A little Thai guy in a suit eases over and with a big smile asks, “Everything okay here?”

“Yes, she’s just leaving,” I say. I look at Judith. “Please. We’re trying to order.”

“See you in court,” she hisses and turns on her heels. I watch her leave and she does not take any food with her. The little Thai guy slides away, still smiling. We drain our drinks and eventually look at the menus.

After a few minutes, I say, “Our secret is safe. She won’t say anything to the school because she knows I’ll call Ava.”

“You’d really do that?”

“In the blink of an eye. This is a war, Naomi, and there are no rules, no thoughts of fighting fair.”

“Do you want custody of Starcher?”

“No. I’m not a good enough father. But I do want to remain relevant in his life. Who knows? One day he and I might be friends.”

We spend the night at her place and sleep late Saturday morning. We’re both exhausted. We awake to the sounds of heavy rain and decide to fix omelets and eat in bed.

29.

The last witness for the defense is the defendant himself. Before he is called on Monday morning, I hand the judge and the prosecutor a letter I’ve written to Tadeo Zapate. Its purpose is to inform him in writing that he is testifying against the advice of his attorney. I grilled him for two hours the day before, and he thinks he’s ready.

He swears to tell the truth, smiles nervously at the jury, and immediately learns the frightful lesson that the view from the witness stand is quite intimidating. Everyone is gawking and waiting to hear what he might possibly say in his defense. A court reporter will record every word. The judge is scowling down, as if she’s ready for a quick reprimand. The prosecutor is eager to pounce. His mother far away in the back row looks terribly worried. He takes a deep breath.

I walk him through his background—family, education, employment, lack of criminal record, boxing career, and his success in mixed martial arts. The jury, along with everyone else in the courtroom, is sick of the video, so I won’t show it. Sticking to our script, we talk about the fight and he does an adequate job of describing what it was like getting hit so many times. He and I know that Crush did not land many serious blows, but no one on the jury understands this. He tells the jury he doesn’t remember the end of the fight, but can recollect a fuzzy image of his opponent raising his arms in a victory that he didn’t deserve. Yes, he snapped, though he can’t really recall everything. He was overwhelmed by a sense of injustice. His career was gone, stolen. He vaguely remembers the referee raising Crush’s arm, then everything went black. The next thing he remembered, he was in the dressing room, and two cops were watching him. He asked the cops who won the fight, and one of them said, “Which fight?” They put handcuffs on him and explained he was under arrest for aggravated assault. He was baffled by this, couldn’t believe what was happening. At the jail, another cop told him Sean King was in critical condition. He, Tadeo, began crying.

Even today, he still can’t believe it. His voice cracks a bit and he wipes something from his left eye. He’s not a very good actor.

As I sit down, Mancini bounces to his feet and calls out the first question: “So, Mr. Zapate, how many times have you gone insane?” It’s a brilliant opening, a great line delivered with just enough sarcasm.

He proceeds to make a fool out of Tadeo. When was the first time you went insane? How long did it last? Anybody get hurt the first time? Do you always black out when you go insane? Have you seen a doctor for your insanity? No! Why not! Since you attacked Sean King, have you been evaluated by a doctor, one not connected to this trial? Does insanity run in your family?

After thirty minutes of this assault, the word “insanity” means nothing. It’s a joke.

Tadeo works hard to stay cool, but he can’t help himself. Mancini is practically laughing at him. The jurors seem amused.

Max asks about his record as an amateur boxer. Twenty-four wins, seven losses. Max says, “Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but five years ago when you were seventeen and fighting in the Golden Gloves district tournament, you lost a split decision to a man named Corliss Beane. That right?”

“Yes.”

“Very tough fight, right?”

“Yes.”

“Were you upset by the decision?”

“I didn’t like it, thought it was wrong, thought I won the fight.”

“Did you go insane?”

“No.”

“Did you black out?”

“No.”

“Did you in any way voice your frustration with the decision?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, do you remember it or did you lose your memory again?”

“I remember it.”

“While you were still in the ring, did you hit anybody?”

Tadeo shoots me a guilty look that betrays him, but says, “No.”

Mancini takes a deep breath, shakes his head as if he hates to do what he’s about to do, and says, “Your Honor, I have another bit of video that I think might help us here. It’s the end of the fight five years ago with Corliss Beane.”

I stand and say, “Your Honor, I know nothing about this. It was not disclosed to me.”

Max is ready because he’s been planning this ambush for weeks. He says, with great confidence, “Your Honor, it wasn’t disclosed because that was not required. The State is not offering the video as proof of this defendant’s guilt; therefore, under our Rule 92F, there’s no disclosure. Rather, the State is offering the video to challenge the credibility of this witness.”

“Could I at least see it first before the jury sees it?” I ask, slowly.

“That sounds reasonable,” Go Slow responds. “Let’s take a fifteen-minute recess.”

In chambers, we watch the video: Tadeo and Corliss Beane in the center of the ring with the ref, who raises Beane’s right hand in victory; Tadeo yanks away from the ref, walks to his corner, yelling something in an angry fit; he stomps around the ring, becoming more unhinged with each second; he walks to the ropes, screams at the judges, and inadvertently bumps into Corliss Beane, who’s minding his own business and savoring the win; others are in the ring and someone starts pushing; the ref steps between the two fighters and Tadeo shoves him; the ref, a big guy, shoves back; for a second it looks as though the ring is on the verge of chaos, but someone grabs Tadeo and pulls him away, kicking and screaming.

Again, the camera doesn’t lie. Tadeo looks like a sore loser, a hothead, a brat, a dangerous man who doesn’t care if he starts a brawl.

Go Slow says, “Looks relevant to me.”

30.

I watch the jurors as they watch the video. Several shake their heads. When it’s over, the lights come up, and Max gleefully returns to the mock-insanity crap and hammers away. Tadeo’s credibility is thoroughly trashed. I cannot resurrect him on redirect.

The defense rests. Mancini calls his first rebuttal witness, a shrink named Wafer. He works for the state mental health department and has credentials that cannot be questioned. He went to colleges in this state and has our accent. He is not the brilliant expert from afar like Taslman, but he’s quite effective. He’s watched the videos, all of them, and he’s spent six hours with the defendant, more time than Taslman.

I haggle with Wafer until noon but score little. As we are breaking for lunch, Mancini grabs me and asks, “Can I talk to your client?”