He says, “Let’s do it again.”

Minutes later, we enter my apartment and take a deep breath. I get drinks—beers for Partner and me and a soda for Starcher—and we turn on the local news. The story is still unfolding and the reporters are frantic. The kid is excited and talks enough to let me know he’s not traumatized. I try in vain to explain what happened.

Partner sleeps on the sofa. I wake him at 4:00 a.m. to talk strategy. He leaves for the city jail, to try and find Tadeo, and for the hospital, to dig for information about the referee. I can’t shake the image of Tadeo pounding the guy’s face. He was knocked cold from the first punch and there were dozens afterward, all delivered by a man completely out of his mind. I try not to think about what’s next for my fighter.

I grind beans, and while the coffee is brewing I go online to check the news. Fortunately, no one has died yet, but at least twenty people are in the hospital. Rescue personnel are still on the scene. And the blame is being heaped upon one Tadeo Zapate, age twenty-two, an up-and-coming cage fighter who’s now locked away in the city jail.

Judith calls at 6:30 to check on her son. She’s hours away and knows nothing about the riot we survived. I ask about her college roommate. She is surviving but things look bad. Judith will be home tomorrow, Sunday, and I assure her the kid will be just fine. All is well.

With some luck, she’ll never know.

Luck, though, is not going my way. A few minutes after our brief chat, I check the Chronicle online. The late edition managed to catch the breaking story down at the old auditorium, and on the front page is a rather large color photo of two people racing toward an exit. One is Partner, and he’s holding a kid. Starcher seems to be staring at the photographer, as if posing for the shot. Their names are not given; there was no time to ask. But to those who know him, his identity is indisputable.

How long before one of Judith’s friends sees the photo and gives her a call? How long before she opens her laptop and sees for herself? While I wait, I turn on the television and go to SportsCenter. The story is irresistible because it’s all right there, on video, blow by blow by blow. I get sick watching it again and again.

Partner calls from the hospital with the news that the referee, a guy named Sean King, is still in surgery. It’s no surprise that Partner is not the only person sniffing around the corridors waiting for any bit of news. He’s heard of “massive head wounds,” but has no details. He’s already been to the jail, where a contact confirmed that Mr. Zapate is safely locked away and not receiving visitors.

At 8:00 a.m., our blundering chief of police decides the world should hear from him. He arranges a press conference, one of those little muscle pageants in which a thick wall of uniformed white men line up behind the chief and scowl at the reporters while acting as though they really don’t want to be seen. For thirty minutes the chief talks and answers questions and reveals not a single fact that wasn’t posted online two hours earlier. He’s obviously enjoying the moment because nothing can be blamed on him or his men. Just as I’m getting bored, Judith calls.

The conversation is predictable—tense, bitchy, and accusatory. She’s seen the front-page photo of her son escaping the melee and she wants answers, and now, dammit. I assure her our son is sleeping soundly and probably dreaming of a fine day with his father. She says she’s catching an early flight and will be in the City by 5:00 p.m., which is the precise moment I’m supposed to meet her in the park and hand him over. She’ll file papers first thing Monday morning to terminate all visitation rights. File away, I say, because it won’t work. No judge in town will totally exclude me from seeing my son once a month. And, who knows, maybe the judge we draw is a fan of cage fighting. She curses and I curse back and we finally get off the phone.

Looks like we’ve just begun to fight.

11.

The Sunday papers rage against cage fighting, with knee-jerk condemnations coming from all directions. The Internet burns with the story. A YouTube video of the attack on the referee has four million hits before noon, and Tadeo has instantly become the most famous cage fighter in the world, though he will never fight again. Slowly, the wounded are released from hospitals, and, fortunately, there were no serious injuries to the fans. Just a bunch of drunks throwing punches and launching chairs. Sean King remains in a coma, in serious condition. Crush is resting comfortably with a badly fractured jaw and a concussion.

Late in the afternoon, I am allowed to visit my client in one of the jail’s attorney rooms. He’s sitting on the other side of a thick metal screen when I walk in and take a seat. His face is cut and badly swollen from the fight, but that’s the least of his problems. He is so subdued I wonder if he’s been drugged. We chat for a moment.

“When can I get outta here?” he asks.

You’d better get used to it, I want to say. “Your first appearance is in the morning, in court. I’ll be there. Nothing much will happen. They’ll wait to see what happens with the referee. If he dies, then you’re really up shit creek. If he recovers, they’ll charge you with a bunch of stuff but it won’t be murder. Maybe in a week or so we’ll go back to court and request a reasonable bond. I can’t guess what the judge will do. So, to answer your question, there’s a chance you might bond out in a few days. There’s an even better chance you’ll stay in jail until a trial.”

“How long will that take?”

“A trial?”

“Yes.”

“Hard to say. Six months at the earliest; probably more like a year. The trial itself won’t last very long because there won’t be many witnesses. They’ll just roll the video.”

He looks down, as if he wants to cry. I love this kid but there’s not much I can do for him, now or in six months. “Do you remember it?” I ask.

Slowly, he begins to nod. He says, “I just snapped. They cheated me out of a clear win. The ref made me fight his way, not mine. The ref kept getting in the way, you know, man, I just couldn’t fight my fight. I mean, I didn’t want to hurt the ref, but I just snapped. I was so angry, so destroyed when he raised that guy’s hand. I kicked his ass, didn’t I?”

“Crush or the referee?”

“Come on, man. Crush. I kicked his ass, right?”

“No, you did not. But you won the fight.” I saw every second of the fight and I never felt as though the ref was in the way. As far as legal defenses go, I don’t think much of this one: The ref held me back, cost me the match, so I caved in his face. It was justified.

“They took it away from me,” he says.

“The referee is not a judge, Tadeo. The three judges did the scoring. You went after the wrong guy.”

He picks at the stitches in his forehead and says, “I know, I know. I did wrong, Sebastian, but you gotta do something, okay?”

“You know I’ll do everything possible.”

“Will I serve some time?”

You’re serving it now; get used to it. I’ve already played with the numbers. If Sean King dies, I’m thinking twenty years for second-degree murder, maybe fifteen for manslaughter. If he lives, three to five for aggravated assault. Since I’m not ready to share these thoughts, I punt by saying, “Let’s worry about that later.”

“Probably so, right?”

“Probably so.”

There is a gap in the conversation as we hear doors clanging in the background. A jailer yells an obscenity. A tear emerges through Tadeo’s swollen left eye and runs down his bruised cheek. “I can’t believe it, man. I just can’t believe it.” His voice is soft and pained.