1.

Jury selection in the trial of Tadeo Zapate begins on Monday. It will be a circus because the press is giddy with anticipation and the courthouse is buzzing. The YouTube video of Tadeo laying waste to the referee Sean King has over sixty million hits. Our fearless Action News! heroes show it repeatedly during the evening and morning broadcasts. Same video, same drivel, same grim shaking of heads as if it just can’t be believed. It seems as though everyone has an opinion and few of them favor my client. On three occasions I have asked the court for a change of venue, and all three requests have been quickly rejected. Two hundred prospective jurors have been summoned for Monday, and it will be fascinating to see how many claim to have no knowledge of the case.

Right now, though, it’s Friday, around midnight, and I’m lying naked under the sheets with Ms. Naomi Tarrant close by. She is sleeping, purring in long deep breaths, dead to the world. Our second session began around ten, after pizza and beer, and though it lasted for less than half an hour it was nonetheless thrilling and utterly exhausting. We both admit that we’ve been a bit on the inactive side, and we’re having a grand time catching up. I have no idea where this nascent relationship might be headed, and I’m always overcautious—a result no doubt of the permanent damage inflicted by Judith—but as of right now I adore this girl and would like to see her as often as possible, naked or otherwise.

I wish I could sleep like that. She’s in a coma and I’m lying here wide awake, not aroused—that would be normal—but thinking of so many things other than sex. The trial Monday; Swanger and his tale about the Kemp girl; the bloody bodies of Tubby and Razor, rolled up in old cheap carpet and dumped in the landfill, probably by Miguel Zapate and his gang of drug dealers. I think of Detective Reardon and almost shudder at the idea that he and others in the police department suspect, either slightly or strongly, that I had something to do with the murders of Link’s thugs. I wonder if Link has decided to leave me alone, now that I can snap my fingers and get people whacked.

So many thoughts, so many problems. I’m tempted to ease out of bed and go find some booze, then I remember that Naomi doesn’t keep the stuff in her apartment. She’s a light drinker and a healthy eater, and she does yoga four days a week to keep things superbly toned. I don’t want to wake her, so I lie still and stare at her back, at the smooth perfect skin that rises and falls over her shoulder blades and lifts again to form the cutest bottom I’ve ever seen. She’s thirty-three years old, recently divorced from a creep she wasted seven years with, childless and seemingly unconcerned by it. She doesn’t talk much about her past but I know she has suffered greatly. Her first love was her college boyfriend who was killed by a drunk driver a month before their wedding date. With moist eyes, she told me she could never love another man that much.

I’m not really looking for love.

I cannot shake the thoughts of Jiliana Kemp. She is or was a beautiful girl, like my companion here, and there is a good chance that she is alive and living a life that is indescribable. Arch Swanger is a psychopath, and probably a sociopath, and he would rather lie than tell the truth about anything. But he wasn’t lying about young Heather Farris, late of the village of Lamont, Missouri, a twenty-year-old dropout who was working the graveyard shift at a convenience store when she vanished with no clues. They’re still combing the woods and bringing in bloodhounds and offering rewards but nothing has worked so far. How did Swanger know about her? It’s possible he caught an early news report, but that’s not likely. I went online immediately, found her story, and began following it in the Columbia newspaper. Lamont is over five hundred miles away from here, and, sadly, she’s just another missing girl from a small town. Heather has not made the national news.

What if Swanger is telling the truth? That Jiliana Kemp and Heather Farris are two girls out of a dozen who’ve been kidnapped by a sex-trafficking ring and forced to strip, screw, and breed while they live on heroin? The fact that I know this, or at least suspect it, makes me feel like an accomplice. I am not Swanger’s lawyer and I made that very clear. Indeed, I felt a real rush of adrenaline when I gripped my Glock and thought about putting him out of his misery. There are no ethical constraints binding me to silence and confidentiality with this scumbag. And even if there were, I would be inclined to ignore them if doing so might save some girls.

I stopped worrying about ethics a long time ago. In my world, my enemies are ruthless. If I make nice, I get crushed.

It is now 1:00 a.m. and I’m even wider awake. Naomi rolls over and flings a leg in my direction. I gently stroke her thigh—how can flesh be so smooth—and she whimpers as if somewhere in her deep sleep she likes the touching. I manage to get still and close my eyes.

My last thought is of Jiliana Kemp, living in our generation’s version of slavery.

2.

Partner and I spend most of Saturday in the basement of the law offices of Harry & Harry, poring over juror questionnaires and ponderous reports put together by Cliff, a jury consultant, who, so far, has billed me $30,000. The tally for Tadeo’s defense is just under $70,000, all from my pocket of course, and it will continue to climb. He and I have not discussed the payment of fees because it’s a waste of time. He’s broke, and Miguel and the rest of the drug gang have little interest in my compensation. They figure I made enough money from Tadeo’s brief career. I assume they also think that in the rules of the streets the removal of Tubby and Razor is worth a bundle. Tit for tat. We’re all even.

Cliff is of the opinion that the defense of Tadeo Zapate has quite a mountain to climb. He and his firm have done their usual work of (1) polling a thousand registered voters in this metropolitan area and asking hypothetical questions; (2) hurriedly researching the backgrounds of all two hundred prospective jurors; and (3) reviewing every news report that mentions the ugly incident in which Sean King was beaten. From the poll, an astonishing 31 percent of those questioned know a little or a lot about the case, and the vast majority of these favor conviction. Eighteen percent have seen the video. In the garden-variety murder case, regardless of how sensational, finding 10 percent who are aware of it is unusual.

Unlike most consultants, Cliff is known for his bluntness. That’s why I use him. His bottom line: “Chances of an acquittal are slim. Chances of a conviction are high. Cut a deal; negotiate a plea bargain. Run for the hills.”

When I first read his report, I called him immediately and said, “Come on, Cliff, I’m paying you all this money and your best advice is to run for the hills?”

He’s a real smart-ass and his reply was “No, actually, I’d sprint for the hills. Your client is toast and the jury will throw the book at him.”

Cliff will be in the courtroom Monday watching and taking notes. As much as I love the cameras and the attention, I’m not looking forward to it.

3.

At 4:00 p.m., Partner and I climb into my sparkling-new customized Ford cargo van, complete with all the usual finery I need for such a splendid mobile office, and head for the university. At Partner’s suggestion, I agreed to tone it down, to move away from conspicuous black to more of a soft bronze exterior color. Painted on both sides, in small block letters, are the words “Smith Contractors,” another nice touch Partner really wanted. He’s convinced that we will now blend in with the world and be harder to spot by the police, Link, my own clients, and all the other bad guys, real and potential, lurking out there.