Somewhat nervously, we wait a few moments as they try and revive him. The crowd wants a stretcher, a casualty, something to talk about at work, but the Jackal eventually comes to life and starts talking. He sits up, and we relax. Or try to. It’s not easy staying calm in the aftermath of such furious action, when you have something at stake, and when five thousand maniacs are stomping their feet.

The Jackal gets to his feet and the maniacs boo.

Tadeo walks over to him, says something nice, and they make peace.

As we leave the cage, I follow Tadeo and smile as he slaps hands with his fans and soaks up another win. He made a couple of boneheaded moves that would get him killed against a ranked opponent, but all in all it was another promising fight. I try and savor the moment and think about the future and the potential earnings, maybe some sponsorships. He’s the fourth fighter I’ve invested in and the first one who’s paying off.

Just before we leave the floor and enter the tunnel, a female voice yells, “Mr. Rudd! Mr. Rudd!”

It takes a second or two for this to register because no one in this crowd should possibly recognize me. I’m wearing an official Team Zapate trucker-style rap cap, a hideous yellow jacket, and different eyeglasses, and my long hair is tucked away. But by the time I pause and look, she’s reaching for me. A heavyset woman of twenty-five with purple hair, piercings, enormous boobs exploding from just under a skintight T-shirt, pretty much the typical classy gal at the cage fights. I give her a curious look and she again says, “Mr. Rudd. Aren’t you Mr. Rudd, the lawyer?”

I nod. She takes a step even closer and says, “My mother is on the jury.”

“What jury?” I ask, suddenly panicked. There’s only one jury at the moment.

“We’re from Milo. The Gardy Baker trial. My mom’s on the jury.”

I jerk my head to the left, as if to say, “That way.” Seconds later we’re off the floor and walking side by side along a narrow corridor as the walls shake around us. “What’s her name?” I ask, watching everyone who passes.

“Glynna Roston, juror number eight.”

“Okay.” I know every juror’s name, age, race, job, education, family, residence, marital history, prior jury service, and criminal record, if any. I helped select them. Some I wanted, most I did not. I have been sitting in a packed courtroom with them five days a week for the past two weeks, and I’m really getting tired of them. I think I know their politics, religions, biases, and feelings about criminal justice. Because I know so damn much, I’ve been convinced since they were seated that Gardy Baker is headed for death row.

“What’s Glynna thinking these days?” I ask cautiously. She could be wearing a mike. Nothing surprises me.

“She thinks they’re all a bunch of liars.” We’re still walking, slowly, going nowhere, each afraid to look the other in the eyes. I am stunned to hear this. Reading her body language and knowing her background, I would bet the farm that Glynna Roston would be the first to yell “Guilty!”

I look behind us to make sure there’s no witness, then say, “Well, she’s a smart woman because they are lying. They have no proof.”

“Do you want me to tell her that?”

“I don’t care what you tell her,” I say, looking around as we stop and wait for one of the heavyweights to pass with his entourage. I have $2,000 on the guy. I’m up $6,000 for the night and I’m feeling pretty good. And to top it off, I’m hearing the shocking news that not all of my Gardy Baker jurors are brain-dead.

I ask, “Is she alone, or does she have buddies?”

“She says they’re not discussing the case.”

I want to laugh at this. If she’s not discussing the case, then how does this cutie know how her mother’s leaning? At this precise moment, I am violating the rules of ethics and perhaps a criminal statute as well. This is unauthorized contact with a juror, and though it’s not clear-cut, and not instigated by me, there’s no doubt it would be interpreted badly by the state bar association. And Judge Kaufman would blow a gasket.

“Tell her to stick to her guns because they’ve got the wrong guy,” I say, and walk away. I don’t know what she wants and there is nothing I can give her. I guess I could take ten minutes and point out the glaring deficiencies in the State’s evidence, but that would require her to absorb it all correctly and then give an accurate report to her mother. Fat chance. This gal is here for the fights.

I take the nearest stairway to a lower level, and as soon as I’m safely away from her, I duck into a restroom and replay what she said. I still can’t believe it. That jury, along with the rest of the town, convicted my client the day he was arrested. Her mother, Glynna Roston, gives every indication of being the model Milo citizen—uneducated, narrow-minded, and determined to be a heroine for her community in its time of need. Monday morning will be interesting. At some point, after we resume testimony, I’ll get the chance to glance into the jury box. So far Glynna has not been afraid to return my looks. Her eyes will reveal something, though I’m not sure what.

I shake it off and return to reality. The heavyweight fight lasts for a full forty seconds with my favorite still standing. I can’t wait to reconvene with my little gang. We meet in the same dark room with the door locked, and the trash talk is brutal. All six of us pull cash from our pockets. Frankie has the notes and keeps it all straight. For the evening, I’ve netted $8,000 from my wagers, though $2,000 of this will go to Tadeo for his impromptu bonus. I’ll get it back from his cut of the purse. That will go on the books for IRS purposes; this cash will not.

Tadeo earns $8,000 for his efforts, a great night that will allow him to add another gang member to his entourage. He’ll pay some bills, keep the family afloat, save nothing. I’ve tried to offer financial advice, but it’s a waste of time.

I stop by the locker room, hand over the $2,000, tell him I love him, and leave the arena. Partner and I go to a quiet bar and have some drinks. It takes a couple to settle me down. When you’re that close to the action, and you’ve got your own hitter in the ring two seconds away from a concussion or a broken bone, and five thousand idiots are screaming into your ears, your heart races wildly as your stomach flips and your nerves tingle. There’s a flood of adrenaline like nothing I’ve ever felt.

8.

Jack Peeley is a former boyfriend of the mother of the two Fentress girls. Their father was long gone when they were murdered, and their mother’s apartment was a revolving door for local tomcats and slimeballs. Peeley lasted about a year and got the boot when she met a used-tractor dealer with a little cash and a house without wheels. She moved up and Peeley moved out, with a broken heart. He was the last person seen near the girls when they disappeared. Early on, I asked the police why they did not treat him as a suspect, or at least investigate him, and their lame response was that they already had their man. Gardy was in custody and confessing right and left.

I strongly suspect Jack Peeley killed the girls in some sick act of revenge. And, if the cops had not stumbled onto Gardy, they might have eventually questioned Peeley. Gardy, though, with his frightening appearance, satanic leanings, and history of sexual perversion, became the clear favorite and Milo has never looked back.

According to the Bishop, who is relying on his low-life sources, Peeley hangs out almost every Saturday night at a joint called the Blue & White. It’s about a mile east of Milo and was originally a truck stop. Now it’s just a redneck dive with cheap beer, pool tables, and live music on the weekends.