I write him a check for half of his fee. The other half will be due at trial.

He spends two hours evaluating Tadeo, and, surprise, surprise, he is now certain the kid blacked out, went crazy, and does not remember pummeling the referee.

So we now have a defense, shaky as it is. I’m not that encouraged because the State will haul in two or three experts, all at least as credible as Taslman, and they will overwhelm us with their brilliance. Tadeo will testify and do a credible job on direct, perhaps even manage some tears, then he’ll get chewed up by Mancini on cross-examination.

But the video doesn’t lie. I’m still convinced the jurors will watch it over and over and see the truth. They will silently scoff at Taslman and laugh at Tadeo, and they will return a verdict of guilty. Guilty means twenty to thirty years. On the day of the trial, I’ll probably get the prosecutor down to twelve to fifteen years.

How can I convince a headstrong twenty-two-year-old to plead guilty to fifteen years? Scare him with thirty? I doubt it. The great Tadeo Zapate has never scared easily.

8.

Today is Starcher’s eighth birthday. The battered and abused court order that dictates the time I spend with my son clearly says that I get two hours with him on each of his birthdays.

Two hours is too much, according to his mother. She thinks one hour is plenty; actually, no time would be her preference. Shoving me out of his life completely is her goal, but I won’t let that happen. I may be a pathetic father, but I am trying. And, there might come a day when the kid wants to spend time with me in order to get away from his quarreling mothers.

So I’m sitting at a McDonald’s, waiting to begin my two hours. Judith eventually pulls up in her Jaguar, her lawyer car, and gets out with Starcher. She marches him inside, sees me, scowls as if she’d rather be anywhere else, and hands him over. “I’ll be back at five o’clock,” she hisses at me.

“It’s already four-fifteen,” I say, but she doesn’t acknowledge me. She huffs away, and he takes a seat opposite me. I smile and say, “How’s it going, bud?”

“Okay,” he mumbles, almost afraid to speak to his father. I cannot imagine the strict orders she hit him with during the drive over. Do not eat the food. Do not drink the drinks. Do not play on the playground. Wash your hands. Do not answer questions if “he” quizzes you about me or Ava or anything to do with our home. Do not have a good time.

It usually takes him a few minutes to shake off this drubbing before he can relax around me.

“Happy birthday,” I say.

“Thanks.”

“Mom tells me you’re having a big party on Saturday. Lots of kids and cake and stuff like that. Should be fun.”

“I guess,” he says.

I wasn’t invited to the party, of course. It’s at his home, the place where he lives half his life with Judith and Ava. A place I’ve never seen.

“Are you hungry?”

He looks around. It’s a McDonald’s, a kid’s paradise, where everything is carefully designed to make people crave the food that looks far more delicious on the walls than on the tables. He zeroes in on a large poster hawking a new ice cream float called the McGlacier. Looks pretty good. I say, “I think I’ll try one of those. You?”

“Mom says I shouldn’t eat anything here. Says it’s all bad for me.”

This is my time, not Judith’s. I smile and lean forward as if we’re now conspirators. “But Mom’s not here, right? I won’t tell, you won’t tell. Just us boys, okay?”

He grins and says, “Okay.”

From under the table I pull out a box that’s covered in birthday wrapping and place it on the table. “This is for you, bud. Happy birthday. Go ahead and open it.” He grabs it as I head toward the counter.

When I return with the floats, he’s staring at a small backgammon board on the table. When I was a boy, my grandfather taught me to play checkers, then backgammon, then chess. I was fascinated with board games of all varieties. As a kid, I received board games for birthdays and Christmas. By the time I was ten, I had stacks of them in my room, a vast collection that I took meticulous care of. I seldom lost at any of the games. My favorite became backgammon, and I would pester my grandfather, my mother, my friends, anyone, really, to play. When I was twelve, I came in third place in a city tournament for kids. When I was eighteen, I was competing well in adult tournaments. In college, I played for money until the other students stopped gambling with me.

I’m hoping some of this might rub off on my son. It’s becoming apparent that he will almost certainly look like me, walk like me, and talk like me. He’s very bright, though I must admit he gets a lot of that from his mother. Judith and Ava are keeping him away from video games. After the Renfro trial, I am thrilled by this.

“What’s this?” he asks, taking his McGlacier and looking at the board.

“It’s called backgammon, a board game that’s been around for centuries. I’m going to teach you how to play.”

“Looks hard,” he says as he takes a spoonful.

“It’s not. I started playing it when I was eight years old. You’ll catch on.”

“All right,” he says, ready for the challenge. I arrange the checkers and start with the basics.

9.

Partner parks our van in a crowded lot and walks into the mall. He’ll enter a two-story restaurant that anchors one wing of the mall, and he’ll find a window seat in a small bar area on the upper level. From there, he’ll watch the van to see who else is watching the van.

At 4:00 p.m., Arch Swanger knocks on the sliding door. I open it. Welcome to my office. He takes a seat in a comfortable recliner and looks around. He smiles at the leather, the television, the stereo, the sofa, the refrigerator. “Pretty cool,” he says. “Is this really your office?”

“It is.”

“I figured a big shot like you would have a fancy office in one of those tall buildings downtown.”

“I had one once, but it got firebombed. Now I prefer a moving target.”

He stares at me for a second as if he’s not sure I’m serious. The goofy blue glasses have been replaced by black readers that actually succeed in making him appear somewhat more intelligent. He’s wearing a black felt driving cap that looks authentic. It’s a nice look, an effective disguise. From ten feet away you wouldn’t know it was the same guy. He says, “Really, your office was firebombed?”

“It was, about five years ago. Don’t ask who because I don’t know. It was either a drug dealer or some undercover cops. Personally, I think it was the narcs because the police showed little enthusiasm when it came to investigating the fire.”

“You see, that’s what I like about you, Mr. Rudd. Can I call you Sebastian?”

“I prefer Mr. Rudd, until I’m hired. After that, you can call me Sebastian.”

“Okay, Mr. Rudd, I like it that the cops don’t like you and you don’t like them.”

“I know a lot of the guys on the force and we get along fine,” I say, fudging just a little. I like Nate Spurio and a couple of others. “Let’s talk business. I’ve had a chat with the detective, our pal Landy Reardon, and they don’t have much in the way of evidence. They’re pretty sure you’re the guy; they just can’t prove it yet.”

This would be the perfect time for him to deny his guilt. Something simple and thoroughly unoriginal like “They got the wrong guy” would be appropriate. Instead, he says, “I’ve had lawyers before, several of them, most appointed by the court, and I never felt like I could trust them, you know? But I feel like I can trust you, Mr. Rudd.”