“Good morning, Judge,” I say, as smart-ass as possible. “Huver.”

They do not respond. It’s a two-page affidavit in which the deponent, or in this case the liar, claims she bumped into me the previous Friday night at the MMA fights in the City, and that I discussed the case with her and told her to tell her mother, a juror, that the State had no evidence and all their witnesses were lying. She signed it Marlo Wilfang before a notary public.

“Any truth to it, Mr. Rudd?” Kaufman growls, really steamed up.

“Oh, a little, I suppose.”

“You wanna tell your side of the story?” he asks, obviously not ready to believe a word I say. Huver mumbles loud enough to be heard, “Clear case of jury tampering.”

To which I snap, “You wanna hear my side first or you wanna string me up without all the facts, same as Gardy?”

Judge Kaufman says, “That’s enough. Knock it off, Mr. Huver.”

I tell my version, accurately, perfectly, without a single word of embellishment. I make the point that I’ve never met this woman, wouldn’t know her from Eve—how could I?—and that she deliberately sought me out, initiated the contact, then couldn’t wait to hustle back home to Milo and try to insert herself into this trial.

Often it takes a village to properly convict a killer.

Almost yelling, I say, “She says here I initiated contact? How? I don’t know this woman. She knows me because she’s been in the courtroom, watching the trial. She can recognize me. How am I supposed to recognize her? Does this make any sense?”

It doesn’t, of course, but Huver and Kaufman won’t budge. They are convinced they have me nailed. Their hatred of me and my client is so intense they can’t see the obvious.

I hammer away: “She’s lying, okay? She deliberately planned all of this. She bumped into me, had a conversation, then prepared this affidavit, probably in your office, Huver, and she is lying. That’s perjury and contempt of court. Do something, Judge.”

“I don’t need you to tell me—”

“Oh, come on. Get up off your ass and do the right thing for a change.”

“Listen, Mr. Rudd,” he says, red-faced and ready to take a swing at me. I want a mistrial at this point. I want to provoke these two into doing something really stupid.

Loudly, I say, “I want a hearing. Keep the jury out, call this fine young lady to the witness stand, and let me cross-examine her. She wants to get involved in this trial, bring her on. Her mother is obviously biased and unstable and I want her off the jury.”

“What did you say to her?” Kaufman asked.

“I just told you, word for word. I told her the same thing I would say to any other person on the face of this earth—your case is built on nothing but a bunch of lying witnesses and you have no credible proof. Period.”

“You’ve lost your mind,” Huver says.

“I want a hearing,” I practically yell. “I want this woman off the jury and I will not proceed with the trial until she’s gone.”

“Are you threatening me?” Kaufman asks as things spin rapidly out of control.

“No, sir. I am promising you. I will not continue.”

“Then I’ll hold you in contempt and throw you in jail.”

“I’ve been there before. Do it, and we’ll have ourselves a mistrial. We can come back in six months and have this party all over again.”

They don’t know for sure that I’ve been in jail, but at this moment they figure I’m not lying. A fringe lawyer like me is constantly flirting with ethical boundaries. Jail time is a badge of honor. If I’m forced to anger a judge, or humiliate him, so be it.

We go silent for a few minutes. The court reporter stares at her feet, and if given the chance she would sprint from the room, knocking over chairs in the process. At this point, Huver is terrified of a reversal, of having his great conviction frowned upon by an appellate court that sends it back for another trial. He doesn’t want to relive this ordeal. What he wants is that glorious date in the future when he drives, probably with a reporter in the car with him, to a prison called Big Wheeler, where the State keeps its death house. He’ll be treated like royalty because he will be the Man—the gunslinger who solved the hideous crime and secured the guilty verdict that sent Gardy Baker to his execution, thus allowing Milo to have its closure. He’ll be given a front-row seat behind a curtain that will be dramatically pulled aside to reveal Gardy lying on a gurney with tubes in his arms. Afterward, he, Huver, will find the time to chat somberly with the press and describe the burdens his office places upon him. He has yet to witness an execution, and in this death-happy state that’s worse than being a thirty-year-old virgin. State v. Gardy Baker is Dan Huver’s finest hour. It will make his career. He’ll get to speak at those all-important prosecutors’ conferences held in cheap casinos. He’ll get reelected.

At the moment, though, he’s sweating because he has overplayed his hand.

They were convinced they had me by the balls. What foolishness. Nailing me with some bogus improper contact charge will not help their case and cause at this point. It’s overkill, and it’s not unusual. They have Gardy all but convicted and sentenced to die, and for fun they thought it would be cute to take a bite out of me.

“Smells like improper contact to me, Judge,” Huver says, trying to be dramatic.

“It would,” I say.

“Let’s deal with it later,” Kaufman says. “The jury is waiting.”

I say, “I guess you guys are deaf. I’m not proceeding until I get a hearing. I insist on getting this into the record.”

Kaufman looks at Huver and both seem to lose air. They know I’m crazy enough to go on strike, refuse to participate in the trial, and when that happens they are staring at a mistrial. The judge glares at me and says, “I hold you in contempt.”

“Put me in jail,” I say, mocking, taunting. The court reporter is getting every word. “Put me in jail.”

But he can’t do it right now. He has to make a decision, and a wrong one could jeopardize everything. If I go to jail over this, the entire trial is hijacked and there’s really no way to save it. Somewhere down the road, an appellate court, most likely a federal one, will review Kaufman’s exact movements right here and call a foul. Gardy has to have a lawyer, a real one, and they simply cannot proceed with me in jail. They’ve handed me a gift.

A few seconds pass and tempers cool. Helpfully, almost sweetly, I say, “Look, Judge, you can’t deny me a hearing on this. To do so is to hand me some heavy ammo for the appeal.”

“What kind of hearing?” he says, cracking.

“I want this woman, this Marlo Wilfang, on the witness stand in a closed hearing. You guys are hell-bent on nailing me with improper contact, so let’s get to the bottom of it. I have the right to defend myself. Send the jury home for the day and let’s have us a brawl.”

“I’m not sending the jury home,” he says as he falls into his chair, defeated.

“Fine. Keep ’em locked up all day. I don’t care. This gal has lied to you, and in doing so she’s stuck her nose into the middle of this trial. There’s no way her mother can stay on the jury. It’s grounds for a mistrial now, and it’s damned sure grounds for a reversal five years from now. Pick your poison.”

They are listening because they are suddenly frightened and woefully inexperienced. I’ve gotten the mistrials. I’ve gotten the reversals. I’ve been here many times, in the center of the arena where death is on the line and one mistake can ruin a case. They are novices. Kaufman has presided over two capital murder trials in the seven years he’s been on the bench. Huver has sent only one man to death row, an embarrassment for any prosecutor around here. Two years ago he bungled a death case so badly the judge (not Kaufman) was forced to declare a mistrial. The charges were later dismissed. They are in over their heads and they have just blundered badly.