The defendants file a motion with Judge Samson and ask him to, in effect, put a muzzle on “all lawyers involved in the civil lawsuit.” Judge Samson denies the motion without even the benefit of a hearing. Right now, the attorneys for the City are terrified of the judge and running for cover. I’m firing as many bullets as possible.

I practice alone, without a real office and certainly without a real staff. It’s extremely difficult for a lone gunman like me to engage in high-powered civil and criminal litigation without some support, which is where the two Harrys come in. Harry Gross and Harry Skulnick run a fifteen-lawyer shop in a converted warehouse downtown by the river. They do mostly appellate work and try to avoid jury trials, and thus spend their hours buried in books and pushing legal pads and briefs around their desks. Our arrangement is simple: They do my research and paperwork, and I give them one-third of the fees. This allows them to play it safe, to keep some distance from me, my clients, and the people I tend to irritate. They will prepare a stack of motions an inch thick, hand it to me for my review and signature, and nothing can be traced back to them. They toil away behind locked doors and never worry about the police. In the case of Sonny Werth—the client who woke up with the tank roaring into his den—the City settled for a million bucks. My cut was 25 percent. The two Harrys got a nice check and everybody was happy, except for Sonny.

In this state, all damages in civil cases are capped at $1 million. This is because the wise people who make the laws in our state legislature decided ten years ago that their judgment was far superior to that of the actual jurors who hear the evidence and evaluate the damages. They, the lawmakers, were hoodwinked by the insurance companies who are still funding the national tort reform movement, a political crusade that has been wildly successful. Virtually every state has fallen in line with caps on damages and other laws designed to keep folks away from the courthouse. So far, no one has seen a decline in insurance rates. An investigative report by my pal at the Chronicle revealed that 90 percent of our legislators took campaign money from the insurance industry. And this is considered a democracy.

Every street lawyer in this state can tell you a horror story of a badly maimed and permanently injured client who, after medical expenses, got almost nothing.

Not long after slamming the courthouse doors, these same wise and courageous legislators passed another law that prohibits homeowners from firing upon cops who invade their homes, regardless of whether the cops have the right home or not. So when Doug Renfro hit the floor and began firing his pistol, he was violating the law, with no real defense.

What about the real criminals? Well, our legislators passed yet another law that grants criminal immunity to SWAT teams who get a bit carried away and shoot the wrong person. In the Renfro disaster, four cops fired at least thirty-eight rounds. It’s not clear who actually shot Doug and his wife, and it doesn’t matter. They are all immune from criminal prosecution.

I spend hours with Doug trying to explain these legal principles, none of which make sense. He wants to know why his wife’s life is worth only $1 million. I explain that his state senator voted for this cap on damages—and that he also takes money from insurance lobbyists—so perhaps Doug should contact this elected official and bitch about the way he votes.

Doug asks, “Then why did we sue for $50 million when the most we can get is only $1 million?” Another question with a long answer. First, it’s called making a statement. We’re angry and fighting back, and suing for $50 million sounds much more aggressive than a mere $1 million. Second, a quirk in this already screwed-up law prohibits the jurors from knowing about the $1 million cap. They can sit through a month of testimony, evaluate the evidence, deliberate thoughtfully, and return a proper verdict of, say, $5 to $10 million. Then they go home, and the next day the judge quietly reduces the verdict down to the cap. The newspaper might trumpet another big verdict, but the lawyers and judges (and insurance companies) know the truth.

It makes no sense, but bear in mind this law was written by the same conspirators who insert endless gibberish into your insurance policies.

Doug asks, “But how can a cop kick in my door and shoot me with immunity, but if I return fire I’m a criminal looking at twenty years?” The simple answer is because they are cops. The complicated answer is that our lawmakers often pass laws that are not fair.

My client is still in mourning, but some of the shock and grief are beginning to subside. His thinking is getting clearer; reality is setting in. His wife is gone, murdered by men who will not be held accountable. Her life is worth only $1 million. And he, Mr. Doug Renfro, is in the midst of a criminal prosecution that will one day drag him into a courtroom where his only hope will be a hung jury.

The road to justice is filled with barriers and land mines, most of them created by men and women who claim to be seeking justice.

10.

My little cage fighter, Tadeo Zapate, has won his last four fights, all by brutal knockouts. That’s eleven in a row, with only three career losses, all on points. He’s now thirty-second in the world bantamweight rankings and moving up nicely. UFC promoters are taking notice. There’s talk of a fight in Vegas in six months, if he keeps winning. Oscar, his trainer, and Norberto, his manager, tell me they can’t keep the kid out of the gym. He is focused, hungry, almost manic in his quest for a title fight. They work him hard and are convinced he can be a top-five contender.

Tonight he fights a tough black kid with the stage name of Crush. I’ve seen Crush fight twice and he doesn’t worry me. He’s just a brawler, a street fighter with limited training in mixed martial arts. In both fights he got knocked out late in the third round because of fatigue. He starts with a bang, cannot pace himself, and pays for it at the end.

I wake up with a bad case of butterflies, thinking of nothing but the fight, and cannot eat breakfast. I’m puttering around the apartment late in the afternoon when Judith calls my cell. There’s an emergency—her college roommate has been seriously injured in an auto accident in Chicago. Judith is racing to the airport. Ava, her partner, is out of town, so it’s up to me to man up and be a father. I bite my tongue and do not tell her that I have plans. It’s fight night!

We meet at the park and she delivers our son, his duffel bag, and a barrage of warnings and instructions. Normally, I’d snap back and we’d argue, but Starcher seems to be in good spirits and eager to get away from her. I’ve never met her college roommate, so I don’t inquire. She storms off, jumps in her car, and disappears. Over pizza, I ask Starcher if he’s ever seen a cage fight on television. Of course not! His mothers monitor everything he reads, watches, eats, drinks, and thinks.

Last month, though, he spent the night with a friend, Tony, who has a big brother named Zack, and late that night Zack pulled out a laptop and they watched all manner of evil, including an Ultimate Fight.

I ask, “How was it?”

“Pretty cool,” he says with a grin. “You’re not mad?”

“Of course not. I love those fights.”

I go on to explain how our night will go. The kid’s face lights up like I’ve never seen. I make him swear that he will not, under any circumstances, tell his mothers about going to the fights. I explain that I have no choice; that I have to be there as part of a team; and that under normal circumstances he would not be invited. “Let me handle your mother,” I say, without much confidence, but then I realize he will be grilled mercilessly about the evening.