“Then I won’t sign the agreement until they are terminated. Why wait? What is so difficult about getting rid of these guys? Hell, the whole city wants them canned.”

“So do we,” the mayor says. “Believe me, we want them out of the picture. Just trust us on this, Rudd.”

I roll my eyes at the word “trust.” I pick up the agreement and read it slowly. A phone buzzes on the mayor’s imposing desk but he ignores it. When I finish reading, I drop it on the table and say, “Not one word of apology. My client’s wife is murdered, he gets shot, then he gets dragged through a criminal trial, faces prison, goes through hell and back, and not one word of apology. No deal.”

Woody utters a bitter “Shit!” and jumps to his feet. Moss rubs his eyes as if he might start crying. Seconds pass, then a full minute, with nothing said. Finally, I glare at the mayor and say, “Why can’t you man up and do what’s right? Why can’t you call one of your press conferences, just like you do for every other minor crisis, and start with an apology to the Renfro family? Announce a settlement in the civil case. Explain that after a thorough investigation it’s now clear that the SWAT team disregarded all rules of procedure and safety and that the eight cops are being terminated, immediately. And their boss goes with them.”

“I don’t really need your advice when it comes to doing my job,” Woody says, but it’s a lame response.

“Maybe you do,” I say. I’m tempted to storm out again, but I don’t want to lose the money.

“Okay, okay,” Moss says. “We’ll redraft it and throw in some language addressing the family.”

“Thank you,” I say. “I’ll be back tomorrow, after the press conference.”

15.

I meet Doug Renfro for lunch in a coffee shop near his home. I explain the settlement, and he is thrilled to be getting two million. My contracted fee is 25 percent, but I’ll cut it to only 10 percent. He is surprised by this and, at first, wants to argue. I’d like to give him all the money, but I do have some overhead. After I split with Harry & Harry, I’ll net around $120,000, which is low for the time I’ve spent on the case, but still a decent fee.

As he takes a sip of coffee, his hand starts shaking and his eyes suddenly water. He sets the cup down and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I just want Kitty,” he says, lips quivering.

“I’m sorry, Doug,” I say. What else?

“Why did they do it? Why? It was so senseless. Kicking in the doors, guns blazing like idiots, the wrong house. Why, Sebastian?”

All I can do is shake my head.

“I’m outta here, I’ll tell you that right now. Gone. I hate this city and the clowns who run it, and I gotta tell you, Sebastian, with these eight cops now out of work and pissed off and looking for trouble, I don’t feel safe. You shouldn’t either, you know?”

“I know, Doug. Believe me, I think about it all the time. But then, I’ve pissed them off before. I’m not one of their favorites.”

“You’re a helluva lawyer, Sebastian. I had my doubts at first. The way you came on so strong while I was still in the hospital. I kept thinking, ‘Who is this guy?’ I had other lawyers try and hustle the case, you know? Some real clowns poking around the hospital. But I ran them off. Glad I did. You were great at trial, Sebastian. Magnificent.”

“Okay, okay. Thanks, Doug, but that’s enough.”

“Fifteen percent, okay? I want you to take 15 percent. Please.”

“If you insist.”

“I do. My house sold yesterday, nice profit. We’ll close in two weeks. I think I’m going to Spain.”

“Last week it was New Zealand.”

“It’s a big world. I might go everywhere, live on a train for a year or so. See it all. Just wish Kitty could be with me. That girl loved to travel.”

“We should get the money soon. I’ll see you in a few days and divvy it up.”

16.

I watch the press conference in my apartment. At some point in the last few hours, Mayor Woody has made the calculated decision that groveling might get him more votes than stonewalling. He stands behind a podium, and for the first time in recent history there is no one behind him. Not a soul. He’s all alone: no city councilman hamming it up for the cameras; no wall of thick-necked uniformed officers; no grim-faced lawyer frowning as if in hemorrhoidal agony.

He explains to the small group of reporters that the City has settled its legal claims with the Renfro family. There will be no civil trial; the nightmare is over. Terms confidential, of course. His deepest apologies to the family for what happened. Mistakes were made, obviously (though none by him), and he has made the decision to act decisively and bring this tragedy to a close. The chief of police is fired, as of now. He is ultimately responsible for the actions of his officers. All eight members of the SWAT team are also terminated. Their actions cannot be tolerated. Procedures will be reviewed. And so on.

He wraps it up nicely with another apology, and at times looks and sounds as though he’s ready to cry. Not a bad acting job for Woody and it might even win him some votes. But any fool can read the polls.

Gutsy move, Woody.

Now, as if my life is not already complicated enough, there are eight more ex-cops loose on the streets mumbling my name and looking for some type of revenge.

The money arrives soon enough and Doug and I do our business. The last time I see him he’s getting into a taxi headed for the airport. He said he’s still not sure where he’s going, but he’ll figure it out when he gets there. He said he might stare at the departure board and throw a dart.

I’m hit with a twinge of envy.

17.

Tadeo insists that I stop by the jail for a visit at least once a week, and I really don’t mind. Most visits include a conversation relating to his upcoming trial and others that have nothing to do with anything but surviving in jail. There is no gym or place to exercise—he’ll have those in prison but we don’t talk about this—and he is frustrated in his efforts to stay in shape. He’s doing a thousand sit-ups and push-ups each day and looks fit to me. The food is terrible and he says he’s losing weight, which of course leads to a discussion about his preferred fighting weight once he gets out. The longer he stays in jail and the more free legal advice he gets from his cell mates back there, the more delusional he becomes. He’s convinced he can charm a jury, blame it all on a quick bout of insanity, and walk. I explain, again, that the trial will be hard to win because the jury will see the video at least five times.

He’s also begun to doubt my belief in him, and on two occasions he’s mentioned the involvement of another lawyer. This won’t happen because he’ll have to pay a fat fee to someone else, but it’s still irritating. He’s beginning to act like a lot of criminal defendants, especially those from the street. He doesn’t trust the system, including me because I’m white and part of the power structure. He’s convinced he’s innocent and wrongly locked up. He knows he can sway a jury if given the chance. And I, as his lawyer, need only to work a few tricks in the courtroom and, just like on television, he’ll be a free man. I don’t argue with him but I do try and keep things realistic.