In the jury box were four whites. Two of them were bookish and rumpled and the other two wore unfashionable sport jackets with long, wide lapels. The remaining jurors were black and mostly elderly or nearing retirement age. From the looks of them, they appeared to be upstanding citizens, on the conservative side, lifelong workingmen and -women. Not the type to sympathize, particularly, with an angry young man of any color who in the past had publicly flashed his ill-gotten, blood-smeared gains.

The U.S. attorney for the prosecution began his opening remarks, telling the jury what the case was “about.” As he spoke of greed and power and the notion of “street respect,” a series of photographs of Granville Oliver were presented on several television monitors placed about the courtroom. These were stills from a rap video Oliver had produced to promote his recording career and recently founded company, GO Records. The origin of the stills was not mentioned. When the prosecutor was done with his speech, he showed the video in its entirety for the jury.

The images would be familiar to anyone under the age of thirty: Oliver in a hot tub with thong-clad women, Oliver behind the wheel of a tricked-out Benz, Oliver in platinum jewelry and expensive threads, Oliver holding twin.45s crossed against his chest. The usual bling-bling, set to slow-motion female rump shaking, drum machine electronica, Fred Wesley-style samples, and a monotone rap coming from the unsmiling, threatening face of Granville Oliver. Any kid knew that the images contained props that were rented for the shoot. Perhaps these images would be less familiar, though, in this context, especially to the older members of the jury.

Strange had come down to speak to Ives because he felt he needed to brief him today. And he also thought he’d sit and hear the opening statement for the defense, describing Oliver’s early life in the Section 8 projects. Ives would detail his fatherless upbringing, his crack-dealer role models, his subpar education, and how, as a youngster, he had learned to shoot up his mother with cocaine to bring her up off her heroin nod.

It was all propaganda, from both sides, when you got down to it. But something about the prosecution’s presentation that morning had stretched the boundaries of dignity and fairness, and it had angered Strange. He stood, made the telephone-call sign to Ives with two fingers spread from cheek to ear, and left the courtroom.

An FBI agent followed him out the door. Strange didn’t look at him or acknowledge him in any way. He kept walking and he kept his eyes straight ahead. He was used to this kind of subtle intimidation.

Down on the first floor, he ran into Elaine Clay, one of the public defenders known as the Fifth Streeters, who had been in the game for many years. Strange had bought countless LPs from Elaine’s husband, Marcus Clay, when he’d owned his record stores in Dupont Circle and on U Street before the turnaround in Shaw.

Elaine stopped him and put a hand on his arm. He stood eye to eye with her and relaxed, realizing he had been scowling.

“Derek, how’s it going?”

“It’s good. You’re lookin’ healthy, Elaine.”

“I’m doing my best.”

She was doing better than that. Elaine Clay was around his age, tall, lean, with strong legs and a finely boned face. She had most definitely kept herself up. Elaine had always commanded respect from all sides of the street, a trial lawyer with a rep for intelligence and a commitment to her clients.

“Marcus okay?”

“Consulting still, for small businesses opening in the city. Complaining about his middle spreading out and the new Redskins stadium. Wondering why he still watches the Wizards. But he’s fine.”

“Y’all have a son, right?”

“Marcus Jr. He’s college bound.”

“Congratulations. I got a stepson starting next fall my own self.”

“Heard you finally pulled the trigger and settled down.”

“Yeah, you know. It was time. Glad I did, too.”

She looked him over. “You all right?”

“Just a little perturbed, is all. I been working the Granville Oliver thing for Ives and Colby, and I was just up at his trial. Some bullshit went down in there that, I don’t know, got to me.”

“You got to roll with it,” said Elaine.

“I’m trying to.”

“So that means you been prowlin’ around Southeast?”

“That’s where the history is,” said Strange.

“You need any kind of insight to what’s going on down there, give my office a call. I’ve got an investigator I use, he’s been on the Corey Graves Mob thing for me down there for a long time.”

“Corey Graves? I was down in Leavenworth a couple of weeks ago, interviewing an enforcer for Graves, used to be with Granville. Boy named Kevin Willis.”

“I know Willis. You get anything out of him?”

“He talked plenty. But I got nothin’ I could use.”

“Call me if you want to speak to my guy.”

“He got a name?”

“Nick Stefanos.”

“I’ve heard of him.”

“He knows the players, and he does good work.”

“That’s what I heard.”

“Feel better, hear?”

“Give love to your family, Elaine.”

“You, too.”

Strange watched her backside move in her skirt without guilt as she walked away. He had to. Didn’t matter if she was a friend or that he was married and in love. He was just a man.

Outside the courthouse, Strange phoned Quinn at the bookstore as he walked to his Chevy. When he was done making arrangements, he placed the cell back in its holster, hooked onto his side.

Strange’s temper had cooled somewhat talking to Elaine Clay. But it hadn’t disappeared. By showing that video, the prosecution was presenting Granville Oliver as a scowling young black man with riches, cars, and women, everything the squares on that jury feared. The Feds wanted the death penalty, and clearly they were going to get it in any way they could. Their strategy, essentially, was to sell Granville Oliver to the jury as a nigger. No matter what Oliver had done, and he had done plenty, Strange knew in his heart that this was wrong.

IN Anacostia, Ulysses Foreman’s El Dorado idled on MLK Jr. Avenue, a half block up from the Big Chair. Foreman wheeled the thermostat down on the climate control and let the air conditioner ride. It was a hot morning for spring.

Mario Durham sat in the passenger seat beside him, fidgeting, using his hands to punctuate his speech when he talked. Foreman noticed that Durham still wore that same tired-ass outfit he’d had on the day before. And those shoes, too, one of them had the J missing off the Jordan, read “ordan.” Forman studied them and saw that Durham had done them both now the same way. And then he saw the blood smudge across the white of the left one.

Had to be Mario Durham’s own blood, ’cause he couldn’t have drawn no blood from anyone else. Somebody must have given the little motherfucker a beat-down, and he went and bled all over his own shoes. Foreman didn’t ask about it, though. Far as he cared, Durham could just go ahead and bleed hisself to death.

“Wanted to turn this in,” said Durham, patting the pocket of his Tommys, where it looked like he held the gun.

“What you said on the phone.”

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“Why would I mind?” Foreman chin-nodded at a brand-new Lexus rolling up the hill of the avenue in their direction. “You see that pretty Lex right there?”

“Sure.”

“I been seein’ that Lex all over Southeast these last few weeks. And every time I do see it – same car, same plates – a different motherfucker is under the wheel, drivin’ it.”

“So?”

“It’s a hack. Someone done bought that car just to rent it out. For drugs, money, a gun, whatever. This rental business is the business of the future in D.C. Shit, white people been doin’ it to us with furniture and televisions and shit forever. We’re just now gettin’ behind it our own selves.”