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staging—Espinoza forcing the conversation, discussing the topic when Hector was distracted or making it sound like a joke so Hector would agree, sarcastically. Though Paul didn’t want to raise expectations, he had to acknowledge the current state of affairs, because we were debating whether we should call any witnesses at all or just rest.
    “I’ll be back Sunday,” I told him. “If you’re sure it’s okay I go.”
    “It’s more than okay. It’s an order,” said Paul. “You did a great job, kid. Go have fun and we’ll talk Sunday afternoon.”
    I looked at my watch. It was half past two. I still had time for one more errand before I hooked up with Talia and we drove downstate.
    I drove to Liberty Park, where I knew I would find Ernesto Ramirez. I got out of my car and passed through a tall chain-link fence at a spot where someone had torn open a human-sized portion. Why rip into this fence when there was a gate just down the way? Because kids are stupid. It’s the kind of thing I did, too, when I was a kid.
    I walked across the wide expanse, grass and concrete. A grown man, without a child in tow, feels funny these days walking among children in a park under any circumstances, and throw in that I was wearing a suit, and I had white skin, and I pretty much stuck out like oil on snow. I was headed for the basketball court, where I’d previously talked with Ernesto.
    They’ll know, he’d said.
    Ernesto was with two other Latino men who looked to be in their mid-twenties. One of them was wearing a ripped tank top, long shorts, and court shoes. The other was scrawnier and wore an oversized shirt and blue jeans. I’d seen enough of them in my time as a prosecutor, the posture and cocky chin. Gangbangers, or I wasn’t a south-side Irishman.
    The scrawnier one saw me first and said something to Ernesto, who looked my way. When he saw me, he started to come toward me, presumably to separate the two of us from his friends. But I was so close I could almost touch him, and for this function I was performing, I literally had to make contact with him.
    He managed to say, “The hell are you doing,” before I slapped the envelope against his chest.
    “A subpoena,” I told him. “You’ve been served. You must appear in federal court next week to testify in the case of United States versus Hector Almundo. ” It was all very formal and unnecessary. The subpoena inside would tell him all of that. But I wanted the drama. I didn’t have anything left.
    Instinctively, Ernesto had accepted the envelope before I’d explained its contents. He stared at it and then looked up at me, shaking his head. “No,” he said. “I don’t—I won’t—”
    “It’s your decision,” I said. “You can appear at that date and time, or federal marshals will come and escort you. And then you can explain to a federal judge why you’re different from everyone else who is subpoenaed.”
    “No,” he repeated. He seemed to be in shock, only now catching up with what was happening.
    “And if you lie about what you know,” I went on, “you could be charged with perjury.”
    “You threatening my friend?” It was the bigger guy, the one with the torn tank. Up close, I could see the tiny tattoo of a dagger on the inside of his upper arm. He was a member of the Latin Lords. He had only a slight trace of an accent. He’d learned English and Spanish simultaneously as a child, I assumed.
    Standing face-to-face, as we were now, I towered over him. I was six-three and he was five-ten at best. He had wide shoulders and some muscle tone, a scar across his forehead, a crappy goatee. He was meaner and tougher than me, but only one of us knew that for sure. I looked down at him, making eye contact for a long moment before I uttered two words with sufficient conviction that I was making it clear, I’d only say them once. “Back. Off.”
    It threw him momentarily. He’d expected retreat. Now he was reassessing. In my experience with the