Doug Renfro is retrieved from a witness room and led into the judge’s chambers. He is wearing a dark wool suit, white shirt, dark tie, and is dressed better than anyone in the room, with the possible exception of me. He stands tall, erect, and proud, an old soldier itching for a fight. It has been ten months since his home was invaded by the police, and though he has aged considerably, his wounds have healed and he carries himself with confidence.

Judge Ponder swears him to tell the truth. He says, “Now, Mr. Renfro, the State is offering you a deal, a plea agreement. It is in writing. Have you read it and discussed it with your lawyer?”

“I have, yes, sir.”

“And you realize that if you take this plea agreement you will avoid this trial, walk out of here a free man, and never worry about going to prison?”

“Yes, I understand that. But I will not plead guilty to anything. The police broke into my home and killed my wife. They will not be charged and that is wrong. I’ll take my chances with the jury.” He glares at the prosecutor, gives him a look of disgust, and returns his gaze to Judge Ponder.

The prosecutor, a veteran named Chuck Finney, hides his face behind some paperwork. Finney is not a bad guy and does not want to be where he is now sitting. His problem is simple and obvious—an eager-beaver cop got wounded in a botched raid, and the law, in black and white, says the guy who shot him is guilty. It’s a bad law written by clueless people, and now Finney is compelled to enforce it. He cannot simply drop the charges. The police union is breathing down his neck.

A word here about Max Mancini. Max is the City’s chief prosecutor, appointed by the mayor and approved by the city council. He’s loud, flamboyant, ambitious, a driven man who’s going places, though it’s not clear exactly where. He loves cameras as much as I do and will knock folks out of the way to get in front of one. He’s crafty in the courtroom and boasts of a 99 percent conviction rate, same as every other prosecutor in America. Because he’s the boss, he gets to manipulate the numbers, so he has real proof that his 99 percent is legitimate.

Normally, in a case as big as Doug Renfro’s, with front-page coverage guaranteed and live-action shots morning, noon, and night, Max would be dressed in his finest and hogging the spotlight. However, this case is dangerous and Max knows it. Everybody knows it. The cops were wrong. The Renfros are victims. A guilty verdict seems unlikely, and if there’s one thing Max Mancini cannot risk it’s the wrong verdict.

So, he’s hiding. Not a peep out of our chief prosecutor. I’m sure he’s lurking around somewhere in the shadows, gawking at all the cameras and dying inside, but Max will not be seen during this trial. Instead, he dumped it on Chuck Finney.

19.

It takes three days to pick a jury, and it’s clear that all twelve know a lot about the case. I have wrestled with the strategy of requesting a change of venue, but decided against it. There are a couple of reasons for this, one legitimate and the other based on pure ego. The first is that many people in this city are fed up with the cops and their brutal tactics. The second is that there are reporters and cameras everywhere, and this is my turf. Most important, though, my client prefers to be tried by a jury of his fellow citizens.

In a crowded courtroom, Judge Ponder says, “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we will now begin this trial with the opening statements. First, the State’s attorney, Mr. Finney, then the defense, Mr. Rudd. I caution you that nothing you’re about to hear is actually evidence. The evidence comes from only one source, and that’s this witness chair right here. Mr. Finney.”

The prosecutor rises solemnly from his seat at the table, a table filled with deputy prosecutors and useless assistants. It’s a show of legal muscle, an attempt to impress the jury with the gravity of the case against Mr. Renfro. I have a different strategy. Doug and I sit alone, just the two of us. Two little guys facing the depthless resources of the government. The defense table seems almost deserted when compared to the army across the aisle. I live for this David versus Goliath image.

Chuck Finney is fiercely dull, and he begins with a grave “Ladies and gentlemen, this is a tragic case.” No kidding, Chuck. Is that the best you can do?