I say, “I figure we’ll do lunch. Then there’s a soccer game at the university this afternoon.”

She thinks a soccer game is safe enough. She says, “I’d like to have him back tonight, if that’s okay.”

“I get thirty-six hours once a month and that’s too much?”

“No, Sebastian, it’s not too much. I’m just worried, that’s all.”

Our fighting days are almost over, I hope. Take two lawyers with sharp elbows and even sharper tongues, give them an unwanted pregnancy, a nasty divorce with brutal aftershocks, and you have two people who can inflict serious damage. We’re still scarred, so we don’t fight, much.

“Fine,” I say, in full retreat. Truthfully, there’s nothing appealing about my apartment and Starcher doesn’t really like staying there, not yet anyway. He’s too short to shoot pool on my vintage table and I don’t own any video games. Maybe when he’s older.

He is being raised by two women who freak out if another kid shoves him at school. I’m not sure I can toughen him up by popping into his life once a month, but I’m trying. Down the road, I suspect he’ll get tired of living with a couple of edgy, intense women and want more time with his old man. My challenge is to remain relevant enough in his life to offer him that option.

“What time shall we meet?” she asks.

“Whenever.”

“I’ll meet you here at 6:00 p.m.,” she says as she gets to her feet and walks away. Starcher, his back to us, soars through the air and does not see her leave. It does not escape me that Judith did not bother to bring an overnight bag for the kid. She had no intention of allowing him to sleep at my place.

I live on the twenty-fifth floor because I feel safer there. I routinely get death threats for a variety of reasons, and I’ve been honest with Judith about this. She is not wrong for wanting the kid at home, where things are probably calmer. Probably, but I don’t know for sure. Just last month Starcher told me his “two mothers” yell at each other all the time.

For lunch we go to my favorite pizza parlor, a place his mothers would never take him. The truth is I don’t care what he eats. In many ways I’m more like a grandparent who spoils the kids before sending them back home. If he wants Ben & Jerry’s before and after lunch, so be it.

As we eat, he comes to life while I quiz him about school. He’s in the second grade in a public school not far from where I grew up. Judith insisted he attend some crunchy little granola academy where all plastic is forbidden and all the teachers wear thick wool socks and old sandals. At $40,000 a year I said hell no. She ran back to court, and for once the judge sided with me. So Starcher is in a normal school with kids of all colors and a seriously cute teacher, recently divorced.

As I’ve said, Starcher was a mistake. Judith and I were in the process of ending our chaotic relationship when she somehow got pregnant. The split grew even more complicated. I moved out and she assumed total possession of him. I was stiff-armed at every point, though, to be honest, I have never clamored to be a father. He’s all hers, at least in her opinion, so it’s becoming hilarious to watch him grow into a little boy who looks exactly like me. My mother found my second-grade school photo. At seven, we could pass for identical twins.

We talk about fighting, the school-yard variety. I ask him if he sees fights during recess, and he says, “Occasionally.” He tells me the story of the day when kids began yelling, “Fight! Fight!” and everyone ran over to watch. Two third graders, one black and one white, were on the ground kicking and squirming, biting and clawing and swapping punches while the crowd yelled encouragement.

“Was it fun to watch?” I ask.

He smiles and says, “Sure. It was cool.”

“What happened?”

“The teachers came and got them and took them into the office. I think they got in trouble.”

“I’m sure they did. Has your mother ever talked to you about fighting?”

He shakes his head. No.

“Okay. Here are the rules. Fighting is bad and will only get you in trouble, so don’t fight. Never start a fight. But, if someone else hits you, or pushes you, or trips you, or if two guys jump on a friend of yours, then sometimes you have to fight. Never back down when the other guy starts a fight. And when you fight, never, never, never give up.”

“Did you get into fights?”

“All the time. I was never a bully and I never started a fight. And I didn’t like to fight, but if the other guy pushed me around, then I hit him back.”

“Did you get in trouble?”

“I did. I took my punishment.”

“What does that mean?”

“Means the teacher yelled at me and my mother yelled at me and maybe they kicked me out of school for half a day or something like that. Again, bud, fighting is wrong.”

“Why do you always call me bud?”

Because I loathe the name your mother chose for you. “Just a nickname, that’s all.”

“Mom says you don’t like my name.”

“Not true, bud.” Judith will always be at war over the soul of her son. She cannot rise above the temptation of the silliest cheap shot. Why on earth would one parent tell a seven-year-old that the other parent doesn’t like his name? I’m sure I’d be shocked at the other crap she’s told him.

Partner has the day off, so I drive my van to the soccer stadium on campus. Starcher thinks the van is cool, with its sofa, swivel chairs, small desk, and television. He’s not sure why I use it as an office, and I have not gone into details about the bulletproof windows and automatic pistol in the console.

It’s a women’s soccer game, not that it matters to me. I don’t follow the sport, so if I’m forced to watch it I’d rather see girls in shorts than guys with hairy legs. Starcher, though, loves the excitement. His mothers do not believe in team sports, so he’s just been signed up for tennis lessons. Nothing wrong with tennis, but if he gets my moves he won’t last long. I always liked to hit. In youth basketball I was the kid with four fouls by halftime. Always more fouls than points. In Pop Warner football I played linebacker because I loved the contact.

After an hour someone finally scores, but by then I’m thinking about the Renfro case and any interest I had in the game is gone. Starcher and I share a popcorn and talk about this and that. The truth is, I’m so far detached from his little world that I can’t sustain a decent conversation.

I’m such a pathetic father.

9.

Sanity slowly arrives in the Renfro disaster. Under pressure from all sides, but especially from my pal at the Chronicle, the City flounders with its response. The chief of police has gone mum, claiming he can’t comment because of pending litigation. The mayor is running for cover, obviously trying to create some distance. Hot on his ass are his enemies, some city councilmen who enjoy the grandstanding and would like to have his job. They are in a minority, though, because no one really wants trouble with the police department.

Sadly, dissent nowadays is considered unpatriotic, and in our post-9/11 atmosphere any criticism of those in uniform, any uniform, is stifled. Being labeled soft on crime or soft on terror is a politician’s curse.

I’m feeding everything to my pal at the newspaper. Citing unnamed sources, he’s having a ball hammering away at the cops and their tactics, screwups, and attempts to cover up. Using materials from my files, he runs a lengthy piece about the history of botched invasions and excessive force.

I’m getting as much press as I can possibly generate. I cannot lie and say I don’t love this; indeed, I live for it.