“Who prepared the affidavit?” I ask.

No response.

I say, “Look, the language used here definitely came from a lawyer. No layperson speaks like this. Did your office prepare it, Huver?”

Huver, trying to remain cool but now far beyond desperate, says something that not even Kaufman can believe: “Judge, we can continue with Trots while Mr. Rudd sits over in the jail.”

I burst out laughing as Kaufman looks like he’s been slapped.

“Oh, go right ahead,” I say, taunting. “You’ve managed to botch this case from the first day, just go ahead and award Gardy with a reversal.”

Kaufman says, “No. Mr. Trots has said nothing so far and it would be wise if that boy just continues sitting there with that stupid look on his face.” While this is funny, I look hard at His Honor and then hard at the court reporter, who’s capturing it all.

“Strike that,” Kaufman barks at her as he catches himself. What a moron. A trial often resembles a bad circus as various acts spin out of control. What began as a fun-and-games attempt to humiliate me now looks like a terrible idea, at least for them.

I don’t want Huver coming up with any good ideas—not that I have much to worry about—and so to keep him off balance I throw some gas on the fire by saying, “Of all the stupid things you’ve said so far in this trial, that has got to be the winner. Bennie Trots. What a joke. You would want him in the first chair.”

“What’s your position, Mr. Rudd?” Kaufman demands.

“I’m not walking back into that courtroom until we have a hearing on improper contact with juror number eight, the lovely Mrs. Glynna Roston. If I’m really in contempt, then throw me in jail. Right now I’d rather have a mistrial than a triple orgasm.”

“No need to be crude, Mr. Rudd.”

Huver begins fidgeting and stammering. “Well, uh, Judge, uh, I suppose we could deal with the improper contact and the contempt later, you know, after the trial or something. Me, I’d just rather get on with the testimony. This, uh, just seems so unnecessary at this point.”

“Then why’d you start it, Huver?” I say. “Why did you clowns get all excited about improper contact when you knew damned well this Wilfang woman is lying?”

“Don’t call me a clown,” Judge Kaufman sneers.

“Sorry, Judge, I wasn’t referring to you. I was referring to all the clowns in the prosecutor’s office, including the district attorney himself.”

“If we could elevate the level of discourse here,” Kaufman says.

“My apologies,” I say, about as sarcastically as humanly possible.

Huver retreats to the window, where he stares onto the rows of shabby buildings that comprise the Main Street of Milo. Kaufman retreats to a bookcase behind his desk where he stares at books he’s never touched. The air is strained and tense. A weighty decision must be made, and quickly, and if His Honor gets it wrong the aftershocks will ripple for years.

He finally turns around and says, “I guess we’d better question juror number eight, but we’re not doing it out there. We’ll conduct the inquiry here.”

What follows is one of those episodes in a trial that frustrate litigants, jurors, and observers. We spend the rest of the day in Judge Kaufman’s less than spacious chambers haggling and often yelling over the ins and outs of my improper contact with a juror. Glynna Roston is dragged in, put under oath, and is almost too terrified to speak. She begins lying immediately when she says she has not discussed this case with her family. On cross-examination, I attack with a vengeance that seems to astonish even Kaufman and Huver. She leaves the room sobbing. Next, they drag in her daffy daughter, Ms. Marlo Wilfang, who repeats her little narrative under the clumsy questioning of Dan Huver, who’s really off his game now. When she’s handed over to me, I sweetly walk her down the golden path, then slice her throat from ear to ear. Within ten minutes, she’s crying, gasping for breath, and wishing a thousand times she’d never called my name at the arena. It becomes painfully obvious she’s lying in her affidavit. Even Judge Kaufman asks her, “In a crowd of five thousand people, how did Mr. Rudd find you if he’s never met you before?”

Thank you, Judge. That would be the great question.

As her story goes, she came home from the fights late on Friday. When she finally woke up on Saturday, she called her mother, who immediately called Mr. Dan Huver, who knew exactly what to do. They met in his office on Sunday afternoon, worked out the language for the affidavit, and, presto! Huver was in business.

I call Huver as a witness. He objects. We argue, but Kaufman has no choice. I question Huver for an hour, and two bobcats trapped in the same burlap sack would be much more civilized. One of his assistants wrote every word of the affidavit. One of his secretaries typed it. Another secretary notarized it.

He then questions me and the squabbling continues. Throughout this tedious ordeal, the jurors wait in the deliberation room, no doubt briefed by Glynna Roston and no doubt blaming me for another frustrating delay in the trial. As if I care. I keep reminding Kaufman and Huver that they are playing with a cobra here. If Glynna Roston stays on the jury, I’m guaranteed a reversal. I’m not sure of this—on appeal nothing is guaranteed—but I gradually see them wither under the strain and doubt their own judgment. I repeatedly move for a mistrial. The motions are repeatedly denied. I don’t care. It’s in the record. Late in the afternoon, Kaufman decides to excuse Mrs. Roston and replace her with Ms. Mazy, one of our blue-ribbon alternates.

Ms. Mazy is no replacement to get excited about; in fact, she’s no better than the last old gal who occupied her chair. No one in Milo would be better. You could select twelve from a pool of a thousand and every jury would look and vote the same. So why did I burn so much clock today? To hold them accountable. To scare the hell out of them with the scenario that they—prosecutor and judge, duly elected by the locals—could screw up the most sensational case this backwater hick town has ever seen. To collect ammunition for the appeal. And, to make them respect me.

I demand that Marlo Wilfang be prosecuted for perjury, but the prosecutor is tired. I demand she be held in contempt. Instead, Judge Kaufman reminds me that I’m in contempt. He sends for a bailiff, one with handcuffs.

I say, “I’m sorry, Judge, but I’ve forgotten why you found me in contempt. It was so long ago.”

“Because you refused to continue the trial this morning, and because we’ve wasted an entire day back here fighting over a juror. Plus, you insulted me.”

There are so many ways to respond to this nonsense, but I decide to let it pass. Tossing me in jail over a contempt charge will only complicate matters for them, for the authorities, and it will give me even more ammo for Gardy’s appeal. A large deputy comes in and Kaufman says, “Take him to jail.”

Huver is at the window, his back to it all.

I don’t want to go to jail, but I can’t wait to get out of this room. It’s beginning to reek of stale body odor. The handcuffs are locked around my wrists, hands in front, not back, and as I’m led away I look at Kaufman and say, “I’m assuming I will be allowed to continue as lead counsel in the morning.”

“You will.”

To frighten them even more, I add, “The last time I was tossed in jail in the middle of a trial the conviction was reversed by the state supreme court. Nine to zero. You clowns should read your cases.”

Another large deputy joins our little parade. They take me through the back doors and down the rear hallway I use every day. For some reason we pause on a landing as the deputies mumble into their radios. When we finally step outside, I get the impression that word was leaked. A cheer goes up by my haters when they see me frog-marched out, handcuffed. For no apparent reason, the cops stall as they try to decide which patrol car to use. I stand by one, exposed, smiling at my little mob. I see Partner and yell that I’ll call him later. He is stunned and confused. For sport, they shove me into the same backseat with Gardy; lawyer and client, off to jail. As we pull away, with lights and sirens fully engaged to give this miserable town as much drama as possible, Gardy looks at me and says, “Where you been all day?”