As soon as the door closes, Judge Ponder glares at Finney and growls, “Your case sucks. The wrong person is on trial.”

Poor Finney knows it but cannot say so. In fact, at this moment he’s unable to say anything at all. The judge hammers away. “Do you plan to put all eight of the SWAT team on the witness stand?”

“As of now, the answer is no,” Finney manages to say.

I pounce with “Great, then I’ll call them as adverse witnesses. I want all eight to face the jury.” The judge looks at me fearfully. I have the absolute right to do this and they know it. Seconds pass as they try and imagine the nightmare of the other six toy soldiers facing the jury as I pound them like a madman.

His Honor looks at Finney and asks, “Have you thought about dismissing the charges?”

Of course not. Finney may be demoralized but he’s still a prosecutor.

Normally, in a criminal trial the judge has the right to exclude the State’s evidence and direct a verdict in favor of the defendant. This rarely happens. In this case, though, the statute declares that any person who fires upon a policeman who is entering his or her home, whether the cops have the correct address or the wrong one, is guilty of the attempted murder of an officer. It’s a bad statute, poorly conceived and dreadfully written, but in Judge Ponder’s opinion it does not afford him the option of dismissing the case.

We’re headed for a final verdict.

23.

Over the weekend, one of the remaining six SWAT cops is suddenly hospitalized and cannot testify. One simply vanishes. It takes me a day and a half to annihilate the remaining four. We’re getting front-page coverage and the police department has never, ever looked so bad. I’m trying my best to savor this glorious moment because it’s unlikely to happen again.

On the last day of testimony, I meet the Renfro family for an early breakfast. The topic is whether or not Doug should testify. His three adult children—Thomas, Fiona, and Susanna—are present. They have watched the entire trial and have no doubt our jury will not convict their father, regardless of what some lousy statute says.

I explain the worst-case scenario: Finney will get under his skin on cross-examination and try to irritate him. He’ll make Doug admit that he fired five shots from his handgun and deliberately tried to kill the officers. The only way the State can win the case is for Doug to melt down on the stand, something we simply do not expect. The guy is solid, and he insists on testifying. At this point in any trial, the defendant has the right to testify, regardless of what his lawyer thinks. They press me on this. My instincts are the same as any criminal defense attorney: If the State has failed to prove its case, keep the client off the stand.

But Doug Renfro will not be denied.

24.

I begin by asking Doug about his military career. Fourteen years in uniform, proudly serving his country, without a blemish. Two tours in Vietnam, one Purple Heart, two weeks as a prisoner before being rescued. Half a dozen medals, an honorable discharge. A real soldier, not the dime-store variety.

A law-abiding citizen with only one speeding ticket on his record.

The contrasts are stark and speak for themselves.

On the night in question he and Kitty watched television until 10:00, then read for a few minutes until they turned off the lights. He kissed her good night, told her he loved her as always, and they fell asleep. They were jolted from their dreams when the assault began. The house shook, shots were fired. Doug scrambled for his pistol and told Kitty to call 911. In the frenzy that followed, he ran into the dark hallway and saw two shadows rising quickly from the stairwell. Voices were coming from downstairs. He hit the floor and began firing. He was immediately hit in the shoulder. No, he said emphatically, no one ever yelled out anything about the police. Kitty screamed and ran into the hallway and into a volley of bullets.

Doug breaks down when he describes the sounds of his wife being hit.

Half of the jurors are crying too.

25.

Finney wants no part of Doug Renfro. He attempts to prove that Doug deliberately fired upon the police, but Doug crushes him by saying over and over, “I didn’t know they were cops. I thought they were criminals breaking into my house.”

I call no other witnesses. I don’t need them.

Finney walks through a halfhearted closing argument, during which he refuses to make eye contact with any of the jurors. When it’s my turn, I recap the important facts and manage to control myself. It would be easy to flay the cops, to engage in unbridled overkill, but the jury has had enough.

Judge Ponder instructs the jurors as to the applicable law, then says it’s time for them to retire and deliberate. But no one moves. What happens next borders on historic.

Juror number six is a man named Willie Grant. Slowly, he stands and says, “Judge, I’ve been elected as the foreman of this jury, and I have a question.”

The judge, a jurist of great composure, is startled and looks wildly at Finney and me. The courtroom is again perfectly silent. Me, I’m not breathing. His Honor says, “Well, I’m not sure at this point. I have instructed the jury to retire and begin deliberations.” The jurors have not moved.

Mr. Grant says, “We don’t need to deliberate, Your Honor. We know what we’re going to do.”

“But I have repeatedly warned you against discussing the case,” Ponder says sternly.

Unfazed, Mr. Grant replies, “We haven’t discussed the case, but we have a verdict. There’s nothing to discuss or deliberate. My question is, why is Mr. Renfro on trial and not the cops who killed his wife?”

There is an instant wave of gasping and chattering throughout the courtroom. Judge Ponder attempts to regain control by clearing his throat loudly and asking, “Is your verdict unanimous?”

“Damned right it is. We find Mr. Renfro not guilty, and we think these cops should be charged with murder.”

“I’m going to ask the jurors to raise your hands if you agree with the not-guilty verdict.”

Twelve hands shoot into the air.

I put my arm around Doug Renfro as he breaks down again.

PART FOUR THE EXCHANGE

1.

I often disappear after a big trial, especially one that gets front-page coverage and plenty of airtime. It’s not that I don’t love the attention. I’m a lawyer; it’s in my genes. But in the Renfro trial I humiliated the police department, embarrassed some cops, some really tough guys who are not accustomed to answering for their misdeeds. As they say, “The streets are hot right now,” and it’s time for a break. I load some clothes into the van, along with my golf clubs, some paperbacks, and half a case of small-batch bourbon, and ease out of town the day after the verdict. The weather is raw and windy, too cold for golf, so I head south like countless other snowbirds in search of the sun. I have learned through my meandering travels that almost every small town with a population above ten thousand has a public golf course. These are usually packed on weekends but not too crowded during the week. I play my way south, hitting at least one course per day, sometimes two, playing alone with no caddie and no scorecard, paying cash for inexpensive motel rooms, eating little, and sipping bourbon late at night while I read the latest James Lee Burke or Michael Connelly. If I had a pile of money, I could spend the rest of my life doing this.