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started.”
     
    “You don’t normally go in for this couch potato stuff at work,” Christina said, flopping herself down on the couch in Ben’s office. Jones leaned against the armrest. “What’s your interest?”
    Ben shrugged. “It’s a big case. It’s on Court TV.”
    “There’s always a big case on Court TV, at least according to Court TV. So what?”
    Ben turned up the volume a notch. “I happen to have a light workday.”
    “Which, for you, would normally suggest the New York Times crossword and a Trollope novel. What gives?”
    “I just thought it might be of interest to see how the Chicago big shots handle it. Might learn something.” He pointed toward the screen. “There’s Richard Drabble, the newly elected DA for Cook County. He was a law-and-order candidate. I bet he’s salivating at the prospect of getting a piece of this trial.”
    “No doubt.”
    “The judge is Manuel Lacayo. Very conservative by all accounts.”
    “Who’s the woman sitting just behind the defendant’s table? A legal assistant?”
    “No. Mother of one of the defendants.”
    “Really? How do you know?”
    “I . . . must’ve seen her somewhere. So, Jones, Christina—don’t you have some work you should be doing?”
    “No,” they both said.
    “Then go update the files. Write a brief.”
    “Nah,” Jones said. “I want to see this.”
    Ben folded his arms. “I thought I ran this office.”
    Jones patted him on the shoulder. “You believe whatever makes you happy.”
     
    Kevin took his seat beside his clients—careful to seem congenial and not give away how much he despised them—and listened attentively as DA Drabble began his opening statement. Drabble made all the expected points, generating neither surprise nor excitement. Kevin wondered if the extensive media coverage hadn’t stolen some of his thunder. However hideous the details, there was nothing the man could say about this case that hadn’t already been endlessly regurgitated on the evening news.
    “Of all the motivations known to man,” Drabble said, “hate is the one that is least tolerable, especially in a society as diverse as ours. What could be more vile than two young men who torture and kill, not out of necessity, not for profit, not for revenge, not because of anything the victim did, but because of what the victim was? The evidence will show that the defendants stalked Tony Barovick, forced him back to their fraternity house, attacked him without provocation, beat him mercilessly, then killed him. What kind of people could commit such a crime? What do you call two men so consumed with hate that they would commit such an atrocity, such an offense to decency and human compassion? I will tell you. You call them monsters. Monsters who need to be punished. Permanently.”
    Succinct—but eminently effective, Kevin thought. No doubt about where he was going. Or what Kevin needed to do in reply.
    When it was his turn, Kevin took his position before the jury. He was a man of modest build but in possession of a voice three times his size. As soon as he opened his mouth, he had the jury’s attention securely in his grasp.
    “First of all, let me tell you what this case is not about. It is absolutely not a referendum on gay rights. During voir dire, I didn’t ask any of you where you stood on the issue and, frankly, I don’t care. It’s not relevant. Whether you support gay people, tolerate them, or despise them, it doesn’t change one essential fact—my clients did not commit this crime.”
    “Death to fascists!” someone shouted from the back of the gallery.
    Judge Lacayo sprang into action. “I warned you I would not tolerate any inappropriate behavior. Bailiff!”
    Kevin hoped Boxer would take the call—he knew how to handle minor-league troublemakers—but instead another bailiff, one he didn’t recognize, stepped forward. “Yes, Your Honor?”
    “Remove the offending person from the courtroom. Immediately.”
    “Yes, sir.”