone, Lance starts talking. He’s in the den when his mother comes home, and he’s admitting everything. He’s been piggybacking on the Renfros’ Wi-Fi system for about a year. He trades on the Dark Web, on a site called Millie’s Market, where he can buy any quantity of any drug, illegal or prescription. He sticks to Ecstasy because it’s accessible and the kids, his customers, love it. He does his business in Bitcoin, current balance valued at $60,000. All the details pour out in a torrent, and after an hour he’s led away in handcuffs.

So at 5:00 p.m., or about fourteen hours after the raid, the police finally know the truth. But their cover-up is already in play. They leak some lies here and there, and early the next morning I’m reading the Chronicle online and see the front-page news. There are photos of Douglas and Katherine Renfro, she now deceased, and Officer Keestler. He sounds like a hero; the Renfros sound like outlaws. Doug is a suspect in an Internet drug-trafficking ring. Shocking, a neighbor says. Had no idea. The nicest people. Kitty just got caught in the cross fire when her husband fired upon peace-loving officers of the law. She’ll be buried next week. He’ll be indicted shortly. Keestler is expected to survive. There’s not one word about Lance.

Two hours later, I meet Nate Spurio at a bagel shop in a strip mall north of town. We can’t be seen in public, or at least identified by anyone who might be a cop or know a cop, so we alternate our secret meetings between A, B, C, and D. A is an Arby’s roast beef joint in the suburbs. B is one of two bagel shops. C is the dreadful Catfish Cave, six miles east of the City. D is for a donut shop. When we need to talk, we simply choose a letter from our little alphabet game and agree on a time. Spurio is a thirty-year veteran of the police force, a genuine, honest cop who plays by the book and despises almost everyone else in the department. We have a history, which began with me as a twenty-year-old college boy who got too drunk in a beer hall and found myself outside on the sidewalk getting roughed up by the cops, one of whom was Nate Spurio. He said I cursed him and shoved him, and after I woke up in jail he stopped by to check on me. I apologized profusely. He accepted and made sure the charges were dropped. My broken jaw healed nicely, and the cop who punched me was later dismissed. The incident inspired me to go to law school. Over the years, Spurio has refused to play the political games necessary to advance and has gone nowhere. He’s usually hanging around a desk, filing papers, counting the days. But there is a network of other officers who have been ostracized by the powers that be, and Spurio spends a lot of time tracking the gossip. He’s not a snitch by any means. He’s simply an honest cop who hates what his department has become.

Partner stays in the van, in the parking lot, on guard in case other cops happen by and want a bagel. We huddle in a corner and watch the door. He says, “Boy oh boy, it’s a big one.”

“Let’s have it.”

He starts with Lance’s arrest, the confiscation of his computer, the clear proof that the boy is a small-time dealer, and his detailed admission about tagging along on the Renfros’ router. Their computers are squeaky-clean, but Doug will be indicted day after tomorrow. Keestler will be cleared of all wrongdoing. The typical cover-up.

“Who was there?” I ask, and he hands me a folded sheet of paper. “Eight, all from our department. No state boys, no Feds.”

If I have my way, they’ll be named defendants in a lawsuit seeking damages of, oh, I don’t know, how about $50 million.

“Who led the party?” I ask.

“Who do you think?”

“Sumerall?”

“You got it. We could tell from watching the news. Once again, Lieutenant Chip Sumerall leads his fearless troops into a quiet home where everybody’s asleep, and he gets his man. You gonna sue?”

I reply, “I don’t have the case yet, but I’m working on it.”

“Thought you were the best at chasing ambulances.”

“Only the ones I want. I’ll catch this one.”

Spurio chews on an onion bagel, washes it down with coffee, says, “These guys are outta control, Rudd. You gotta stop them.”

“No way, Nate. I can’t stop them. Maybe I can embarrass them from time to time, cost the City some money, but what they’re doing here is happening everywhere. We live in a police state and everybody supports the cops.”

“So you’re the last line of defense?”

“Yep.”

“God help us.”

“Indeed. Thanks for the scoop. I’ll be in touch.”

“Don’t mention it.”

4.

Doug Renfro is too physically damaged and emotionally overwhelmed to meet with me, and since a meeting would have to take place in his hospital room, it’s a bad idea anyway. The cops have the only door secured as if he were on death row. Privacy would be impossible. So I meet with Thomas Renfro and his two sisters in a coffee shop down the street from the hospital. The three are sleepwalking through their nightmare, exhausted, stunned, angry, grief stricken, and desperate for advice. They ignore their coffee and at first seem content to let me do the talking. Without the least bit of bluster, I explain who I am, what I do, where I come from, and how I protect my clients. I tell them that I’m not a typical lawyer. I don’t maintain a pretty office filled with mahogany and leather. I don’t belong to a big firm, prestigious or otherwise. I don’t do good works through the bar association. I’m a lone gunman, a rogue who fights the system and hates injustice. I’m here right now because I know what’s about to happen to their father, and to them.

Fiona, the older sister, says, “But they murdered our mother.”

“Indeed they did, but no one will be charged with her murder. They’ll investigate, send in the experts, and so on, and in the end they’ll all agree that she simply got caught in the cross fire. They’ll indict your father and blame him for starting the gun battle.”

Susanna, the younger sister, says, “But we’ve talked to our father, Mr. Rudd. They were sound asleep when something crashed inside the house. He thought they were being robbed. He grabbed his gun, ran into the hallway, then hit the floor when he saw figures in the dark. Someone fired a shot, then he began returning fire. He says he remembers Mom screaming and running into the hall to check on him.”

I say, “He’s very lucky to be alive. They shot both dogs, didn’t they?”

“Who are these goons?” Thomas asks helplessly.

“The police, the good guys.” I then tell them the story of my client Sonny Werth, with the tank sitting in his den, and the lawsuit we won. I explain that a civil lawsuit is their only option right now. Their father will be indicted and prosecuted, and once the truth is finally learned—and I promise them that we will expose everything—there will be enormous pressure on the City to settle. Their endgame is to keep their father out of jail. They can forget justice for what happened to their mother. A civil lawsuit, one put together by the right lawyer of course, guarantees a safer flow of information. The cover-up is already under way, I say more than once.

They’re trying their best to listen, but they’re in another world. Who could blame them? The meeting ends with both women in tears and Thomas unable to speak.

It’s time for me to back off.

5.

Uninvited, though it’s open to the public, I arrive at the large Methodist church just minutes before the service for Katherine Renfro. I find the stairs, climb up to the balcony, and sit in the semidarkness. I am alone up here, but the rest of the sanctuary is packed. I look down on the crowd: all white, all middle class, all in disbelief that their friend got shot seven times in her pajamas by the police.

Aren’t these senseless tragedies supposed to take place in other parts of town? These people are hard-core law-and-order. They vote to the right and want tough laws. If they think about SWAT teams at all, they think they’re necessary to fight terror and drugs in other places. How could this happen to them?

Absent from this ceremony is Doug Renfro. According to yesterday’s Chronicle, he has just been indicted. He’s still hospitalized, though recovering slowly. He begged the doctors and the police to allow him to attend his wife’s funeral. The doctors said sure; the cops said no way. He’s a threat to society. A cruel footnote to this tragedy is that Doug will live the rest of his life under the cloud of somehow being involved with drug trafficking. Most of these people will believe him and his denials, but for some there will be doubts. What was old Doug really up to? Surely he must’ve been guilty of something or our brave police would not have gone after him.

I suffer through the service, along with everyone else. The air is thick with confusion and anger. The minister is comforting, but at times clearly unsure of what has happened. He tries to make some sense of it, but it’s an impossible challenge. As he’s wrapping things up, and as the crying gets louder, I ease down the stairs and exit through a side door.

Two hours later my phone rings. It’s Doug Renfro.

6.

A lawyer like me is forced to work in the shadows. My opponents are protected by badges, uniforms, and all the myriad trappings of government power. They are sworn and duty-bound to uphold the law, but since they cheat like hell it forces me to cheat even more.

I have a network of contacts and sources. I can’t call them friends because friendships require commitments. Nate Spurio is one example, an honest cop who wouldn’t take a dime for inside information. I’ve offered. Another guy is a reporter with the Chronicle, and we swap gossip when it’s convenient. No cash changes hands. One of my favorites is Okie Schwin, and Okie always takes the money.

Okie is a mid-level paper pusher in the federal court clerk’s office in a downtown courthouse. He hates his job, despises his co-workers, and is always looking for an easy way to make a buck. He’s also divorced, drinks too much, and constantly tests the boundaries of workplace sexual harassment. Okie’s value is his ability to manipulate the court’s random assignment of cases. When a civil lawsuit is filed, it is supposedly assigned by chance to one of our six federal judges. A computer does this and the little procedure seems to work fine. There’s always a judge you’d prefer, depending on the type of case and perhaps your history in various courtrooms, but who cares when it’s completely random? Okie, though, knows how to rig the software and find the judge you really want. He charges for this, handsomely, and he’ll probably get caught, though he assures me there’s no way. If he’s caught, he’ll get fired and maybe prosecuted, but Okie seems unconcerned by these possibilities.

At his suggestion, we meet in a seedy strip club far from downtown. The crowd is staunchly blue collar. The strippers are not worth describing. I turn my back to the stage so I don’t have to look. Just under the roar, I say, “I’m filing suit tomorrow. Renfro, our SWAT boys’ latest home invasion.”

He laughs and says, “What a surprise. Let me guess, you think justice will be best served if the Honorable Arnie Samson presides.”

“My man.”

“He’s 110 years old, on senior status, half-dead, and he says he’s not taking cases anymore. Why can’t we make these guys retire?”

“That’s between you and the Constitution. He’ll take this one. The standard fee?”

“Yep. But what if he says no and bounces it down the line?”

“I’ll have to take that chance.” I hand him an envelope with $3,000 in cash. His standard fee. He quickly shoves it into a pocket without even a thank-you, then turns his attention to the girls.

7.

At nine the following morning, I walk into the clerk’s office and file a $50 million lawsuit against the City, the police department, the police chief, and the eight SWAT boys who attacked the Renfros’ home six days earlier. Somewhere in the murky depths of the office, Okie does his magic and the case is “randomly and automatically” assigned to Judge Arnold Samson. I e-mail a copy of the lawsuit to my friend at the Chronicle.

I also file a request for a temporary restraining order to prevent the prosecutor from freezing Doug Renfro’s assets. This is a favorite strong-arm tactic used by the government to harass criminal defendants. The original idea was to tie up assets supposedly accumulated in whatever criminal activity the defendant was engaged in, primarily drug trafficking. Seize the ill-gotten gains and make things tough for the cartels. And like so many laws, it didn’t take the prosecutors long to get creative and expand its use. In Doug’s case, the government was prepared to argue that his assets—home, cars, bank and retirement accounts—were accumulated, in part, with dirty money he earned while peddling Ecstasy.

Say what? By the time we have the emergency hearing on the temporary restraining order, the city prosecutors are backing down and looking for a way out. Judge Samson, as feisty as ever, scolds them and even threatens them with contempt. We win round 1.

Round 2 is a bail hearing in state court, where the attempted murder charge is pending. With his assets free, I’m able to argue that Doug Renfro poses absolutely no flight risk and will show up in court whenever he’s supposed to. His home is worth $400,000 with no mortgage, and I offer to post the deed as security. To my surprise, the judge agrees, and I walk my client out of court. We win round 2, but these are the easy ones.

Eight days after getting shot and losing his wife and both dogs, Doug Renfro returns home, where his three children, seven grandchildren, and some friends are waiting. It will be a subdued homecoming. They graciously ask me to join them, but I decline.

I fight tooth and nail for my clients and will break most laws to protect them, but I never get too close.

8.

At ten on a perfect Saturday morning, I’m sitting on a bench at a playground, waiting. It’s a few blocks from my apartment, our usual meeting place. On the sidewalk, a beautiful woman approaches with a seven-year-old boy. He is my son. She is my ex-wife. The court order allows me to see him once a month for thirty-six hours. As he gets older, I will be entitled to more lenient visitation, but for now things are restricted. There are reasons for this but I’d rather not discuss them now.

Starcher does not smile when they get to the bench. I stand and peck Judith on the cheek, more for the kid’s benefit than hers. She prefers not to touch.

“Hey, buddy,” I say, rubbing his head.

“Hey,” he says, then walks over to a swing and climbs onto it. Judith sits beside me on the bench and we watch him kick and begin swaying.

“How’s he doing?” I ask.

“Fine. His teachers are happy.” A long pause. “I see you’ve been quite busy.”

“Indeed. And you?”

“The usual grind.”

“How’s Ava?” I ask about her partner.

“She’s great. What are your plans for the day?”

Judith does not like leaving our son with me. Once again, I’ve managed to offend the police and this worries her. Worries me too but I would never admit it.

I say, “I figure we’ll do lunch. Then there’s a soccer game at the university this afternoon.”

She thinks a soccer game is safe enough. She says, “I’d like to have him back tonight, if that’s okay.”

“I get thirty-six hours once a month and that’s too much?”

“No, Sebastian, it’s not too much. I’m just worried, that’s all.”

Our fighting days are almost over, I hope. Take two lawyers with sharp elbows and even sharper tongues, give them an unwanted pregnancy, a nasty divorce with brutal aftershocks, and you have two people who can inflict serious damage. We’re still scarred, so we don’t fight, much.

“Fine,” I say, in full retreat. Truthfully, there’s nothing appealing about my apartment and Starcher doesn’t really like staying there, not yet anyway. He’s too short to shoot pool on my vintage table and I don’t own any video games. Maybe when he’s older.

He is being raised by two women who freak out if another kid shoves him at school. I’m not sure I can toughen him up by popping into his life once a month, but I’m trying. Down the road, I suspect he’ll get tired of living with a couple of edgy, intense women and want more time with his old man. My challenge is to remain relevant enough in his life to offer him that option.

“What time shall we meet?” she asks.

“Whenever.”

“I’ll meet you here at 6:00 p.m.,” she says as she gets to her feet and walks away. Starcher, his back to us, soars through the air and does not see her leave. It does not escape me that Judith did not bother to bring an overnight bag for the kid. She had no intention of allowing him to sleep at my place.

I live on the twenty-fifth floor because I feel safer there. I routinely get death threats for a variety of reasons, and I’ve been honest with Judith about this. She is not wrong for wanting the kid at home, where things are probably calmer. Probably, but I don’t know for sure. Just last month Starcher told me his “two mothers” yell at each other all the time.

For lunch we go to my favorite pizza parlor, a place his mothers would never take him. The truth is I don’t care what he eats. In many ways I’m more like a grandparent who spoils the kids before sending them back home. If he wants Ben & Jerry’s before and after lunch, so be it.

As we eat, he comes to life while I quiz him about school. He’s in the second grade in a public school not far from where I grew up. Judith insisted he attend some crunchy little granola academy where all plastic is forbidden and all the teachers wear thick wool socks and old sandals. At $40,000 a year I said hell no. She ran back to court, and for once the judge sided with me. So Starcher is in a normal school with kids of all colors and a seriously cute teacher, recently divorced.

As I’ve said, Starcher was a mistake. Judith and I were in the process of ending our chaotic relationship when she somehow got pregnant. The split grew even more complicated. I moved out and she assumed total possession of him. I was stiff-armed at every point, though, to be honest, I have never clamored to be a father. He’s all hers, at least in her opinion, so it’s becoming hilarious to watch him grow into a little boy who looks exactly like me. My mother found my second-grade school photo. At seven, we could pass for identical twins.

We talk about fighting, the school-yard variety. I ask him if he sees fights during recess, and he says, “Occasionally.” He tells me the story of the day when kids began yelling, “Fight! Fight!” and everyone ran over to watch. Two third graders, one black and one white, were on the ground kicking and squirming, biting and clawing and swapping punches while the crowd yelled encouragement.

“Was it fun to watch?” I ask.

He smiles and says, “Sure. It was cool.”

“What happened?”

“The teachers came and got them and took them into the office. I think they got in trouble.”

“I’m sure they did. Has your mother ever talked to you about fighting?”

He shakes his head. No.

“Okay. Here are the rules. Fighting is bad and will only get you in trouble, so don’t fight. Never start a fight. But, if someone else hits you, or pushes you, or trips you, or if two guys jump on a friend of yours, then sometimes you have to fight. Never back down when the other guy starts a fight. And when you fight, never, never, never give up.”

“Did you get into fights?”

“All the time. I was never a bully and I never started a fight. And I didn’t like to fight, but if the other guy pushed me around, then I hit him back.”

“Did you get in trouble?”

“I did. I took my punishment.”

“What does that mean?”

“Means the teacher yelled at me and my mother yelled at me and maybe they kicked me out of school for half a day or something like that. Again, bud, fighting is wrong.”

“Why do you always call me bud?”

Because I loathe the name your mother chose for you. “Just a nickname, that’s all.”

“Mom says you don’t like my name.”

“Not true, bud.” Judith will always be at war over the soul of her son. She cannot rise above the temptation of the silliest cheap shot. Why on earth would one parent tell a seven-year-old that the other parent doesn’t like his name? I’m sure I’d be shocked at the other crap she’s told him.

Partner has the day off, so I drive my van to the soccer stadium on campus. Starcher thinks the van is cool, with its sofa, swivel chairs, small desk, and television. He’s not sure why I use it as an office, and I have not gone into details about the bulletproof windows and automatic pistol in the console.

It’s a women’s soccer game, not that it matters to me. I don’t follow the sport, so if I’m forced to watch it I’d rather see girls in shorts than guys with hairy legs. Starcher, though, loves the excitement. His mothers do not believe in team sports, so he’s just been signed up for tennis lessons. Nothing wrong with tennis, but if he gets my moves he won’t last long. I always liked to hit. In youth basketball I was the kid with four fouls by halftime. Always more fouls than points. In Pop Warner football I played linebacker because I loved the contact.

After an hour someone finally scores, but by then I’m thinking about the Renfro case and any interest I had in the game is gone. Starcher and I share a popcorn and talk about this and that. The truth is, I’m so far detached from his little world that I can’t sustain a decent conversation.

I’m such a pathetic father.

9.

Sanity slowly arrives in the Renfro disaster. Under pressure from all sides, but especially from my pal at the Chronicle, the City flounders with its response. The chief of police has gone mum, claiming he can’t comment because of pending litigation. The mayor is running for cover, obviously trying to create some distance. Hot on his ass are his enemies, some city councilmen who enjoy the grandstanding and would like to have his job. They are in a minority, though, because no one really wants trouble with the police department.

Sadly, dissent nowadays is considered unpatriotic, and in our post-9/11 atmosphere any criticism of those in uniform, any uniform, is stifled. Being labeled soft on crime or soft on terror is a politician’s curse.

I’m feeding everything to my pal at the newspaper. Citing unnamed sources, he’s having a ball hammering away at the cops and their tactics, screwups, and attempts to cover up. Using materials from my files, he runs a lengthy piece about the history of botched invasions and excessive force.

I’m getting as much press as I can possibly generate. I cannot lie and say I don’t love this; indeed, I live for it.

The defendants file a motion with Judge Samson and ask him to, in effect, put a muzzle on “all lawyers involved in the civil lawsuit.” Judge Samson denies the motion without even the benefit of a hearing. Right now, the attorneys for the City are terrified of the judge and running for cover. I’m firing as many bullets as possible.

I practice alone, without a real office and certainly without a real staff. It’s extremely difficult for a lone gunman like me to engage in high-powered civil and criminal litigation without some support, which is where the two Harrys come in. Harry Gross and Harry Skulnick run a fifteen-lawyer shop in a converted warehouse downtown by the river. They do mostly appellate work and try to avoid jury trials, and thus spend their hours buried in books and pushing legal pads and briefs around their desks. Our arrangement is simple: They do my research and paperwork, and I give them one-third of the fees. This allows them to play it safe, to keep some distance from me, my clients, and the people I tend to irritate. They will prepare a stack of motions an inch thick, hand it to me for my review and signature, and nothing can be traced back to them. They toil away behind locked doors and never worry about the police. In the case of Sonny Werth—the client who woke up with the tank roaring into his den—the City settled for a million bucks. My cut was 25 percent. The two Harrys got a nice check and everybody was happy, except for Sonny.

In this state, all damages in civil cases are capped at $1 million. This is because the wise people who make the laws in our state legislature decided ten years ago that their judgment was far superior to that of the actual jurors who hear the evidence and evaluate the damages. They, the lawmakers, were hoodwinked by the insurance companies who are still funding the national tort reform movement, a political crusade that has been wildly successful. Virtually every state has fallen in line with caps on damages and other laws designed to keep folks away from the courthouse. So far, no one has seen a decline in insurance rates. An investigative report by my pal at the Chronicle revealed that 90 percent of our legislators took campaign money from the insurance industry. And this is considered a democracy.

Every street lawyer in this state can tell you a horror story of a badly maimed and permanently injured client who, after medical expenses, got almost nothing.

Not long after slamming the courthouse doors, these same wise and courageous legislators passed another law that prohibits homeowners from firing upon cops who invade their homes, regardless of whether the cops have the right home or not. So when Doug Renfro hit the floor and began firing his pistol, he was violating the law, with no real defense.

What about the real criminals? Well, our legislators passed yet another law that grants criminal immunity to SWAT teams who get a bit carried away and shoot the wrong person. In the Renfro disaster, four cops fired at least thirty-eight rounds. It’s not clear who actually shot Doug and his wife, and it doesn’t matter. They are all immune from criminal prosecution.

I spend hours with Doug trying to explain these legal principles, none of which make sense. He wants to know why his wife’s life is worth only $1 million. I explain that his state senator voted for this cap on damages—and that he also takes money from insurance lobbyists—so perhaps Doug should contact this elected official and bitch about the way he votes.

Doug asks, “Then why did we sue for $50 million when the most we can get is only $1 million?” Another question with a long answer. First, it’s called making a statement. We’re angry and fighting back, and suing for $50 million sounds much more aggressive than a mere $1 million. Second, a quirk in this already screwed-up law prohibits the jurors from knowing about the $1 million cap. They can sit through a month of testimony, evaluate the evidence, deliberate thoughtfully, and return a proper verdict of, say, $5 to $10 million. Then they go home, and the next day the judge quietly reduces the verdict down to the cap. The newspaper might trumpet another big verdict, but the lawyers and judges (and insurance companies) know the truth.

It makes no sense, but bear in mind this law was written by the same conspirators who insert endless gibberish into your insurance policies.

Doug asks, “But how can a cop kick in my door and shoot me with immunity, but if I return fire I’m a criminal looking at twenty years?” The simple answer is because they are cops. The complicated answer is that our lawmakers often pass laws that are not fair.

My client is still in mourning, but some of the shock and grief are beginning to subside. His thinking is getting clearer; reality is setting in. His wife is gone, murdered by men who will not be held accountable. Her life is worth only $1 million. And he, Mr. Doug Renfro, is in the midst of a criminal prosecution that will one day drag him into a courtroom where his only hope will be a hung jury.

The road to justice is filled with barriers and land mines, most of them created by men and women who claim to be seeking justice.

10.

My little cage fighter, Tadeo Zapate, has won his last four fights, all by brutal knockouts. That’s eleven in a row, with only three career losses, all on points. He’s now thirty-second in the world bantamweight rankings and moving up nicely. UFC promoters are taking notice. There’s talk of a fight in Vegas in six months, if he keeps winning. Oscar, his trainer, and Norberto, his manager, tell me they can’t keep the kid out of the gym. He is focused, hungry, almost manic in his quest for a title fight. They work him hard and are convinced he can be a top-five contender.

Tonight he fights a tough black kid with the stage name of Crush. I’ve seen Crush fight twice and he doesn’t worry me. He’s just a brawler, a street fighter with limited training in mixed martial arts. In both fights he got knocked out late in the third round because of fatigue. He starts with a bang, cannot pace himself, and pays for it at the end.

I wake up with a bad case of butterflies, thinking of nothing but the fight, and cannot eat breakfast. I’m puttering around the apartment late in the afternoon when Judith calls my cell. There’s an emergency—her college roommate has been seriously injured in an auto accident in Chicago. Judith is racing to the airport. Ava, her partner, is out of town, so it’s up to me to man up and be a father. I bite my tongue and do not tell her that I have plans. It’s fight night!

We meet at the park and she delivers our son, his duffel bag, and a barrage of warnings and instructions. Normally, I’d snap back and we’d argue, but Starcher seems to be in good spirits and eager to get away from her. I’ve never met her college roommate, so I don’t inquire. She storms off, jumps in her car, and disappears. Over pizza, I ask Starcher if he’s ever seen a cage fight on television. Of course not! His mothers monitor everything he reads, watches, eats, drinks, and thinks.

Last month, though, he spent the night with a friend, Tony, who has a big brother named Zack, and late that night Zack pulled out a laptop and they watched all manner of evil, including an Ultimate Fight.

I ask, “How was it?”

“Pretty cool,” he says with a grin. “You’re not mad?”

“Of course not. I love those fights.”

I go on to explain how our night will go. The kid’s face lights up like I’ve never seen. I make him swear that he will not, under any circumstances, tell his mothers about going to the fights. I explain that I have no choice; that I have to be there as part of a team; and that under normal circumstances he would not be invited. “Let me handle your mother,” I say, without much confidence, but then I realize he will be grilled mercilessly about the evening.

“Let’s just say we had pizza and watched TV in my apartment, which will be the truth because we’re eating pizza now and we’ll turn on the television when we get to my apartment.”

For a second he looks confused, then lights up again.

Back at my apartment, he watches a cartoon while I change clothes. He likes my shiny yellow jacket with “Tadeo Zapate” emblazoned across the back, and it takes me a while to explain that I work the corner. Each fighter has a corner team to help him between rounds, and, well, I’m in charge of water and anything else that Tadeo might need. No, I’m not really that necessary, but it sure is a lot of fun.

Partner picks us up in the black van and we ride to the city auditorium. For the next two hours, Partner will do the babysitting, a new role for him. Driver, bodyguard, errand boy, investigator, confidant, strategist, and now this. He doesn’t mind. I pull some strings and get them two seats on the floor, six rows back from the cage. Once they are situated with popcorn and sodas, I tell Starcher that I have to go check on my fighter. He’s excited, wide-eyed, chattering away to Partner, who’s already his best friend. Though I know the kid is safe, I’m still worried. Worried that his mother will find out and sue me again for neglect, corruption of a minor, and anything else she can possibly throw at me. Worried also that with this crowd anything can happen. I watch a lot of fights and have often thought that it’s safer inside the ring than out in the crowd. The fans are drinking and rowdy and they want blood.

A city councilwoman in some place like Wichita tried to pass an ordinance that would prohibit anyone under the age of eighteen from being admitted to a cage fight. It failed, but there is some wisdom behind it. Since there’s no such law in our city, young Starcher Whitly has a ringside seat.

Zapate versus Crush is the main event, which is fantastic, of course, right where we want to be, but it requires a long wait through the undercard. Tonight there are five warm-ups, so the evening will move painfully slowly.

I check in with Team Zapate and everyone is in good spirits. Subdued, as always, but quite confident. Tadeo is still in street clothes, lying on a table with his headphones on. His brother Miguel says he’s ready. Oscar whispers that it will be a first-round knockout. I hang around for a few minutes but can’t stand the tension. I leave and walk through a tunnel to a lower level where my little gang of criminals is waiting in a supply room. Slide, the convicted murderer, has been losing lately and has cut back on his wagers. Nino, the meth dealer, has, as always, a pocketful of cash and is splashing it around. Denardo, the Mafia wannabe, doesn’t like any of the fights. Johnny is absent. Frankie, the old guy and our scorekeeper, is nursing a double scotch, probably not his first. We work through the undercard and place our bets. As usual, no one will bet against my man. I chide them, taunt them, curse them, but they don’t budge. I offer $10,000 for a first-round knockout but get no takers. Frustrated, I leave with only $5,000 on the table, a grand for each bout on the undercard.

I pay eight bucks for a watered-down beer and climb to the nosebleed section, which is packed. A sellout, standing room only. Tadeo is becoming a big draw in his hometown, and I hammered the promoter for a guaranteed purse. Eight thousand dollars—win, lose, or draw. I lean on a steel beam above the top row and watch the first fight. I can barely see my kid in the crowd, way down there.

I lose my bets on the first four fights, win the fifth, then hustle to the dressing room. Team Zapate crowds around its hero, who also wears bright yellow. We look like a sack of organic lemons. We walk him through the tunnel and into the lights, and the crowd goes wild. I wave at Starcher and he waves back with a huge smile on his face.

Round 1. Three minutes of boredom as Crush, to our surprise, does not charge across the ring like a mad dog. Instead, he plays defense and escapes serious damage. Using a left jab that at times is hard to see, Tadeo opens a cut over Crush’s right eye. Late in the round, Crush returns the favor with a nasty gash across Tadeo’s forehead. Oscar manages to close it between rounds. Cuts are not that critical in cage fighting because the fights are so short. In boxing, a first-round cut is terrifying because it becomes a target for the next half hour.

Round 2. They hit the deck and grapple for the first half of the round. Crush has a strong upper body and Tadeo is unable to pin him. Boos can be heard. Back on their feet, they spar and kick with neither scoring much. Just before the bell, Tadeo lands a hard right to the jaw that would have flattened any of the last dozen or so men he’s faced, but Crush stays on his feet. As Tadeo goes in for the kill, Crush manages to grab his waist and hang on until the bell. Suddenly I don’t like this fight. Tadeo is clearly ahead on points, but I don’t trust judges.

Perhaps it’s the nature of my profession.

I like knockouts, not decisions.

Round 3. Having paced himself, Crush figures he’s got some gas in the tank. He charges across the ring and surprises everyone with a wild flurry that ignites the crowd. It’s certainly exciting, but not damaging. Tadeo covers well, then lands a couple of hard jabs that draw more blood. Crush charges again, and again. Tadeo, the boxer, picks his openings and shoots jabs that land beautifully. I’m screaming, the crowd is screaming, the floor seems to be shaking. Meanwhile, the clock is ticking and Crush is still out there, charging and charging, his face a bloody mess. He lands a wild right and Tadeo goes down, but only for a second. Crush leaps on top of him and they kick and claw and finally manage to untangle. Tadeo has not gone this late in a fight in a long time, and he begins to press. Crush charges again, and for the final minute they go toe-to-toe in the center of the ring, just two mad dogs beating the crap out of each other.

My heart is pounding, my stomach is rolling, and I’m just the water boy. We assure Tadeo he’s won again as we wait and wait. Finally, the referee walks the fighters to the center of the ring. The announcer proclaims a split decision, with Crush winning by a point. A thunderous wave of booing and screaming rocks the auditorium. Tadeo is stunned, shocked, his mouth wide open, his swollen eyes filled with hate. The fans are throwing things at the cage and we’re on the verge of a riot.

The next fifteen seconds will change Tadeo’s life forever.

He suddenly whirls and throws a hard right into the left side of Crush’s face. It’s a sucker punch, a vicious one that Crush never saw coming. He crumples to the mat, out cold. Instantly, Tadeo attacks the referee, who’s also black, and pummels him with a flurry. The ref stumbles and lands against the cage, half sitting up, and Tadeo pounces on him with a furious barrage of punches. For a few seconds, everyone is too stunned to react. They are, after all, in a cage, and it takes time to mount a rescue. By the time Norberto tackles Tadeo, the poor ref is unconscious.

The auditorium erupts as fights break out everywhere. Tadeo’s fans, most of them Hispanic, and Crush’s fans, most of whom are black and heavily outnumbered, attack each other like gangs in the street. Cups of beer and cartons of popcorn rain down like confetti. A security guard nearby gets hit over the head with a folding chair. It’s total chaos and no one is safe. I forget about the carnage inside the cage and sprint for my son. He’s not in his seat, but through the melee I see the hulking figure of Partner as they make their escape. I go after them, and within seconds we are safe. As we duck out of the auditorium, we pass panicked police running toward the action. In the van, I clutch Starcher in the front seat as Partner takes the side streets. I say, “Are you okay, bud?”

He says, “Let’s do it again.”

Minutes later, we enter my apartment and take a deep breath. I get drinks—beers for Partner and me and a soda for Starcher—and we turn on the local news. The story is still unfolding and the reporters are frantic. The kid is excited and talks enough to let me know he’s not traumatized. I try in vain to explain what happened.

Partner sleeps on the sofa. I wake him at 4:00 a.m. to talk strategy. He leaves for the city jail, to try and find Tadeo, and for the hospital, to dig for information about the referee. I can’t shake the image of Tadeo pounding the guy’s face. He was knocked cold from the first punch and there were dozens afterward, all delivered by a man completely out of his mind. I try not to think about what’s next for my fighter.

I grind beans, and while the coffee is brewing I go online to check the news. Fortunately, no one has died yet, but at least twenty people are in the hospital. Rescue personnel are still on the scene. And the blame is being heaped upon one Tadeo Zapate, age twenty-two, an up-and-coming cage fighter who’s now locked away in the city jail.

Judith calls at 6:30 to check on her son. She’s hours away and knows nothing about the riot we survived. I ask about her college roommate. She is surviving but things look bad. Judith will be home tomorrow, Sunday, and I assure her the kid will be just fine. All is well.

With some luck, she’ll never know.

Luck, though, is not going my way. A few minutes after our brief chat, I check the Chronicle online. The late edition managed to catch the breaking story down at the old auditorium, and on the front page is a rather large color photo of two people racing toward an exit. One is Partner, and he’s holding a kid. Starcher seems to be staring at the photographer, as if posing for the shot. Their names are not given; there was no time to ask. But to those who know him, his identity is indisputable.

How long before one of Judith’s friends sees the photo and gives her a call? How long before she opens her laptop and sees for herself? While I wait, I turn on the television and go to SportsCenter. The story is irresistible because it’s all right there, on video, blow by blow by blow. I get sick watching it again and again.

Partner calls from the hospital with the news that the referee, a guy named Sean King, is still in surgery. It’s no surprise that Partner is not the only person sniffing around the corridors waiting for any bit of news. He’s heard of “massive head wounds,” but has no details. He’s already been to the jail, where a contact confirmed that Mr. Zapate is safely locked away and not receiving visitors.

At 8:00 a.m., our blundering chief of police decides the world should hear from him. He arranges a press conference, one of those little muscle pageants in which a thick wall of uniformed white men line up behind the chief and scowl at the reporters while acting as though they really don’t want to be seen. For thirty minutes the chief talks and answers questions and reveals not a single fact that wasn’t posted online two hours earlier. He’s obviously enjoying the moment because nothing can be blamed on him or his men. Just as I’m getting bored, Judith calls.

The conversation is predictable—tense, bitchy, and accusatory. She’s seen the front-page photo of her son escaping the melee and she wants answers, and now, dammit. I assure her our son is sleeping soundly and probably dreaming of a fine day with his father. She says she’s catching an early flight and will be in the City by 5:00 p.m., which is the precise moment I’m supposed to meet her in the park and hand him over. She’ll file papers first thing Monday morning to terminate all visitation rights. File away, I say, because it won’t work. No judge in town will totally exclude me from seeing my son once a month. And, who knows, maybe the judge we draw is a fan of cage fighting. She curses and I curse back and we finally get off the phone.

Looks like we’ve just begun to fight.

11.

The Sunday papers rage against cage fighting, with knee-jerk condemnations coming from all directions. The Internet burns with the story. A YouTube video of the attack on the referee has four million hits before noon, and Tadeo has instantly become the most famous cage fighter in the world, though he will never fight again. Slowly, the wounded are released from hospitals, and, fortunately, there were no serious injuries to the fans. Just a bunch of drunks throwing punches and launching chairs. Sean King remains in a coma, in serious condition. Crush is resting comfortably with a badly fractured jaw and a concussion.

Late in the afternoon, I am allowed to visit my client in one of the jail’s attorney rooms. He’s sitting on the other side of a thick metal screen when I walk in and take a seat. His face is cut and badly swollen from the fight, but that’s the least of his problems. He is so subdued I wonder if he’s been drugged. We chat for a moment.

“When can I get outta here?” he asks.

You’d better get used to it, I want to say. “Your first appearance is in the morning, in court. I’ll be there. Nothing much will happen. They’ll wait to see what happens with the referee. If he dies, then you’re really up shit creek. If he recovers, they’ll charge you with a bunch of stuff but it won’t be murder. Maybe in a week or so we’ll go back to court and request a reasonable bond. I can’t guess what the judge will do. So, to answer your question, there’s a chance you might bond out in a few days. There’s an even better chance you’ll stay in jail until a trial.”

“How long will that take?”

“A trial?”

“Yes.”

“Hard to say. Six months at the earliest; probably more like a year. The trial itself won’t last very long because there won’t be many witnesses. They’ll just roll the video.”

He looks down, as if he wants to cry. I love this kid but there’s not much I can do for him, now or in six months. “Do you remember it?” I ask.

Slowly, he begins to nod. He says, “I just snapped. They cheated me out of a clear win. The ref made me fight his way, not mine. The ref kept getting in the way, you know, man, I just couldn’t fight my fight. I mean, I didn’t want to hurt the ref, but I just snapped. I was so angry, so destroyed when he raised that guy’s hand. I kicked his ass, didn’t I?”

“Crush or the referee?”

“Come on, man. Crush. I kicked his ass, right?”

“No, you did not. But you won the fight.” I saw every second of the fight and I never felt as though the ref was in the way. As far as legal defenses go, I don’t think much of this one: The ref held me back, cost me the match, so I caved in his face. It was justified.

“They took it away from me,” he says.

“The referee is not a judge, Tadeo. The three judges did the scoring. You went after the wrong guy.”

He picks at the stitches in his forehead and says, “I know, I know. I did wrong, Sebastian, but you gotta do something, okay?”

“You know I’ll do everything possible.”

“Will I serve some time?”

You’re serving it now; get used to it. I’ve already played with the numbers. If Sean King dies, I’m thinking twenty years for second-degree murder, maybe fifteen for manslaughter. If he lives, three to five for aggravated assault. Since I’m not ready to share these thoughts, I punt by saying, “Let’s worry about that later.”

“Probably so, right?”

“Probably so.”

There is a gap in the conversation as we hear doors clanging in the background. A jailer yells an obscenity. A tear emerges through Tadeo’s swollen left eye and runs down his bruised cheek. “I can’t believe it, man. I just can’t believe it.” His voice is soft and pained.

If you can’t believe it, think about that poor ref and his family. “I need to run, Tadeo. I’ll see you in the morning, in court.”

“I gotta wear this in court?” he asks, tugging at his orange jumpsuit.

“Afraid so. It’s just a first appearance.”

12.

At 9:00 on Monday morning, I’m in a busy courtroom with a bunch of other defense lawyers and prosecutors. In one corner there is a collection of shady-looking men in orange jumpsuits, all handcuffed together and watched by armed bailiffs. These are the new arrestees, and this is their second stop on the judicial assembly line. The first stop being the jail. One by one their names are called, and after being uncuffed they saunter over to a spot in front of the bench, upon which sits a judge, one of twenty in our system who handles the preliminary matters. The judge asks them some questions, the most important being “Do you have a lawyer?” Very few of them do, and the judge then assigns them to the public defender’s office. A rookie will pop up, stand beside his new client, and tell him not to say anything else. Dates will be set for return visits.

Tadeo Zapate, though, has a lawyer. They call his name and we meet in front of the bench. His face looks even worse. Most of the hushed conversations stop when the crowd realizes this is the guy everyone is talking about, the promising mixed martial arts fighter who is now the YouTube star.

“Are you Tadeo Zapate?” the judge asks with interest, the first time this morning he’s seemed engaged.

“Yes, sir.”

“And I assume Mr. Sebastian Rudd is your lawyer.”

“Yes, sir.”

An assistant prosecutor eases behind him.

The judge continues, “You are charged, at this point, with aggravated assault. Do you understand this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mr. Rudd, have you explained to your client that the charges might change to something more serious?”

“Yes, sir, he understands.”

“By the way, what is the latest on the referee?” he asks the assistant prosecutor, as if the guy were the treating physician.

“Last I heard, Mr. King’s condition is still critical.”

“Very well,” His Honor says. “Let’s meet back here in a week and see where things stand. Until then, Mr. Rudd, we won’t discuss the matter of bail.”

“Sure, Judge,” I say.

We are dismissed. As Tadeo walks away, I whisper, “I’ll see you at the jail tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” he says, then looks at the spectators and nods at his mother, who’s sitting with an entire pack of crying relatives. She emigrated from El Salvador twenty-five years ago, has her green card, works a late shift in a cafeteria, and is raising a flock of children, grandchildren, and other assorted relatives. Tadeo and his cage skills were her ticket to a better life. Miguel holds her hand and whispers in Spanish. He’s been chewed up by our judicial system a few times and knows the score.

I speak to them briefly, assure them I’m doing whatever can be done, then walk with them out of the courtroom and into a hallway where some reporters are waiting, two with cameras. This is what I live for.

13.

Quite the busy morning. While I’m in court with Tadeo, Judith does exactly as she promised and files a nasty motion to terminate all of my visitation rights, even the three hours I get on Christmas Eve and the two hours on my son’s birthday. She claims I’m an unfit parent, a danger to his physical safety, and a “horrible influence” on the child’s life. She demands an expedited hearing. Such theatrics. As if the kid were in danger.

Harry & Harry prepare a vicious response, and I file it Monday afternoon. Once again, we square off in her ongoing crusade to teach me valuable lessons. No judge will grant her demands, and she knows it. But she’s doing it because she’s angry and she thinks that if she drags me through the meat grinder once more I’ll finally surrender and get out of their lives. I’m almost looking forward to the hearing.

First, though, we have another problem. On Wednesday, she calls my cell around noon and announces rudely, “We have a meeting at school this afternoon.”

Oh really? This is maybe the second time I’ve been asked to show up at the school and act like a parent. Until now, Judith has done a fine job of keeping me out of our son’s business.

I ask, “Okay, what’s up?”

“Starcher is in trouble. He got in a fight at school, punched another kid.”

I am overwhelmed with fatherly pride and I almost laugh. But I bite my tongue and say, “Oh, gosh, what happened?” I want to add questions such as “Did he win?” “How many times did he punch him?” and “Was the other kid a third grader?” But I manage to control my excitement.

“That’s what the meeting is all about. I’ll see you in the principal’s office at four.”

“Four, today?”

“Yes,” she says, bitchy and firm.

“Okay.” I’ll have to move a court appearance but it’s no problem. I wouldn’t miss this meeting for the world. My kid—a soft little boy who’s never had a chance to be tough—punched somebody!

I smile all the way to the school. The principal has a big office with several chairs around a coffee table. We meet there, very casual. Her name is Doris—a frazzled veteran of at least forty years in public education. But she has an easy smile and a comforting voice. Who knows how many meetings like this she’s suffered through. Judith and Ava are already there when I arrive. I nod at them without speaking. Judith is wearing a designer dress and is stunning. Ava, the former lingerie model, is wearing supertight leather pants and a tight blouse. She may have the brains of a gerbil but she still has a body that belongs on magazine covers. Both women look fabulous, and it’s obvious, at least to me, that they spent some time dressing up for this occasion. But why?

Then Ms. Tarrant arrives, and things become clearer. She’s Starcher’s teacher, a thirty-three-year-old knockout who got a divorce recently and, according to a source, is already back in the game. She has short blond hair, cut smartly, and large brown eyes that force everyone she meets to do at least one double take. Judith and Ava are no longer the hottest babes in the room. In fact, they’re getting smoked. I stand and make a fuss over Ms. Tarrant, who enjoys the attention. Judith immediately goes into total-bitch mode—she’s halfway there by nature—but Ava’s eyes sort of linger when she looks at the teacher. Mine are lingering like crazy.

Doris gives us the basics: During recess yesterday afternoon, some second-grade boys were playing kickball on the playground. There were words, then a scuffle, then a boy named Brad pushed Starcher, who then smacked Brad on the mouth. It caused a slight cut, thus blood, thus it’s a major incident. Not surprisingly, the boys clammed up when the teachers arrived and haven’t said much.

I blurt out, “Sounds pretty harmless. Just boys being boys.”

None of the four women agree, not that I expect them to. Ms. Tarrant says, “One of the boys told me that Brad was making fun of Starcher because his picture was in the newspaper.”

“Who threw the first punch?” I ask, almost rudely.

They squirm and don’t like the question. “Does that really matter?” Judith shoots back.

“Damn right it does.”

Sensing trouble, Doris rushes in with “We have strict rules against fighting, Mr. Rudd, regardless of who starts the altercation. Our students are taught not to engage in this type of activity.”

“I get that, but you can’t expect a kid to get bullied without standing up for himself.”

The word “bullied” is a hot one. With my kid now the victim, they’re not sure how to respond. Ms. Tarrant says, “Well, I’m not sure he was being bullied.”

“Is Brad a bad apple?” I ask the teacher.

“No, he certainly is not. I have a great group of kids this year.”

“Sure you do. Including mine. These are little boys, okay? They can’t hurt each other. So they push and shove on the playground. They are boys, dammit! Let them be boys. Don’t punish them every time they disagree.”

“We’re teaching them lessons, Mr. Rudd,” Doris says piously.

Judith snarls, “Have you talked to him about fighting?”

“Yes I have. I’ve told him that fighting is wrong, never start a fight, but if someone else happens to start one, then by all means protect himself. And what, exactly, is wrong with that?”

None of the four take a crack at answering this, so I shove on. “You’d better teach him now to stand up for himself, or he’ll get bullied for the rest of his life. These are kids. They’ll fight. They’ll win some, lose some, but they’ll outgrow it. Believe me, when a boy gets older and gets punched a few times, he loses his enthusiasm for fighting.”

For the second time, I catch Ava glancing at Ms. Tarrant’s legs. I’m glancing too; can’t help it. They deserve a lot of attention. Doris is watching these mating rituals. She’s seen it all before.

She says, “Brad’s parents are quite upset.”

I jump in with “Then I’ll be happy to talk to them, to apologize and to have Starcher apologize too. How about that?”

“I’ll handle this,” Judith barks.

“Then why did you invite me to this little party? I’ll tell you why. You want to make sure all blame is properly laid at my feet. Five days ago I took the kid to the cage fights; now he’s brawling on the playground. Clear proof it’s all my fault. You win. You wanted some witnesses. So here we are. Do you feel better now?”

This, of course, sucks the air out of the room. Judith’s eyes glaze over with hatred and I can almost see steam coming out of her ears. Doris, the pro, rushes in with “Okay, okay. I like the idea of one of you having a chat with Brad’s parents.”

“One of the two of us, or one of the three of us?” I ask. What a smart-ass. “I’m sorry, but it gets kind of crowded.”

Ava shoots daggers at me. I glance at the teacher’s legs. What a ridiculous meeting.

Doris shows some spine by looking at me and saying, “I think you should do it. You’re right; it’s a boy thing. Call Brad’s parents and apologize.”

“Done.”

“What’s the punishment for Starcher?” Ava asks because Judith can’t speak right now.

Doris says, “What do you think, Ms. Tarrant?”

“Well, there has to be a punishment.”

I make matters worse by saying, “Don’t tell me you’re going to expel the kid.”

Ms. Tarrant says, “No, he and Brad are friends and I think they’ve already moved on. What about a week with no recess?”

“Can he still have lunch?” I ask, just trying to clog the wheels of justice. I’m a lawyer; it’s instinctive.

She smiles but ignores this. We hammer out an agreement and I’m the first one to leave. As I drive away from the parking lot, I realize I’m smiling. Starcher stood his ground!

Late that night, I e-mail Ms. Tarrant—Naomi is her first name—and thank her for doing such a fine job. Ten minutes later, she e-mails me back and says thanks. I fire right back and ask her to dinner. Twenty minutes later she informs me it’s not a good idea to date parents of her kids. In other words, not now, maybe in the future.

It’s Wednesday and raining. We’ve played Dirty Golf many times in bad weather, but Alan said no tonight; no more ruts in the fairways. Old Rico is closed for the evening. I’m wide awake, bored, worried about Tadeo and Doug Renfro, and I’m also fairly revved up at the slim prospects of chasing Ms. Tarrant. Sleep eludes me, again, so I grab an umbrella and hustle down to The Rack. At midnight, I’m losing ten bucks a game in nine ball to a kid who looks no more than fifteen. I asked him if he goes to school, to which he answered, “Occasionally.”

Curly is watching us, and at one point whispers to me, “Never seen him before. Amazing.” Mercifully, Curly closes the place at 1:00 a.m. The kid has picked my pockets for $90. I’ll avoid him next time. At 2:00, I manage to close my eyes and fall asleep.

14.

Partner calls me at four. Sean King died of a cerebral hemorrhage. I make coffee and drink it in the dark while gazing down on the City, still and quiet at this hour. The moon is full and its light reflects off the tall buildings downtown.

What a tragedy. Tadeo Zapate will now spend at least the next decade or so behind bars. He’s twenty-two, so he’ll be too old to fight when he gets out. Too old for many things. I think about the money, but just for a minute. I invested $30,000 in the kid for a quarter share of his career earnings, which to date total about $80,000. Plus, I’ve picked up another $20,000 betting on him. So I’m slightly ahead on the cash side. I try not to think about his future earnings, which were going to be substantial. All that seems trivial now.

Instead, I think about his family, their hard life and the hope he gave them. He was their ticket out of the street life and the violence, to the middle class and beyond. Now they’ll sink even deeper into poverty while he rots away in prison.

There is no defense, no credible legal strategy to save him. I’ve watched the video a hundred times now. The last flurry of blows to Sean King’s face were absorbed while he was unconscious. It won’t be difficult to find an expert who’ll say those were the shots that did the fatal damage. But an expert will not be needed. This case is not going to trial. I’ll serve my client well if I can somehow pressure the State to make us a decent offer. I just hope it’s ten years and not thirty, but something tells me I’m dreaming. No prosecutor in this country would pass up the opportunity to nail such a high-profile murderer.

I force myself to think about Sean King, but I never knew the guy. I’m sure his family is devastated and all that, but my thoughts return to Tadeo.

At six I shower, get dressed, and head for the jail. I have to tell Tadeo that his life, as he knew it, is over.

15.

The following Monday, Tadeo Zapate and I appear in court again, though the mood is quite different. He’s charged with murder now, and thanks to the Internet he’s famous. It seems as though few people can resist the temptation of watching him kill Sean King with his bare hands.

As expected, the judge denies bail and they take Tadeo away. I’ve had two brief chats with the prosecutor and it looks like they’re out for blood. Second-degree murder carries a max of thirty years. For a plea, they’ll agree to twenty. Under our screwed-up parole system, he’ll serve at least ten. I have yet to explain this to my client. He’s still in denial, still in that fog where he’s sorry it happened, can’t explain it, but still believing that a good lawyer can pull some strings and get him off.

It’s a sad day, but not a complete waste. In the large open hallway outside the courtroom, there is a crowd of reporters and they’re waiting for me. There is no gag order yet, so I’m free to say all the ridiculous things that lawyers say long before the trials. My client is a good person who snapped when he got a raw deal. Now he is devastated by what happened. He cries in sympathy for the family of Sean King. He would give anything to have those few precious seconds back. We will mount a vigorous defense. Yes, of course, he hopes to fight again. He was helping his poor mother support her family and a house full of relatives.

And so on.

16.

With Harry & Harry churning out the paperwork, and with Judge Samson haranguing the City’s lawyers whenever they get close to his courtroom, the civil action moved ahead at an unusually rapid pace.

We are in a race here, one that we will not win. I would love to try Doug Renfro’s civil case in a packed courtroom before his criminal case is called. The problem is that we have a speedy-trial rule in criminal cases, but not in civil. In theory, a criminal case must be brought to trial or otherwise disposed of within 120 days of indictment, though this is routinely waived by the defendant’s lawyer because more time is needed to prepare. There is no such rule in civil cases, which often drag on for years. In my perfect scenario, we would try the civil case first, get a huge verdict that would be front-page news and, more important, influence prospective jurors in the criminal case. The press can’t get enough of the Renfro debacle, and I relish the chance to grill the cops on the witness stand for the benefit of the entire city.

If the criminal prosecution goes first, and if Doug Renfro is convicted, then the civil case will be much more difficult to win. As a witness, he’ll be impeachable because of his conviction.

Judge Samson understands this and is trying to help. Less than three months after the botched SWAT raid, he orders all eight cops to appear in his chambers to be deposed by me. No judge, federal or otherwise, would ever consider suffering through a single deposition; it would be far beneath his or her dignity. But to set the mood and deliver the message to the cops and their lawyers that he is highly suspicious of them, Judge Samson orders the depositions to be taken on his turf, with his law clerk and his magistrate in the room.

It is a brutal marathon that pushes me to the limits. I begin with Lieutenant Chip Sumerall, the leader of the SWAT team. I elicit testimony regarding his experience, training, and participation in other home invasions. I am deliberately dull, tedious, poker-faced. It’s just a deposition, the purpose of which is to establish sworn testimony. Using maps, photos, and videos, we walk through the Renfro affair for hours.

It takes six full days to depose the eight cops. But they’re on the record now, and they cannot change their stories at either the criminal or the civil trials.

17.

The only time I spend in Domestic Relations Court is when I’m dragged in to account for my sins. I wouldn’t handle a divorce or adoption at gunpoint. Judith, though, makes her living in the gutter warfare of divorce trials and this is her turf. His Honor today is one Stanley Leef, a cranky old veteran who lost interest years ago. Judith represents herself, as do I. For the occasion she’s dragged in Ava, who sits as the lone spectator, in a skirt so short you can see her name and address. I catch Judge Leef gazing at her, enjoying the scenery.

Since we’re both lawyers, and representing ourselves, Judge Leef dispenses with the formalities and allows us to just sit and talk, as if we’re in arbitration. We are on the record, though, and a stenographer is taking it all down.

Judith goes first, states the facts, and makes it sound as though I’m the worst parent in history because I took my son to the cage fights. Then, four days later, Starcher got in his first fight at school. Clear proof that I’ve turned him into a monster.

Judge Leef frowns as if this is just awful.

With as much drama as she can muster, Judith proclaims that all visitation rights should be terminated so the kid will never again be subjected to my influence. Judge Leef shoots me a quick glance that says, “Is she crazy?”

But we’re not here for justice, we’re here for a show. Judith is an angry mother and she’s once again dragged me into court. My punishment is not the loss of visitation rights; rather, it’s just the hassle of dealing with her. She will not be pushed around! She will protect her child at all costs!

From my seat, I tell my side of the story without embellishing a single word.

She produces a copy of the newspaper, with “her son” on the front page. What humiliation! He could have been seriously injured. Judge Leef is almost asleep.

She produces an expert, a child psychologist. Dr. Salabar, female of course, informs the court that she has interviewed Starcher, spent an entire hour with him, talked about the cage fights and the playground “brawl,” and is now of the opinion that the carnage he witnessed while under my supervision had a detrimental effect on him and encouraged him to start a fight of his own. Judith manages to string this testimony out until Judge Leef is practically comatose.

On cross-examination, I ask, “Are you married?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a son or sons?”

“Two boys, yes.”

“Did you ever take either son to boxing matches, wrestling matches, or cage fights?”

“No.”

“Did either son ever get into a fight with another kid?”

“Well, I’m sure they did, but then I really can’t say.”

The fact that she won’t answer the question speaks volumes. Judge Leef shakes his head.

“Did your boys ever get into a fight with one another?”

“I don’t recall.”

“You don’t recall? Were you a loving mother who gave your sons all the attention possible?”

“I’d like to think so.”

“So you were there for them?”

“As much as possible, yes.”

“And you can’t remember a single time when one of them got into a fight?”

“Well, no, not at this time.”

“What about some other time? Strike that. Nothing further.” I glance at the judge and he’s frustrated. But things brighten up considerably when the next witness takes the stand. It’s Naomi Tarrant, Starcher’s teacher, and she’s wearing a tight dress and stilettos. By the time she promises to tell the truth, old Judge Leef is wide awake. So am I.

Schoolteachers hate to get dragged into custody and visitation battles. Naomi is no exception, though she knows how to handle this situation. We’ve been swapping e-mails for a month now. She still won’t agree to dinner, but I’m making progress. She testifies that Starcher had never shown any violent tendencies until a few days after his first trip to the cage fights. She describes the playground incident without referring to it as a fight or a brawl. Just a couple of boys who had a misunderstanding.

Judith calls her as a witness not to help in her search for the truth but to show Naomi, as well as everyone else, that she has the power to drag them into court and bully them.

On cross, I get Naomi to admit that, sooner or later, almost every normal boy she has ever taught has been involved in some type of scuffle on the playground. She’s on and off the witness stand in fifteen minutes, and when Judge Leef dismisses her he looks a bit disappointed.

In closing, Judith repeats what’s already been said and makes a strident plea to terminate all visitation rights.

Judge Leef stops her cold with “But the father is getting only thirty-six hours a month. That’s not very much.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“That’s enough,” Judith scolds me.

“Sorry.”

The judge looks at me and asks, “Mr. Rudd, will you agree to keep the child away from cage fighting, as well as boxing and wrestling matches?”

“Yes, I promise.”

“And will you also agree to teach the child that fighting is a bad way to settle disputes?”

“Yes, I promise.”

He glares at Judith and says, “Your petition is denied. Anything else?”

Judith hesitates for a second, then says, “Well, I’ll just have to appeal.”

“You have that right,” he says as he taps his gavel. “This hearing is over.”

18.

The criminal trial of Doug Renfro begins on a Monday morning, and the courtroom is packed with potential jurors. As they are processed and seated by the courtroom bailiffs, the lawyers meet in the chambers of the Honorable Ryan Ponder, a ten-year veteran of our circuit courts and one of our better presiding judges. As always on the first day of a significant trial, the mood is tense; everyone is on edge. The lawyers look as though they haven’t slept all weekend.

We sit around a large table and cover some preliminary matters. As we wrap things up, Judge Ponder looks at me and says, “I want to get this straight, Mr. Rudd. The State is offering a deal whereby your client pleads guilty to a lesser charge, a ramped-up misdemeanor, and gets no jail time. He walks. And in return, he agrees to drop his civil suit against the City and all of the other defendants. Correct?”

“That’s correct, sir.”

“And he is saying no to this deal?”

“Correct.”

“Let’s get this on the record.”

Doug Renfro is retrieved from a witness room and led into the judge’s chambers. He is wearing a dark wool suit, white shirt, dark tie, and is dressed better than anyone in the room, with the possible exception of me. He stands tall, erect, and proud, an old soldier itching for a fight. It has been ten months since his home was invaded by the police, and though he has aged considerably, his wounds have healed and he carries himself with confidence.

Judge Ponder swears him to tell the truth. He says, “Now, Mr. Renfro, the State is offering you a deal, a plea agreement. It is in writing. Have you read it and discussed it with your lawyer?”

“I have, yes, sir.”

“And you realize that if you take this plea agreement you will avoid this trial, walk out of here a free man, and never worry about going to prison?”

“Yes, I understand that. But I will not plead guilty to anything. The police broke into my home and killed my wife. They will not be charged and that is wrong. I’ll take my chances with the jury.” He glares at the prosecutor, gives him a look of disgust, and returns his gaze to Judge Ponder.

The prosecutor, a veteran named Chuck Finney, hides his face behind some paperwork. Finney is not a bad guy and does not want to be where he is now sitting. His problem is simple and obvious—an eager-beaver cop got wounded in a botched raid, and the law, in black and white, says the guy who shot him is guilty. It’s a bad law written by clueless people, and now Finney is compelled to enforce it. He cannot simply drop the charges. The police union is breathing down his neck.

A word here about Max Mancini. Max is the City’s chief prosecutor, appointed by the mayor and approved by the city council. He’s loud, flamboyant, ambitious, a driven man who’s going places, though it’s not clear exactly where. He loves cameras as much as I do and will knock folks out of the way to get in front of one. He’s crafty in the courtroom and boasts of a 99 percent conviction rate, same as every other prosecutor in America. Because he’s the boss, he gets to manipulate the numbers, so he has real proof that his 99 percent is legitimate.

Normally, in a case as big as Doug Renfro’s, with front-page coverage guaranteed and live-action shots morning, noon, and night, Max would be dressed in his finest and hogging the spotlight. However, this case is dangerous and Max knows it. Everybody knows it. The cops were wrong. The Renfros are victims. A guilty verdict seems unlikely, and if there’s one thing Max Mancini cannot risk it’s the wrong verdict.

So, he’s hiding. Not a peep out of our chief prosecutor. I’m sure he’s lurking around somewhere in the shadows, gawking at all the cameras and dying inside, but Max will not be seen during this trial. Instead, he dumped it on Chuck Finney.

19.

It takes three days to pick a jury, and it’s clear that all twelve know a lot about the case. I have wrestled with the strategy of requesting a change of venue, but decided against it. There are a couple of reasons for this, one legitimate and the other based on pure ego. The first is that many people in this city are fed up with the cops and their brutal tactics. The second is that there are reporters and cameras everywhere, and this is my turf. Most important, though, my client prefers to be tried by a jury of his fellow citizens.

In a crowded courtroom, Judge Ponder says, “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we will now begin this trial with the opening statements. First, the State’s attorney, Mr. Finney, then the defense, Mr. Rudd. I caution you that nothing you’re about to hear is actually evidence. The evidence comes from only one source, and that’s this witness chair right here. Mr. Finney.”

The prosecutor rises solemnly from his seat at the table, a table filled with deputy prosecutors and useless assistants. It’s a show of legal muscle, an attempt to impress the jury with the gravity of the case against Mr. Renfro. I have a different strategy. Doug and I sit alone, just the two of us. Two little guys facing the depthless resources of the government. The defense table seems almost deserted when compared to the army across the aisle. I live for this David versus Goliath image.

Chuck Finney is fiercely dull, and he begins with a grave “Ladies and gentlemen, this is a tragic case.” No kidding, Chuck. Is that the best you can do?

Finney may not have his heart in this case, but he’s not about to roll over. There are too many people watching, too much at stake. Now that the opening bell has sounded, the game is on. And the game is not about justice; from this point forward it’s all about winning. He does a fair job of describing the dangers of police work, especially in this day and age of assault weapons, sophisticated criminals, drug gangs, and terrorists. Today’s policemen are often targets, victims of extremely violent thugs who have no respect for authority. There’s a war out there, a war on drugs, a war on terror, a war on pretty much everything, and our brave law enforcement officers have every right to arm themselves to the hilt. That’s why the smart people we elect to make our laws decided six years ago to make it a crime for a person, yes even a homeowner, to fire upon our police when they are simply doing their jobs. That’s why Doug Renfro is guilty as a matter of law. He fired upon our police, and he wounded Officer Scott Keestler, a veteran who was just doing his job.

Finney is striking the right chords and scoring some points here. A couple of the jurors glance disapprovingly at my client. After all, he did shoot a cop. But Finney is careful. The facts are not in his favor, regardless of what the law says. He is concise, to the point, and sits down after only ten minutes. A record for a prosecutor.

Judge Ponder says, “Mr. Rudd, for the defense.”

As a criminal defense lawyer, I rarely have the facts in my favor. But when I do, I find it impossible to be subtle. Hit ’em fast and hard, and watch them scramble. I have believed since day one that I can win this case with the opening statement. I toss my legal pad on the podium and look at the jurors. Eye contact with every one of them.

I begin, “First they shot his dog Spike, a twelve-year-old yellow Lab who was fast asleep on his bed in the kitchen. What did Spike do to deserve getting killed? Nothing, he was just in the right place at the wrong time. Why would they kill Spike? They will attempt to answer this question with one of their standard lies. They will tell you that Spike threatened them, same as every other dog they kill when they invade private homes in the middle of the night. In the last five years, ladies and gentlemen, our gallant SWAT boys have killed at least thirty innocent dogs in this city, from old mutts to young puppies, all of whom were just minding their own business.”

Behind me, Chuck Finney stands and says, “Objection, Your Honor. Relevancy. Not sure why the other SWAT maneuvers are relevant to this case.”

I turn to the judge, and before he can rule I say, “Oh, it’s relevant, Your Honor. Let’s allow the jury to hear exactly how these raids go down. We will prove that these cops are trigger-happy and ready to shoot anything that moves.”

Judge Ponder raises a hand and says, “That’s enough, Mr. Rudd. I’ll overrule the objection. It’s just an opening statement and not evidence.”

True, but the jurors have already heard me. I return to them and say, “Spike didn’t have a chance. The SWAT team kicked in the front and back doors simultaneously, and eight heavily armed warrior cops raced into the Renfro home. By the time Spike could get to his feet and bark he was dead, blown away by three bullets from a semiautomatic handgun, the same kind used by Army Rangers. And the killing had just begun.”

I pause and look at the jurors, some of whom are no doubt more distressed over the dead dog than anything else that happened that night.

“Eight cops, eight SWAT team members, all equipped with more gear and armor than any American soldier who fought in Vietnam or World War II. Bulletproof vests, night-vision goggles, highly sophisticated weapons, even black face paint to add a little drama. But why? Why were they there?” I’m pacing now, back and forth in front of the jury box. I glance at the spectators, the place is packed, and I see the chief of police in the front row, hating me. Their usual routine in any case involving the police is to line up about two dozen uniformed cops on the front rows, where they sit with folded arms and glare at the jurors. Judge Ponder, though, would have none of it. I filed a motion to keep cops in uniforms out of the courtroom, and he agreed. The eight SWAT boys are being kept in witness rooms and missing the fun.

“This disaster began with the boy next door, a troubled kid named Lance, nineteen years old and going nowhere. Lance was rightfully unemployed but not altogether unproductive. He made good money selling illegal narcotics, primarily the drug Ecstasy. He was too smart to work the streets, so Lance used the Internet. But not the Internet we know. Lance lived in the murky and forbidden world of the Dark Web, a place where Google and Yahoo and the other great search engines do not go. Lance had been buying and selling drugs on the Dark Web for two years when he realized the Renfros had an unsecured wireless router. For a clever boy like Lance it was easy to piggyback. For a year Lance bought and sold Ecstasy, using the Renfros’ wireless system, and of course they didn’t have a clue. This case, though, is not about drug trafficking, so don’t be deceived. It’s about a gargantuan screwup by our police department. The state investigators were rounding up online drug dealers and came across the Renfros’ IP address. With no other evidence, and no real investigation, they launched a sting. They got two warrants: an arrest warrant for Doug Renfro, and a search warrant for his home.”

I pause here and get a drink of water. I have never felt such stillness in a courtroom. All eyes are on me. All ears are listening. I return to the jury box and lean on the podium, as if I’m having a friendly chat with my grandfather. “Now, back in the old days and not too long ago, back when police work was done by cops who knew their beat and knew how to handle criminals, back when the police knew they were police and not Navy SEALs, back then, ladies and gentlemen, an arrest warrant would be served by a couple of officers who would drive over to Mr. Renfro’s home, at a decent hour, ring his doorbell, step inside his house, and tell him he was under arrest. They would handcuff him and take him away, and do so with a great deal of professionalism. Another pair of officers would show up with the search warrant and get Mr. Renfro’s computer. Within a couple of hours, the police would realize their mistake. They would apologize profusely to Mr. Renfro and take him home. Then they would solve their crime. Compare then with now. Now, at least in this city with its current leadership, the police launch surprise attacks on unsuspecting and law-abiding citizens in the middle of the night. And they shoot them, and their dogs, and when they realize they have the wrong house, they lie and cover up.” Another long pause as I step behind the podium, glance at some notes I don’t need, and return my gaze to the jurors. If any of them are breathing, I can’t tell it. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a bad law in this state that says that a homeowner, one like Doug Renfro, who fires upon an officer of the law, even if the cop is at the wrong house, is automatically guilty. So why bother with this trial? Why doesn’t someone simply read the statute and tell Mr. Renfro to go to prison for the next forty years? Well, because there is no such thing as automatic guilt. That’s why we have juries, and your job will be to decide if Doug Renfro knew what he was doing. Did he know the police were in his house? When he scrambled into the hallway and saw figures moving in the darkness, what was he thinking? I’ll tell you. He was terrified. He was convinced some dangerous criminals had broken in and began shooting. And, most important, he did not know they were police officers. If he didn’t know, then he cannot be found guilty. They couldn’t be police officers, could they? Why would the cops come to his house when he’d done nothing wrong? Why would they show up at three in the morning, when everyone was sound asleep? Why didn’t they knock on the door or ring the bell? Why did they kick in the front door, and the back? Why, why, why? Policemen don’t behave in such an outrageous manner. Or do they?”

20.

The first witness is a big shot from the state police. Ruskin is his name, and he is put on the stand to begin the impossible task of justifying what the police were doing the night they raided the Renfros’ home. With Finney serving up direct questions that have been so overly rehearsed they have no spontaneity, they plow through the “insidious” rise of drug trafficking on the Internet, the “distressing” rise in the number of teenagers who buy and sell there, and so on. I’m on my feet constantly with “Your Honor, I object on the grounds of relevancy. What does this testimony have to do with Doug Renfro?”

After Judge Ponder overrules me three times, he begins to get frustrated. Finney senses this and moves on. They walk through a tedious narrative in an attempt to explain how the state police set up an Internet scam to catch drug dealers. All in all, it was fairly successful. They caught about forty people in our state. Aren’t they smart cops?

“Did you kill anybody else?” is my first question, fired from my seat as I jump into what will be a contentious cross-examination.

I ask Ruskin about the other arrests. Were SWAT teams used to serve warrants? Were there home invasions at three in the morning? Did anyone else lose a dog? Did you send in the tanks? Halfway through my cross-examination, I force him to admit what the world has known for months: They got the wrong house. His reluctance to admit it, though, damages his credibility.

In two hours I reduce Ruskin to a babbling fool, one who can’t wait to get off the witness stand.

I am often a sanctimonious asshole when my clients are dead guilty. Give me an innocent man, though, and I reek of arrogance and superiority. I realize this and struggle mightily to give the impression, to the jury anyway, that I am actually likeable. I don’t really care if they hate me, as long as they don’t hate my client. But when representing a saint like Doug Renfro, it’s imperative that I come across as zealous, but not offensive. Incredulous at the injustice, but also trustworthy.

Their next witness is Chip Sumerall, the leader of the invasion, a lieutenant on the force. He’s brought in from a witness room and sworn to tell the truth. As always, he’s wearing his uniform with as many patches and medals as possible. Full uniform and regalia and finery, but minus his service revolver and handcuffs. He’s a cocky ass with a strut, thick arms, and a crew cut. We had words during his deposition and I glare at him as if he’s already lying. Finney walks him through their narrative. They dwell on his extensive training and experience, his glorious record. They walk methodically through the time line of the Renfro episode. He passes the buck as best he can, saying more than once that he was just following orders.

I get a sense the entire courtroom is waiting for me to annihilate him on cross, and I struggle to control myself. I begin by commenting on his uniform, how nice and professional it is. How often does he wear it? What do some of the medals signify? Then I ask him to describe the uniform he was wearing the night he kicked in the door of the Renfro home. Layer by layer, article by article, weapon by weapon, from his steel-toed jackboots to his panzer-style combat helmet, we go through every bit of it. I ask him about his submachine gun, a Heckler & Koch MP5, designed for close combat and the finest in the world, he says proudly. I ask him if he used it that night and he says he did. I grill him on whether he fired the shots that killed Kitty Renfro, and he claims he doesn’t know. It was dark and things happened fast. Bullets were flying; the police were “taking fire.”

As I walk around the courtroom, I glance at Doug. His face is in his hands as he relives the nightmare. I glance at the jurors; some are in disbelief.

“You say it was dark, Officer. But you were outfitted with night-vision glasses, weren’t you?”

“Yes.” He’s been well coached and keeps his answers as short as possible.

“And these are designed to allow officers to see in the dark, right?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, then why couldn’t you see in the dark?”

The answer is obvious; he squirms a bit, but he’s a tough one. He tries to evade with “Well, again, it all happened so fast. Before I could focus, shots were fired and we just responded.”

“And you couldn’t see Kitty Renfro at the end of the hallway, thirty feet away, in her white pajamas?”

“I didn’t see her, no.”

I badger him relentlessly on what he saw or should have seen. When I’ve scored every point possible on this, I jump back to the issue of police procedure. Who authorized the SWAT mission? Who was in the room when the decision was made? Did he or anyone else have the common sense to say perhaps such a mission was not necessary? Why did you wait until three in the morning to go in, when it was dark? What led you to believe Doug Renfro was such a dangerous man? He starts to crack, to lose his cool. He looks to Finney for help but there’s nothing he can do. He glances at the jury and sees nothing but suspicion.

I grind away and expose the idiocy of their procedures. We talk about their training and their equipment. I even manage to bring the tank into the proceedings, and Judge Ponder allows me to show the jury an enlarged photo of it.

The real fun begins when I’m allowed to explore other botched raids. Sumerall has been suspended on two prior occasions for excessive force, and I walk him through those episodes. At times his face gets red. At other times he’s sweating. Finally, at 6:00 p.m., after Sumerall has spent four grueling hours on the stand, Judge Ponder asks me if I’m almost finished.

“No, sir, just getting started,” I say, real chipper, glaring at Sumerall. I’m so pumped I could go until midnight.

“Very well, then, we’ll stand in recess until nine in the morning.”

21.

At nine sharp on Friday morning, the jurors are led in and welcomed by Judge Ponder. Officer Sumerall is called and takes the stand again. Some of his cockiness is gone, but not all of it.

“Please continue your cross-examination, Mr. Rudd,” Ponder says. With the assistance of a clerk, I unfold and mount a large diagram of the Renfro home, both first and second floors. I ask Sumerall, as the leader of this team, to enlighten us about how the eight men were selected. Why were they divided into two teams, one for the front door, one for the back? What was each man’s role? What weapons did each cop have? Who made the decision not to ring the doorbell, but instead just go crashing in? How were the doors opened? Who opened them? Who were the first cops in? Who shot Spike, and why?

Sumerall cannot, or will not, answer most of my questions, and before long he’s looking like an idiot. He was the commander, and proud of it, but on the stand he’s not sure of a lot of details. I hammer him for two hours and we take a break. Over a quick coffee, Doug tells me the jurors are skeptical and suspicious; a few seemed to be seething. “We got ’em,” he says, but I caution him. Two of the jurors in particular worry me because they have ties to the police department, according to my old pal Nate Spurio. We met last night for a drink and he says the cops are leaning on numbers four and seven. I’ll deal with it later.

I resist the urge to hound Sumerall for the entire day, something I do more often than I should. There is an art to cross-examination, and quitting while you’re ahead is part of the skill. I haven’t learned it yet because my instinct is to kick a brute like Sumerall repeatedly when he’s already down.

Doug says, wisely, “I think you’ve done enough with this witness.”

He’s right, so I tell the judge I’m finished with Sumerall. The next witness is Scott Keestler, the cop who got shot, apparently by Doug Renfro. Finney takes him first on direct and tries his best to evoke some sympathy. The truth is—and I have all the medical reports—the bullet wound to his neck was only slightly more serious than superficial. In combat, he would have been given a couple of Band-Aids and sent back to the front. But the prosecution needs to score here, and Keestler sounds like he took a bullet between the eyes. They drag this out far too long, and we finally break for lunch.

When we’re back in the courtroom, Finney says, “No more questions, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Rudd.”

At full volume, I pounce on Keestler with “Officer, did you murder Kitty Renfro?”

Talk about sucking the air out of a room. Finney stumbles to his feet, objecting. Judge Ponder says, “Mr. Rudd, if you—”

“We’re talking about murder here, Judge, aren’t we? Kitty Renfro was unarmed when someone shot and killed her in her own home. That’s murder.”

Finney says loudly, “It is not. We have a statute on this point. Peace officers are not liable—”

“Maybe not liable,” I interrupt. “But it’s still murder.” I wave my arms at the jury and demand, “What else do you call it?” Three or four actually nod affirmatively.

Judge Ponder says, “Please refrain from using the word ‘murder,’ Mr. Rudd.”

I take a deep breath; so does everyone else. Keestler looks like a man facing a firing squad. I return to the podium, stare at him, and say politely, “Peace Officer Keestler, on the night of this SWAT raid, what were you wearing?”

“I’m sorry.”

“What were you wearing, please? Tell the jury everything that was on your body.”

He swallows hard, then begins clicking off the armor, weaponry, and so on. It’s a long list. “Keep going,” I say. He finishes with “Boxer shorts, T-shirt, white athletic socks.”

“Thank you. Is that all?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely certain?”

“Yes, I’m certain.”

I stare at him as though he’s a filthy liar, then I walk to the exhibit table and pick up a large color photograph of Keestler on a stretcher as he’s being rushed into the ER. His face is clearly visible. Since the photo has already been introduced into evidence, I hand it to Keestler and ask, “That you?”

He looks at it, confused, says, “That’s me.”

The judge allows me to pass the photo to the jurors. They take their time, absorb the image, then I take it back. “Now, Peace Officer Keestler, looking at you in this photograph, what is this black stuff you’re wearing on your face?”

He smiles, relieved. Aw shucks. “Oh that, that’s just black camouflage paint.”

“Also known as war paint?”

“I guess. It has several names.”

“What’s the purpose of war paint?”

“It’s for camouflage purposes.”

“So it’s pretty important, huh?”

“Sure is, yes.”

“It’s necessary to insure the safety of the men on the ground, right?”

“Absolutely.”

“How many of the eight peace officers in your SWAT team that night covered their faces with black war paint?”

“I didn’t count.”

“Did all of our peace officers wear black war paint that night?”

He knows the answer and he figures I do too. He says, “I’m really not sure.”

I walk to my table and pick up a thick deposition. I make sure he sees it. “Now, Peace Officer Keestler—”

Finney stands and says, “Now, Your Honor, I’ll object here. He keeps using the term ‘peace officer.’ I think that—”

“You used it first,” Judge Ponder fires back. “You used it first. Overruled.”

We eventually establish that four of the cops decorated themselves with black war paint, and by the time I move on Keestler looks as dumb as a teenager playing with crayons. It’s time for some real fun. I say, “Now, Peace Officer Keestler, you play a lot of video games, right?”

Finney is back on his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. Relevancy.”

“Overruled,” His Honor says harshly without even looking at the prosecutor. Judge Ponder has become increasingly, and obviously, fed up with the police and their lies and tactics. We have all the momentum—a rarity for me—and I’m not sure how to handle it. Do I speed things along and get the case to the jury while they’re on our side? Or do I plod along, scoring every possible point?

Scoring is so much fun, plus I have a hunch the jury is squarely on my side and enjoying this train wreck. “What are some of the video games you enjoy playing?”

He names a few—benign, almost kiddie-like games that make him sound like an overgrown fifth grader. He and Finney know what’s coming and they’re trying to soften the blow. In doing so, Keestler looks even worse.

“How old are you, Mr. Keestler?”

“Twenty-six,” he says with a smile, finally an honest answer.

“And you’re still playing video games?”

“Well, yes, sir.”

“In fact, you’ve spent thousands of hours playing video games, right?”

“I guess.”

“And one of your favorites is Mortal Attack Three, right?” I’m holding his deposition, a thick sworn statement in which I managed to hammer out the fact that he got hooked on video games when he was a kid and still loves them.

“I guess, yes,” he says.

I wave his deposition like it’s poison and say, “Well, haven’t you already testified, in a sworn deposition, that you’ve been playing Mortal Attack Three for the past ten years?”

“Yes, sir.”

I look at Judge Ponder and say, “Your Honor, I would like to show the jury a clip from Mortal Attack Three.”

Finney is turning flips. We’ve been arguing about this for a month, with Ponder withholding a ruling until this very moment. Finally, he says, “I’m intrigued. Let’s take a look.”

Finney tosses a legal pad on his table in total frustration. Ponder growls, “Enough of the theatrics, Mr. Finney. Take a seat!”

I rarely have the judge on my side and I’m not sure how to act.

The courtroom lights are dimmed while a screen drops from the ceiling. A tech guy has edited a five-minute clip of the video game. At my instruction, he cranks up the volume, and the jury is jolted by the sudden image of a bulky soldier kicking in a door as explosions rip through the background. An animal resembling a dog but with shining teeth and huge talons lunges forward and our hero guns him down. Villains appear in doors and windows, and they’re all blown to hell and back. Bullets, the kind you can see, blast and ricochet. Body parts are ripped off. Blood is knee-deep. People scream and shoot and die with great drama, and after two minutes we’ve seen enough.

After five minutes, the entire courtroom needs a break. The screen goes blank and the lights come on. I glare at Keestler, who’s still on the witness stand, and say, “All fun and games, right, Peace Officer Keestler?”

He does not respond. I watch him drown for a few seconds, then say, “And you also enjoy playing a game called Home Invasion, right?”

He shrugs, looks toward Finney for help, and finally grunts, “I guess.”

Finney stands and says, “Judge, is this really relevant?” The judge is leaning on his elbows and ready for more. He says, “Oh, I think this is very relevant, Mr. Finney. Let’s roll the tape.”

The lights go down, and for three minutes we watch the same mindless mayhem and gore. If I caught Starcher playing this garbage, I’d lock him away in rehab. At one point, juror number six whispers loudly, “Good God!” I watch them as they stare at the screen, thoroughly disgusted.

When the videos are over, I force Keestler to admit that he also likes a game called Crack House—Special Ops. He admits the cops have a locker room in the basement of the police department. Courtesy of the taxpayers, it is equipped with a fifty-four-inch flat-screen television, and for fun the boys gather there between SWAT maneuvers and play video game tournaments. Over Finney’s lame objections, I drag this out of Keestler, bit by bit. By now, he doesn’t want to talk about it, and this makes matters worse for him and the prosecution. When I finish with him, he is destroyed and discredited.

As I sit down, I look at the gallery. The chief of police is gone, and for good.

Judge Ponder asks, “Who’s your next witness, Mr. Finney?”

Finney has the hangdog look of a prosecutor who doesn’t want to call any more witnesses. What he does want to do is catch the next train out of town. He looks at a notepad and says, “Officer Boyd.” Boyd fired seven rounds that night. At the age of seventeen, he was convicted of a DUI but managed to get his record expunged later. Finney doesn’t know about the DUI, but I do. At the age of twenty, Boyd received a dishonorable discharge from the Army. When he was twenty-four, his girlfriend called 911 and complained of domestic abuse. Things were swept under the rug; no charges stuck. Boyd is also the veteran of two other botched SWAT raids, and he’s enthralled with the same video games that keep Keestler so occupied.

Getting Boyd on cross-examination could well be the highlight of my legal career.

Judge Ponder suddenly says, “We’re going to recess until Monday morning at nine. I want to see the lawyers in my chambers.”

22.

As soon as the door closes, Judge Ponder glares at Finney and growls, “Your case sucks. The wrong person is on trial.”

Poor Finney knows it but cannot say so. In fact, at this moment he’s unable to say anything at all. The judge hammers away. “Do you plan to put all eight of the SWAT team on the witness stand?”

“As of now, the answer is no,” Finney manages to say.

I pounce with “Great, then I’ll call them as adverse witnesses. I want all eight to face the jury.” The judge looks at me fearfully. I have the absolute right to do this and they know it. Seconds pass as they try and imagine the nightmare of the other six toy soldiers facing the jury as I pound them like a madman.

His Honor looks at Finney and asks, “Have you thought about dismissing the charges?”

Of course not. Finney may be demoralized but he’s still a prosecutor.

Normally, in a criminal trial the judge has the right to exclude the State’s evidence and direct a verdict in favor of the defendant. This rarely happens. In this case, though, the statute declares that any person who fires upon a policeman who is entering his or her home, whether the cops have the correct address or the wrong one, is guilty of the attempted murder of an officer. It’s a bad statute, poorly conceived and dreadfully written, but in Judge Ponder’s opinion it does not afford him the option of dismissing the case.

We’re headed for a final verdict.

23.

Over the weekend, one of the remaining six SWAT cops is suddenly hospitalized and cannot testify. One simply vanishes. It takes me a day and a half to annihilate the remaining four. We’re getting front-page coverage and the police department has never, ever looked so bad. I’m trying my best to savor this glorious moment because it’s unlikely to happen again.

On the last day of testimony, I meet the Renfro family for an early breakfast. The topic is whether or not Doug should testify. His three adult children—Thomas, Fiona, and Susanna—are present. They have watched the entire trial and have no doubt our jury will not convict their father, regardless of what some lousy statute says.

I explain the worst-case scenario: Finney will get under his skin on cross-examination and try to irritate him. He’ll make Doug admit that he fired five shots from his handgun and deliberately tried to kill the officers. The only way the State can win the case is for Doug to melt down on the stand, something we simply do not expect. The guy is solid, and he insists on testifying. At this point in any trial, the defendant has the right to testify, regardless of what his lawyer thinks. They press me on this. My instincts are the same as any criminal defense attorney: If the State has failed to prove its case, keep the client off the stand.

But Doug Renfro will not be denied.

24.

I begin by asking Doug about his military career. Fourteen years in uniform, proudly serving his country, without a blemish. Two tours in Vietnam, one Purple Heart, two weeks as a prisoner before being rescued. Half a dozen medals, an honorable discharge. A real soldier, not the dime-store variety.

A law-abiding citizen with only one speeding ticket on his record.

The contrasts are stark and speak for themselves.

On the night in question he and Kitty watched television until 10:00, then read for a few minutes until they turned off the lights. He kissed her good night, told her he loved her as always, and they fell asleep. They were jolted from their dreams when the assault began. The house shook, shots were fired. Doug scrambled for his pistol and told Kitty to call 911. In the frenzy that followed, he ran into the dark hallway and saw two shadows rising quickly from the stairwell. Voices were coming from downstairs. He hit the floor and began firing. He was immediately hit in the shoulder. No, he said emphatically, no one ever yelled out anything about the police. Kitty screamed and ran into the hallway and into a volley of bullets.

Doug breaks down when he describes the sounds of his wife being hit.

Half of the jurors are crying too.

25.

Finney wants no part of Doug Renfro. He attempts to prove that Doug deliberately fired upon the police, but Doug crushes him by saying over and over, “I didn’t know they were cops. I thought they were criminals breaking into my house.”

I call no other witnesses. I don’t need them.

Finney walks through a halfhearted closing argument, during which he refuses to make eye contact with any of the jurors. When it’s my turn, I recap the important facts and manage to control myself. It would be easy to flay the cops, to engage in unbridled overkill, but the jury has had enough.

Judge Ponder instructs the jurors as to the applicable law, then says it’s time for them to retire and deliberate. But no one moves. What happens next borders on historic.

Juror number six is a man named Willie Grant. Slowly, he stands and says, “Judge, I’ve been elected as the foreman of this jury, and I have a question.”

The judge, a jurist of great composure, is startled and looks wildly at Finney and me. The courtroom is again perfectly silent. Me, I’m not breathing. His Honor says, “Well, I’m not sure at this point. I have instructed the jury to retire and begin deliberations.” The jurors have not moved.

Mr. Grant says, “We don’t need to deliberate, Your Honor. We know what we’re going to do.”

“But I have repeatedly warned you against discussing the case,” Ponder says sternly.

Unfazed, Mr. Grant replies, “We haven’t discussed the case, but we have a verdict. There’s nothing to discuss or deliberate. My question is, why is Mr. Renfro on trial and not the cops who killed his wife?”

There is an instant wave of gasping and chattering throughout the courtroom. Judge Ponder attempts to regain control by clearing his throat loudly and asking, “Is your verdict unanimous?”

“Damned right it is. We find Mr. Renfro not guilty, and we think these cops should be charged with murder.”

“I’m going to ask the jurors to raise your hands if you agree with the not-guilty verdict.”

Twelve hands shoot into the air.

I put my arm around Doug Renfro as he breaks down again.