He is two strides from Arnsberg when I lash out with one hand. I catch just a piece of his blue T-shirt as he blasts by me. Everything after that is lost in a blur of motion. Somehow this is launched off the top of our table like a rocket out of a silo. It nails the guy in the side just above the diaphragm. You can hear the breath go out of him like a crushed bellows as he is driven into the floor by something that looks like an SUV wearing a suit. Herman bounces on him once, then comes up straddling the guy like a cowboy on a steer.

Two of the guards from Carl’s contingent pile on. They cuff the man. He’s lying facedown on the floor, dazed, probably wondering who put him in the Super Bowl without a jersey or a number. The cops don’t even bother to pick him up. They just slide him, belly down, across the floor like a hockey puck and through the door to the lockup.

The other two guards, the ones who were chaperoning Arnsberg, are busy dusting off Herman, checking to see if he’s okay.

A phalanx of deputies has now formed, strung out along the bar railing so that no one else in the audience has a chance of going upstage.

Out in the gallery, the crowd is milling. Up out of their seats like jack out of his box, their voices elevated, gestures animated. Give them a few glasses to hold and it could be a party. “Did you see that?” This is followed by the occasional instant mental playback, all with hand gestures for color. “Who is that guy?” “Must be a cop.”

If I told them that Herman was Superman’s African brother, half of them would believe me. How else could a mountain move that fast? Mixed in with the free radicals, some wearing black T-shirts as a show of solidarity, there are a good number of regular courthouse-goers here, retired folk who spend their days watching trials because it’s better than the three hundred channels on cable. Where else can you see real bullet holes in the wall? Live theater, the best ticket in town, it’s free, and getting better now that they’ve brought contact sports inside.

From the corner of my eye, I see Sandra Arnsberg, Carl’s mother, standing on her tiptoes trying to see her son through the forest of uniforms in front of her.

I motion to her that I will get him.

In the rush of adrenaline, everybody but her has forgotten about Arnsberg. He is left standing by himself off to one side like some abandoned urchin. The guards talking to Herman cast an occasional glance his way just to make sure he doesn’t walk off. Where would he go with a wall of guards at the railing?

I walk over to him. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” he says. “What was that all about?” Evidently Carl hasn’t seen the action out on the street.

“Just some crazy,” I tell him.

“Yeah. Guy’s nuts.” Carl looks over his shoulder at the door to the lockup where they dragged the guy, probably wondering if he has to go out that way when we’re done.

“I thought you were supposed to come to the jail this morning?”

“I was.” I tell him about the D.A. dropping a ton of paper on us at the last minute.

This seems to unnerve him.

“Anything bad?” he says. “What? What did they send? Why so much at the last minute?” Carl doesn’t understand a lot of this. Any little wrinkle tends to send him into panic.

“It’s okay. It’s material we’ve been trying to get for some time. Printouts from Scarborough’s computers.”

“Oh.”

I take him by the arm, walk him to the counsel table, where we sit.

He smiles, then waves at his mom through a crack between the cops.

“They told me I can’t have any exercise time in the dayroom anymore. Something about not enough staff,” he says.

Carl has been doing twenty-three hours a day in solitary since they arrested him. Now he’ll be doing twenty-four. The sheriff has had to segregate him at the jail because they know they can’t protect him. With the media hype, Carl has become the ultimate symbol in the great cause of every jail and prison in the country, the war of the races. The Aryan Nation would claim him as their own, force him to join whether he wanted to or not, and kill him if he refused. To the Black Brotherhood, he’s a dead man walking, top priority to be shanked in the shower or have his throat cut in the yard at the first opportunity. If they could do this in the middle of the trial, it would send a message-the only one that counts when you’re behind bars: “Don’t fuck with us.”

“Quiet!!!” Suddenly the booming voice of the sergeant at the back door again. “Everybody sit down.” The festivities out in the audience are over. As if somebody had pulled the plug in a game of musical chairs, there is a dash for seats. Within seconds the noise level drops.

Herman comes back to the table. On the way by, he slaps out a quick if low rendition of the brothers’ handshake with Carl-crossed palms, cupped fingers, and a light slap.

“Hey, man, you’re gettin’ better,” he says. Herman has been doing this ever since Carl’s first week in jail, after they broke the ice on information from the kid, leads that Herman had to run down with the leather of his shoes.

As Diggs sits, Carl leans over. “I owe ya, man.”

Herman shakes it off. “You owe me nothing.”

“No. No. I mean it. You nailed that guy,” says Carl.

“If I didn’t, the cops would have.”

“Yeah, but you did it.”

“Now let’s see if I can get outta bed in the morning, and after that I’ll have to see if I can move.” He laughs it off.

I know that Herman is taking heat. He has received some ugly phone calls, wrong numbers to “Uncle Tom.” Some hip artist did graffiti on his car. I’ve told him that there is no dishonor in begging off on this case. It’s one thing for a lawyer to take on a controversial cause. If John Adams was right, even the devil deserves a defense. I’ve told him that there are other investigators who can step in. Herman would be busy full-time just doing the other cases in our office.

To all of this Herman has said no. Part of this is the man’s nature. No one is going to tell him what case he can or cannot work. He is not a joiner of clubs-social, political, or otherwise. He is not afraid of anything that walks on two legs and could probably thrash most that walk on four. If you’re counting on group dynamics to change his mind, be advised that organized intimidation, whether racial or political, is much more likely to fuse his backbone into titanium than turn it to jelly.

And there is one thing that I know about Herman, because he has told me. Herman Diggs is the progeny of slaves. If the laws of genetics hold true, they must have been proud people, because if they are any kin to Herman, their masters never broke them.

I see a shadowed figure approach from the hallway leading to chambers. It’s Ruiz, the judge’s clerk. The show is about to begin.

Ruiz comes out and stands near the foot of the bench, his shoulders back, his chest puffed out, and in almost a squeaky tone, what passes for the voice of authority from R2-D2, announces, “All rise. Superior Court for the State of California, County of San Diego, is now in session, the Honorable Plato Quinn presiding.”

There is the hushed friction of cloth as it leaves every seat in the room, all on their feet. Quinn strides out, black robes flashing. He climbs the few steps to the bench and takes his seat. The high-backed leather throne swivels a little. He tries the gavel, and there is the shot-like clap of hard wood. “You may be seated.”

Everybody in the room drops as if legs just gave out.

The judge sits for a moment looking out at the courtroom, a death stare, his eye scanning the crowd, his expression one of paternal irritation. “Before we start,” he says, “I want to make a few things clear. Those of you in the audience, no matter what you might think or how strongly you might feel, you are not participants in this trial. You are here to watch and observe, and that is all. There will be no demonstrations or disturbances allowed in my courtroom. Any talking, clapping, booing, hand signals, written signs, or other gestures, any demonstration of emotion of any kind, and you will be removed. I don’t want to see any newspapers, books, magazines, or anything else being read in this courtroom while the trial is going on. If I do, you will be removed. If you want to read, go to the library. There will be no food or beverages anywhere in the courtroom, no candy or gum. If you want to stick gum under a chair, do it at home at your kitchen table, not here under my benches.”