“I get that, but you can’t expect a kid to get bullied without standing up for himself.”

The word “bullied” is a hot one. With my kid now the victim, they’re not sure how to respond. Ms. Tarrant says, “Well, I’m not sure he was being bullied.”

“Is Brad a bad apple?” I ask the teacher.

“No, he certainly is not. I have a great group of kids this year.”

“Sure you do. Including mine. These are little boys, okay? They can’t hurt each other. So they push and shove on the playground. They are boys, dammit! Let them be boys. Don’t punish them every time they disagree.”

“We’re teaching them lessons, Mr. Rudd,” Doris says piously.

Judith snarls, “Have you talked to him about fighting?”

“Yes I have. I’ve told him that fighting is wrong, never start a fight, but if someone else happens to start one, then by all means protect himself. And what, exactly, is wrong with that?”

None of the four take a crack at answering this, so I shove on. “You’d better teach him now to stand up for himself, or he’ll get bullied for the rest of his life. These are kids. They’ll fight. They’ll win some, lose some, but they’ll outgrow it. Believe me, when a boy gets older and gets punched a few times, he loses his enthusiasm for fighting.”

For the second time, I catch Ava glancing at Ms. Tarrant’s legs. I’m glancing too; can’t help it. They deserve a lot of attention. Doris is watching these mating rituals. She’s seen it all before.

She says, “Brad’s parents are quite upset.”

I jump in with “Then I’ll be happy to talk to them, to apologize and to have Starcher apologize too. How about that?”

“I’ll handle this,” Judith barks.

“Then why did you invite me to this little party? I’ll tell you why. You want to make sure all blame is properly laid at my feet. Five days ago I took the kid to the cage fights; now he’s brawling on the playground. Clear proof it’s all my fault. You win. You wanted some witnesses. So here we are. Do you feel better now?”

This, of course, sucks the air out of the room. Judith’s eyes glaze over with hatred and I can almost see steam coming out of her ears. Doris, the pro, rushes in with “Okay, okay. I like the idea of one of you having a chat with Brad’s parents.”

“One of the two of us, or one of the three of us?” I ask. What a smart-ass. “I’m sorry, but it gets kind of crowded.”

Ava shoots daggers at me. I glance at the teacher’s legs. What a ridiculous meeting.

Doris shows some spine by looking at me and saying, “I think you should do it. You’re right; it’s a boy thing. Call Brad’s parents and apologize.”

“Done.”

“What’s the punishment for Starcher?” Ava asks because Judith can’t speak right now.

Doris says, “What do you think, Ms. Tarrant?”

“Well, there has to be a punishment.”

I make matters worse by saying, “Don’t tell me you’re going to expel the kid.”

Ms. Tarrant says, “No, he and Brad are friends and I think they’ve already moved on. What about a week with no recess?”

“Can he still have lunch?” I ask, just trying to clog the wheels of justice. I’m a lawyer; it’s instinctive.

She smiles but ignores this. We hammer out an agreement and I’m the first one to leave. As I drive away from the parking lot, I realize I’m smiling. Starcher stood his ground!

Late that night, I e-mail Ms. Tarrant—Naomi is her first name—and thank her for doing such a fine job. Ten minutes later, she e-mails me back and says thanks. I fire right back and ask her to dinner. Twenty minutes later she informs me it’s not a good idea to date parents of her kids. In other words, not now, maybe in the future.

It’s Wednesday and raining. We’ve played Dirty Golf many times in bad weather, but Alan said no tonight; no more ruts in the fairways. Old Rico is closed for the evening. I’m wide awake, bored, worried about Tadeo and Doug Renfro, and I’m also fairly revved up at the slim prospects of chasing Ms. Tarrant. Sleep eludes me, again, so I grab an umbrella and hustle down to The Rack. At midnight, I’m losing ten bucks a game in nine ball to a kid who looks no more than fifteen. I asked him if he goes to school, to which he answered, “Occasionally.”

Curly is watching us, and at one point whispers to me, “Never seen him before. Amazing.” Mercifully, Curly closes the place at 1:00 a.m. The kid has picked my pockets for $90. I’ll avoid him next time. At 2:00, I manage to close my eyes and fall asleep.

14.

Partner calls me at four. Sean King died of a cerebral hemorrhage. I make coffee and drink it in the dark while gazing down on the City, still and quiet at this hour. The moon is full and its light reflects off the tall buildings downtown.

What a tragedy. Tadeo Zapate will now spend at least the next decade or so behind bars. He’s twenty-two, so he’ll be too old to fight when he gets out. Too old for many things. I think about the money, but just for a minute. I invested $30,000 in the kid for a quarter share of his career earnings, which to date total about $80,000. Plus, I’ve picked up another $20,000 betting on him. So I’m slightly ahead on the cash side. I try not to think about his future earnings, which were going to be substantial. All that seems trivial now.

Instead, I think about his family, their hard life and the hope he gave them. He was their ticket out of the street life and the violence, to the middle class and beyond. Now they’ll sink even deeper into poverty while he rots away in prison.

There is no defense, no credible legal strategy to save him. I’ve watched the video a hundred times now. The last flurry of blows to Sean King’s face were absorbed while he was unconscious. It won’t be difficult to find an expert who’ll say those were the shots that did the fatal damage. But an expert will not be needed. This case is not going to trial. I’ll serve my client well if I can somehow pressure the State to make us a decent offer. I just hope it’s ten years and not thirty, but something tells me I’m dreaming. No prosecutor in this country would pass up the opportunity to nail such a high-profile murderer.

I force myself to think about Sean King, but I never knew the guy. I’m sure his family is devastated and all that, but my thoughts return to Tadeo.

At six I shower, get dressed, and head for the jail. I have to tell Tadeo that his life, as he knew it, is over.

15.

The following Monday, Tadeo Zapate and I appear in court again, though the mood is quite different. He’s charged with murder now, and thanks to the Internet he’s famous. It seems as though few people can resist the temptation of watching him kill Sean King with his bare hands.

As expected, the judge denies bail and they take Tadeo away. I’ve had two brief chats with the prosecutor and it looks like they’re out for blood. Second-degree murder carries a max of thirty years. For a plea, they’ll agree to twenty. Under our screwed-up parole system, he’ll serve at least ten. I have yet to explain this to my client. He’s still in denial, still in that fog where he’s sorry it happened, can’t explain it, but still believing that a good lawyer can pull some strings and get him off.

It’s a sad day, but not a complete waste. In the large open hallway outside the courtroom, there is a crowd of reporters and they’re waiting for me. There is no gag order yet, so I’m free to say all the ridiculous things that lawyers say long before the trials. My client is a good person who snapped when he got a raw deal. Now he is devastated by what happened. He cries in sympathy for the family of Sean King. He would give anything to have those few precious seconds back. We will mount a vigorous defense. Yes, of course, he hopes to fight again. He was helping his poor mother support her family and a house full of relatives.