Sebastian Rudd was one of many. Ten years out of law school, he was steadily gaining the reputation of a lawyer who wasn’t afraid of the courtroom. Though no one kept score, he’d probably had more jury trials than any other lawyer his age. Almost all his clients were criminal defendants, most of whom Sebastian represented because he wanted the courtroom experience. He had plenty of business, though he longed for clients who could pay nice fees. They would come, he kept telling himself. Build your reputation as a skilled courtroom advocate, and you’ll never lack for clients.

Early in his career, Sebastian had realized that most lawyers, even his street brethren, really didn’t want to face juries. They talked a good game. They liked to brag about their trial calendars. They bored each other with tales of courtroom heroics. But, as Sebastian learned, trial work is incredibly stressful. It’s impossible to have a good time when a jury is in place, and most lawyers preferred just to talk about trial work. They hustled about the courtrooms making deals and plea agreements, getting motions and orders signed, and doing all manner of frantic legal work to make a buck. But give them a deadline facing a jury, and most would manage to avoid it.

Not Sebastian Rudd. He’d gotten his face in the newspaper a few times and he liked it. He’d won a couple of criminal cases no one else would take. His phone was ringing. His office was busy. He wasn’t getting rich, but he was paying his bills and driving a nice little BMW, pre-owned.

His latest secretary was named Rachel, a cute twenty-year-old who wanted to become a lawyer. She was single. Sebastian was divorced. She’d been there a month and the sexual tension was growing each day. Something was about to happen. She walked into his office on a Thursday morning and said, “You’ll never guess who just called.”

“I have to be in court in ten minutes,” Sebastian said, the same thing he said at least five times a week. “Who?”

“No name, but he asked if Mr. Rude, not Rudd, would be in a position to represent Thomas Ray Cardell.” She handed him a message slip and said, “Here’s his number.”

Sebastian’s jaw dropped. His heart froze. He fell back into his leather swivel and stared at Rachel. He finally managed to mumble, “You gotta be kidding.”

For three days, Mr. Thomas Ray Cardell had been front-page news in the Chronicle. Tee Ray, as he was known in Little Angola, was in jail, in protective custody actually, and charged with the capital murder of Officer Buck Lester. After three days of nonstop and one-sided coverage, it was well known that the drug dealer murdered the cop in a savage, execution-style killing. One report had Buck begging for his life.

“I’m not sure I want to get involved in this one,” Sebastian mumbled.

“He’s waiting for your call.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“No. A man of few words.” She turned around and headed for the door. Sebastian, as always, watched every step. Though he wasn’t sure, he believed the skirts had gotten tighter during her first month.

She closed the door. He took a deep breath, stared at the phone number, refocused, and told himself not to make the call. As a criminal defense lawyer, and one known as a brawler, he had crossed the line with the police, and there was no turning back. He had challenged their credibility in court. He’d caught them cheating. He’d called them liars when they were lying. He’d complained to their superiors. He fought for his clients, most of whom were guilty, and to the cops Rudd and his ilk were no better than the scum they represented. This, though, was different. The cold-blooded murder of a brave keeper of the peace, a decorated soldier, and a local boy at that was a crime so repulsive that no lawyer in his right mind would go near it. His reputation could be ruined. Threats and intimidation were practically guaranteed.

Thomas Ray Cardell was indeed entitled to a lawyer. That’s why the city funded the Office of the Public Defender. The PD had no choice.

Sebastian picked up the phone and dialed the number.

5.

Two hours later, a short, thin black man of forty eased into Sebastian’s office and said hello. He said his name was Bradley, which didn’t fit at all. He wore a tailored black suit, starched white shirt, and a narrow red-and-yellow bow tie. With his horn-rimmed glasses and squeaky voice, he could easily have passed for a minister or an English teacher in a prep school. Anything but a drug dealer.

With prefect diction and an impressive vocabulary, Bradley described himself as an entrepreneur with fingers in lots of pies. At the top were apartment buildings and car washes. At the bottom was the real moneymaker-distribution. Tee Ray had been working for an organization that Bradley was “affiliated with.” This organization was well managed and highly disciplined. It had a policy of taking care of its own.

“It’s a crack operation, right?” Sebastian asked.