I doubt I’ve heard the last of him.

19.

After dark, Partner and I drive to the jail to deliver the great news to Tadeo. He is being offered the deal of all deals—a light sentence, an easier prison, a guarantee of early parole for good behavior. With some luck, he’ll be back in the ring in two years, his career bolstered by the ex-con aura and that famous YouTube video. I have to admit I’m getting excited thinking about his comeback.

With great satisfaction, I lay it all on the table. Or most of it. I spare him the details of the Swanger adventure, and instead place emphasis on my prowess as a negotiator and much-feared trial lawyer.

Tadeo is not impressed. He says no. No!

I attempt to explain that he cannot simply say no. He’s facing a decade or more in a tough prison, and now I’m delivering a deal so fantastic that the presiding judge can’t believe it. Wake up, man! No.

I am stunned, incredulous.

He sits with his arms crossed over his chest, such an arrogant little punk, and says no over and over. No deal. He will not plead guilty under any circumstances. He has seen his jurors, and, after a few doubts, he is once again confident they will not convict him. He will insist on taking the stand and telling his side of the story. He is cocky, hardheaded, and irritated by my desire to see him plead guilty. I keep my cool and go back to the basics—the charges, the evidence, the video, the shakiness of our expert testimony, the composition of the jury, the bloodbath that awaits him on cross-examination, the likelihood of ten or more years in prison, everything. Nothing registers. He’s an innocent man who sort of accidentally killed a referee with nothing but his hands, and he can explain it all to the jury. He’ll walk out a free man, and when he does, well, then it’ll be payback time. He’ll find a new manager and a new lawyer. He accuses me of being disloyal. This makes me angry and I tell him he’s being stupid. I ask him whom he’s listening to back there in the cell block. Things go from bad to worse, and after an hour I storm out of the room.

I thought I might sleep tonight, but it looks like I’ll go through the usual pretrial insomnia.

20.

At 5:00 on Thursday morning, I’m drinking strong coffee and reading the Chronicle online. It’s all about the rescue of Jiliana Kemp. The largest photo on page one is just what I envisioned: Mayor Woody at the podium in all his glory, with Roy Kemp beside him, a wall of blue behind them. Jiliana is not in the photo, though there is a slightly smaller one of her getting off the jet at the airport. Baseball cap, big sunglasses, collar turned up, you can’t tell much but she looks reasonably good. She is resting at home with her family and friends, it says. The sex-trafficking story runs for pages, and the FBI operation is obviously still in progress. Arrests are being made across the country. So far, about twenty-five girls have been rescued. There was a shooting in Denver but no serious injuries.

Thankfully, there’s not a word about Jiliana’s heroin addiction, or about the lost baby. One nightmare is over; others continue. I suppose I should take some measure of quiet satisfaction in having had a hand in this, but I don’t. I bartered information to benefit a client. That’s all. Now that client has gone stupid and I get nothing out of the deal.

I wait until 7:00 a.m. to send a text message to both Max Mancini and Judge Fabineau. It reads, “After extensive discussions, my client refuses to accept the plea agreement now being offered by the prosecution. I have strongly advised him to accept it, to no avail. It appears as though the trial must go on, pending the health of the judge. Sorry. SR.”

Mancini responds, “Let’s tee it up. See u soon.” He, of course, is thrilled because he’s back on center stage. Evidently, Judge Fabineau has made a quick recovery. She texts, “Ok, the show must go on. We’ll meet in chambers at 8:30. I’ll inform my bailiff.”

21.

The players assemble in the courtroom as if nothing happened yesterday, or at least nothing that would in any way affect the trial. A few of us know—me, the prosecutor, the judge, Partner—but no one else knows, nor should they. I whisper to Tadeo. He has not changed his mind; he can win this trial.

We retire to the judge’s chambers for our early morning update. To cover my ass, I inform her and Max that I want to put my client on the record, so there will be no doubt in the years to come about his refusal to take a plea. A bailiff brings him in, no cuffs, no restraints. He’s smiling and being very polite. He’s put under oath and says he has a clear mind and knows what’s going on. Fabineau asks Mancini to recite the terms of the plea agreement: five years for a guilty plea to manslaughter. Her Honor says that she cannot promise any particular prison facility, but is of the opinion that Mr. Zapate would do quite well just down the road at the county penal farm. Only six miles away; his mother can visit frequently. Furthermore, she does not control parole, but as the sentencing judge she has the authority to recommend an early release.

Does he understand all of this? He says he does, and goes on to say that he ain’t pleading guilty to anything.

I state that I have advised him to take the deal. He says yes, he understands my advice, but he’s not taking it. We go off the record and the court reporter shuts down. Judge Fabineau folds her fingers together like a veteran kindergarten teacher, and in a painfully deliberate manner tells Tadeo that she has never seen such a good deal for any defendant charged with the death of another person. In other words, boy, you’re a fool to refuse this deal.

He doesn’t budge.

Next, Max explains that he, as a career prosecutor, has never offered a plea deal as lenient as this one. It’s extraordinary, really. Eighteen months or so in the pen, full access to the weight room, and there are excellent facilities at the penal farm, and you’ll be back in the cage before you know it.

Tadeo just shakes his head.

22.

The jurors file in and glance around expectantly, nervously. There is an air of excitement in the courtroom as this drama is about to unfold, but I feel nothing but the usual thick knot in my stomach. The first day is always the hardest. As the hours pass, we’ll settle into a routine and the butterflies will slowly dissipate. At the moment, though, I’d like to go vomit. An old trial lawyer once told me that if the day came when I walked into a courtroom and faced a jury without fear, then it was time to quit.

Max rises purposefully and walks to a spot in front of the jury box. He offers his standard welcoming smile and says good morning. Sorry about the delay yesterday. Again, his name is Max Mancini, chief prosecutor for the City.

This is a grave matter because it involves the loss of life. Sean King was a fine man with a loving family, a hardworking guy trying to earn a few bucks on the side as a referee. There is no dispute as to the cause of death, or who killed him. The defendant, sitting right over there, will try and confuse you, try and convince you that the law makes exceptions for people who temporarily, or permanently, lose their minds.