On Saturday night, we ease into the gravel parking lot at around ten, and the place is packed, wall-to-wall pickups. We have our own, a rented Dodge club cab with Ram power and big tires, perhaps a bit too shiny for this joint but then it belongs to Hertz, not me. Behind the wheel, Partner is pretending to be a redneck but is a pathetic excuse for one. He’s ditched his daily black garb and is wearing jeans and a Cowboys T-shirt, but it’s not working.

“Let’s do it,” I say from the front passenger’s seat. Tadeo and Miguel jump from the rear seat and casually walk through the front door. They’re met just inside by a bouncer who wants ten bucks each for the cover. He looks them over and does not approve. They are, after all, darker-skinned Hispanics. But at least they’re not black. According to the Bishop, the Blue & White will tolerate a few Mexicans but a black face would start a riot. Not that there’s anything to worry about. Such a cracker dive has zero appeal to any sensible black guy.

But a riot is what they’ll get anyway. Tadeo and Miguel order a beer at the crowded bar and do a passable job blending in. They get some stares but nothing bad. If these fat, drunk rednecks only knew. Tadeo could take out any five with his bare hands in less than a minute. Miguel, his brother and sparring partner, could take out four. After fifteen minutes of surveying the crowd and getting the layout, Tadeo flags a bartender over and says in unaccented English, “Say, I need to get some money to a guy named Jack Peeley, but I’m not sure I can recognize him.”

The bartender, a busy man, nods to a row of booths near the pool table and says, “Third booth, the guy with the black cap on.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

They order another beer and kill some time. In Peeley’s booth there are two women and one other man. The table is covered with empty beer bottles, and all four are chomping away on roasted peanuts. Part of the ambience of the Blue & White is that you toss your empty shells onto the floor. At the far end a band cranks up and a dozen folks ease that way for a dance. Evidently, Peeley is not a dancer. Tadeo sends me a text: “JP spotted. Waiting.”

They kill some more time. Partner and I sit and watch and wait, nervous as hell. Who can predict the outcome of a brawl in a roomful of drunken idiots, half of whom carry NRA membership cards?

Peeley and his buddy head to a pool table and get ready for a game. Their women stay in the booth, eating peanuts, swilling beer. “Here we go,” Tadeo says and drifts away from the bar. He walks between two pool tables, times it perfectly, and bumps hard into Peeley, who’s minding his own business and chalking up his cue. “What the hell!” Peeley yells angrily, hot-faced and ready to kick a wetback’s ass. Before he can swing his cue, Tadeo hits him with three punches that no one can possibly see. Left-right-left, each landing on an eyebrow, where the cuts are always easier, each drawing blood. Peeley goes down hard and it will be a while before he wakes up. The women scream and there’s the usual rumble of activity and loud voices as a melee unfolds. Peeley’s friend is slow to react but finally pulls back his stick to take off Tadeo’s head. Miguel, though, intervenes and lands a hard fist at the base of his skull. Peeley’s friend joins Peeley on the floor. Tadeo pounds Peeley’s face a few more times for good measure, then ducks low and darts into the men’s restroom. A beer bottle cracks and splashes just above his head. Miguel is right behind him, angry voices calling after them. They lock the door, then scramble through a window. They’re back in the pickup seconds later, and we casually drive away.

“Got it,” Tadeo says eagerly from the backseat. He thrusts his right hand forward and it is indeed covered with blood. Peeley’s blood. We stop at a burger place, and I carefully scrape it clean.

It’s midnight before we make it back to the City.

9.

The monster who killed the Fentress girls bound their ankles and wrists together with their shoelaces, then threw them in a pond. During Jenna’s autopsy, a single strand of long black hair was found wrapped up in the laces around her ankles. Both she and Raley had light blond hair. At the time, Gardy had long black hair—though the color changed monthly—and not surprisingly the State’s hair analysis expert testified that there was a “match.” For over a century, true experts have known that hair analysis is wildly inaccurate. It is still used by authorities, even the FBI, when there’s no better proof and the suspect has to be nailed. I begged Judge Kaufman to order DNA testing with a sample of Gardy’s current hair, but he refused. Said it was too expensive. We’re talking about a man’s life.

When I was finally allowed to view the State’s evidence, of which there was virtually none, I managed to steal about three-quarters of an inch of the black hair. No one missed it.

Early Monday morning, I ship by overnight parcel the hair and the sample of Jack Peeley’s blood to a DNA lab in California. It will cost me $6,000 for a rush job. I’ll bet the ranch I find the real killer.

10.

Partner and I speed away to Milo for another grueling week of lies. I’m eager to get my first glance at Glynna Roston, juror number eight, and see if there are any telltale signs of backdoor communications. Typically, though, things do not go as planned.

The courtroom is once again packed and I marvel at the crowd. For the eleventh court day in a row, Julie Fentress, the mother of the twins, sits on the front bench, directly behind the prosecutor’s table. She’s with her support group and they glare at me as if I killed the girls myself.

When Trots finally arrives and opens his briefcase and goes through the motions of pretending to be of some value, I lean down and tell him, “Watch juror number eight, Glynna Roston, but don’t get caught.” Trots will get caught because Trots is a blockhead. He should be able to covertly glance at the jurors and gauge their reactions, study their body language, see if they’re awake or interested or pissed, do all the things you learn to do in a trial when you’re curious about your jury, but Trots checked out weeks ago.

Gardy is in relatively good spirits. He’s told me he enjoys the trial because it gets him out of his cell. They keep him locked down in solitary, usually with the lights off because they know he killed the Fentress twins and the harsh punishment should start now. My spirits are better because Gardy took a shower over the weekend.

We kill some time waiting for Judge Kaufman. Huver, the prosecutor, is not at his table at 9:15. His gang of Hitler Youth assistants have deeper frowns than usual. Something is going on. A bailiff appears and whispers to me, “Judge Kaufman wants to see you in chambers.” This happens almost every day, it seems. We run back to chambers to fistfight over something we want to keep away from the public. But why bother? After two weeks, I know that if Huver wants the crowd to see or hear something, it’s going to happen.

I walk into an ambush. The court reporter is there, ready to capture it all. Judge Kaufman is pacing, in his shirt and tie, robe and coat hanging on the door. Huver stands smug and grim-faced by a window. The bailiff shuts the door behind me and Kaufman throws some papers on the table. “Read this!” he growls.