If you can’t believe it, think about that poor ref and his family. “I need to run, Tadeo. I’ll see you in the morning, in court.”

“I gotta wear this in court?” he asks, tugging at his orange jumpsuit.

“Afraid so. It’s just a first appearance.”

12.

At 9:00 on Monday morning, I’m in a busy courtroom with a bunch of other defense lawyers and prosecutors. In one corner there is a collection of shady-looking men in orange jumpsuits, all handcuffed together and watched by armed bailiffs. These are the new arrestees, and this is their second stop on the judicial assembly line. The first stop being the jail. One by one their names are called, and after being uncuffed they saunter over to a spot in front of the bench, upon which sits a judge, one of twenty in our system who handles the preliminary matters. The judge asks them some questions, the most important being “Do you have a lawyer?” Very few of them do, and the judge then assigns them to the public defender’s office. A rookie will pop up, stand beside his new client, and tell him not to say anything else. Dates will be set for return visits.

Tadeo Zapate, though, has a lawyer. They call his name and we meet in front of the bench. His face looks even worse. Most of the hushed conversations stop when the crowd realizes this is the guy everyone is talking about, the promising mixed martial arts fighter who is now the YouTube star.

“Are you Tadeo Zapate?” the judge asks with interest, the first time this morning he’s seemed engaged.

“Yes, sir.”

“And I assume Mr. Sebastian Rudd is your lawyer.”

“Yes, sir.”

An assistant prosecutor eases behind him.

The judge continues, “You are charged, at this point, with aggravated assault. Do you understand this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mr. Rudd, have you explained to your client that the charges might change to something more serious?”

“Yes, sir, he understands.”

“By the way, what is the latest on the referee?” he asks the assistant prosecutor, as if the guy were the treating physician.

“Last I heard, Mr. King’s condition is still critical.”

“Very well,” His Honor says. “Let’s meet back here in a week and see where things stand. Until then, Mr. Rudd, we won’t discuss the matter of bail.”

“Sure, Judge,” I say.

We are dismissed. As Tadeo walks away, I whisper, “I’ll see you at the jail tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” he says, then looks at the spectators and nods at his mother, who’s sitting with an entire pack of crying relatives. She emigrated from El Salvador twenty-five years ago, has her green card, works a late shift in a cafeteria, and is raising a flock of children, grandchildren, and other assorted relatives. Tadeo and his cage skills were her ticket to a better life. Miguel holds her hand and whispers in Spanish. He’s been chewed up by our judicial system a few times and knows the score.

I speak to them briefly, assure them I’m doing whatever can be done, then walk with them out of the courtroom and into a hallway where some reporters are waiting, two with cameras. This is what I live for.

13.

Quite the busy morning. While I’m in court with Tadeo, Judith does exactly as she promised and files a nasty motion to terminate all of my visitation rights, even the three hours I get on Christmas Eve and the two hours on my son’s birthday. She claims I’m an unfit parent, a danger to his physical safety, and a “horrible influence” on the child’s life. She demands an expedited hearing. Such theatrics. As if the kid were in danger.

Harry & Harry prepare a vicious response, and I file it Monday afternoon. Once again, we square off in her ongoing crusade to teach me valuable lessons. No judge will grant her demands, and she knows it. But she’s doing it because she’s angry and she thinks that if she drags me through the meat grinder once more I’ll finally surrender and get out of their lives. I’m almost looking forward to the hearing.

First, though, we have another problem. On Wednesday, she calls my cell around noon and announces rudely, “We have a meeting at school this afternoon.”

Oh really? This is maybe the second time I’ve been asked to show up at the school and act like a parent. Until now, Judith has done a fine job of keeping me out of our son’s business.

I ask, “Okay, what’s up?”

“Starcher is in trouble. He got in a fight at school, punched another kid.”

I am overwhelmed with fatherly pride and I almost laugh. But I bite my tongue and say, “Oh, gosh, what happened?” I want to add questions such as “Did he win?” “How many times did he punch him?” and “Was the other kid a third grader?” But I manage to control my excitement.

“That’s what the meeting is all about. I’ll see you in the principal’s office at four.”

“Four, today?”

“Yes,” she says, bitchy and firm.

“Okay.” I’ll have to move a court appearance but it’s no problem. I wouldn’t miss this meeting for the world. My kid—a soft little boy who’s never had a chance to be tough—punched somebody!

I smile all the way to the school. The principal has a big office with several chairs around a coffee table. We meet there, very casual. Her name is Doris—a frazzled veteran of at least forty years in public education. But she has an easy smile and a comforting voice. Who knows how many meetings like this she’s suffered through. Judith and Ava are already there when I arrive. I nod at them without speaking. Judith is wearing a designer dress and is stunning. Ava, the former lingerie model, is wearing supertight leather pants and a tight blouse. She may have the brains of a gerbil but she still has a body that belongs on magazine covers. Both women look fabulous, and it’s obvious, at least to me, that they spent some time dressing up for this occasion. But why?

Then Ms. Tarrant arrives, and things become clearer. She’s Starcher’s teacher, a thirty-three-year-old knockout who got a divorce recently and, according to a source, is already back in the game. She has short blond hair, cut smartly, and large brown eyes that force everyone she meets to do at least one double take. Judith and Ava are no longer the hottest babes in the room. In fact, they’re getting smoked. I stand and make a fuss over Ms. Tarrant, who enjoys the attention. Judith immediately goes into total-bitch mode—she’s halfway there by nature—but Ava’s eyes sort of linger when she looks at the teacher. Mine are lingering like crazy.

Doris gives us the basics: During recess yesterday afternoon, some second-grade boys were playing kickball on the playground. There were words, then a scuffle, then a boy named Brad pushed Starcher, who then smacked Brad on the mouth. It caused a slight cut, thus blood, thus it’s a major incident. Not surprisingly, the boys clammed up when the teachers arrived and haven’t said much.

I blurt out, “Sounds pretty harmless. Just boys being boys.”

None of the four women agree, not that I expect them to. Ms. Tarrant says, “One of the boys told me that Brad was making fun of Starcher because his picture was in the newspaper.”

“Who threw the first punch?” I ask, almost rudely.

They squirm and don’t like the question. “Does that really matter?” Judith shoots back.

“Damn right it does.”

Sensing trouble, Doris rushes in with “We have strict rules against fighting, Mr. Rudd, regardless of who starts the altercation. Our students are taught not to engage in this type of activity.”