I’m not about to try. I lift my bound hands and say, “Fighting with the judge. Guess who won?”

“How can they throw a lawyer in jail?”

“The judge can do whatever he wants.”

“You getting the death penalty too?”

I chuckle for the first time in many hours. “No, not yet anyway.”

Gardy is amused by this unexpected change in routine. He says, “You’re gonna love the food there.”

“I’ll bet.” The two deputies in the front seat are listening so hard they’re barely breathing.

“You ever been in jail before?” my client asks.

“Oh yes, several times. I have a knack for pissing off judges.”

“How’d you piss off Judge Kaufman?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Well, we got all night, don’t we?”

I suppose we do, though I doubt they’ll throw me in the same cell with my dear client. Minutes later we stop in front of a 1950s-style flat-roofed building with several additions stuck to its sides like malignant tumors. I’ve been here a few times to meet with Gardy and it’s a miserable place. We park; they yank us out of the car and jostle us inside a cramped open room where some cops lounge around pushing paper and acting like badasses. Gardy disappears into the rear, and when an unseen door opens I can hear prisoners yelling in the background.

“Judge Kaufman said I can make two phone calls,” I snap at the jailer as he moves toward me. He stops, uncertain as to what exactly a jailer is supposed to do when confronting an angry lawyer sent over for contempt. He backs away.

I call Judith, and after barking at her receptionist, then her secretary, then her paralegal, I get her on the phone, explain I’m in jail again and need help. She curses, reminds me of how busy she is, then says all right. I call Partner and give him the update.

They hand me an orange jumpsuit with “Milo City Jail” stenciled across the back. I change in a filthy bathroom, carefully arranging my shirt, tie, and suit on one hanger. I hand it to the jailer and say, “Please don’t wrinkle this. I have to wear it tomorrow.”

“You want it pressed?” he says, then roars with laughter. The others break down too at this real knee-slapper, and I smile like a good sport. When the laughing is over I say, “So what’s for dinner?”

The jailer says, “It’s Monday, Spam day. Always Spam on Monday.”

“Can’t wait.” My cell is a ten-by-ten concrete bunker that reeks of stale urine and body odor. On the bunk beds are two young black men, one reading, the other napping. There is no third bed, so I’ll sleep in a plastic chair stained with dark brown splotches. My two new cellies do not appear the least bit friendly. I don’t want to fight, but getting beat up in jail, in the middle of a capital murder defense, would cause an automatic mistrial. I’ll ponder it.

Because she’s done this before, Judith knows exactly what to do. At 5:00 p.m., she files a petition for habeas corpus in federal court in the City, with an urgent demand for an immediate hearing. I love federal court, most of the time.

She also sends a copy of her petition to my favorite reporter at the newspaper. I’ll make as much noise as possible. Kaufman and Huver have blundered badly, and they’ll pay for it. The reader on the bottom bunk decides he wants to talk, so I explain why I’m here. He thinks it’s funny, a lawyer in jail for pissing off the judge. The napper on the top bunk rolls over and joins the fun. Before long, I’m giving legal advice, and these guys need as much as I can dish out.

An hour later, a jailer fetches me with the news that I have a visitor. I follow him through a maze of narrow hallways and find myself in a cramped room with a Breathalyzer. This is where they bring the drunk drivers. The Bishop stands and we shake hands. We’ve spoken on the phone but never met. I thank him for coming but caution him about doing so. He says screw it—he’s not afraid of the locals. Plus, he knows how to lie low and stay under the radar. He also knows the police chief, the cops, the judge—the usual small-town crap. He says he’s tried to call Huver and Kaufman to tell them they’ve made a big mistake, but he can’t get through. He’s leaning on the police chief to put me in a better cell. The more we talk, the more I like the guy. He’s a street fighter, a worn-out, frazzled old goat who’s been knocking heads with the cops for decades. He hasn’t made a dime and doesn’t care. I wonder if I’ll be him in twenty years.

“How about the DNA tests?” he asks.

“The lab will get the samples tomorrow and they’ve promised a quick turnaround.”

“And if it’s Peeley?”

“All hell breaks loose.” This guy is on my side, but I don’t know him. We chat for ten minutes and he says good-bye.

When I return to my cell, my two new friends have spread the word that there’s a criminal lawyer in here with them. Before long, I’m yelling advice up and down the block.

11.

Common sense is not always my strong suit, but I decide not to start a fight with Fonzo and Frog, my two new partners in crime. Instead I sit in my chair all night and try to nap. It doesn’t work. I said no to the Spam for dinner and no to the putrid eggs and cold toast for breakfast. Thankfully, no one mentions a shower. They bring me my suit, shirt, tie, shoes, and socks, and I dress quickly. I say good-bye to my cellies, both of whom will be behind bars for several years, regardless of the brilliant advice I dispensed for hours.

Gardy and I are given separate rides back to the courthouse. A larger crowd of enemies jeer at me as I’m sort of dragged out of the car, still in handcuffs. Once I’m inside and away from any photographers, they remove the handcuffs. Partner is waiting in the hallway. I made the morning edition of the Chronicle, the City’s daily. Metro section, third page. No big deal—Rudd is thrown in jail again.

As instructed, I follow a bailiff back into the chambers of Judge Kaufman, who’s waiting with Huver. Both wear smirks and are curious to see how I survived the night. I do not mention the jail, do not acknowledge the fact that I’ve not slept, eaten, or showered in a long time. I’m in one piece, raring to go, and this seems to irritate them. It’s all fun and games, with Gardy’s life on the line.

Seconds after I step into chambers, another bailiff rushes in and says, “Sorry, Judge, but there’s a U.S. marshal out here says you gotta be in federal court in the City at eleven this morning. You too, Mr. Huver.”

“What the hell?” Kaufman says.

Oh so helpfully, I explain, “It’s a habeas corpus hearing, Judge. My lawyers filed it yesterday afternoon. An emergency hearing to get me out of jail. You guys started this crap, now I have to finish it.”

“Does he have a subpoena?” Huver asks. The bailiff hands over some paperwork and Huver and Kaufman scan it quickly.

“It’s not a subpoena,” Kaufman says. “It’s sort of a notice from Judge Samson. Thought he was dead. He has no right to notify me to be present for a hearing of any kind.”

“He’s been off his rocker for twenty years,” Huver says, somewhat relieved. “I ain’t going. We’re in the middle of a trial here.”

He’s not wrong about Judge Samson. If the lawyers could vote for the craziest federal judge in the land, Arnie Samson would win in a landslide. But he’s my crazy friend, and he’s freed me from jail before.

Kaufman says to the bailiff, “Tell the marshal to get lost. If he starts trouble, tell the sheriff to arrest him. That’ll really piss him off, won’t it? The sheriff arresting a marshal. Ha. Bet that’s never happened before. Anyway, we’re not leaving. We have a trial to resume here.”

“Why’d you run to federal court?” Huver asks me in all seriousness.