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because they did her taxes. They assumed her brother had no money, either. But the Constitution guaranteed competent counsel, and they didn’t have a very high opinion of public defenders. So they were caught in a genuine ethical dilemma.
    The litigator resolved it. His name was David Chapman. He was a hardscrabble veteran who knew Rodin over at the DA’s office. He knew him pretty well. It would have been impossible for him not to, really. They were two of a kind, raised in the same neighborhood and working in the same business, albeit on opposite sides. So Chapman went to the smoking room and used his cell phone to call the DA at home. The two lawyers had a full and frank discussion. Then Chapman came back to the lunch table.
    “It’s a slam dunk,” he said. “Ms. Barr’s brother is guilty all to hell and gone. Rodin’s case is going to read like a textbook. Hell, it’s probably going to
be
a textbook one day. He’s got every kind of evidence there is. There’s not a chink of daylight anywhere.”
    “Was he leveling with you?” the managing partner asked.
    “There’s no bullshitting between old buddies,” Chapman said.
    “So?”
    “All we would have to do is plead in mitigation. If we can get the lethal injection reduced to life without parole, there’s a big win right there. That’s all Ms. Barr has a right to expect. Or her damn brother, with all due respect.”
    “How much involvement?” the managing partner asked.
    “Sentencing phase only. Because he’ll have to plead guilty.”
    “You happy to handle it?”
    “Under the circumstances.”
    “How many hours will it cost us?”
    “Not many. There’s practically nothing we can do.”
    “What grounds for mitigation?”
    “He’s a Gulf War vet, I believe. So there’s probably chemical stuff going on. Or some kind of delayed post-traumatic thing. Maybe we could get Rodin to agree beforehand. We could get it done over lunch.”
    The managing partner nodded. Turned to the tax guy. “Tell your secretary we’ll do everything in our power to help her brother in his hour of need.”

    Barr was moved from the police station lockup to the county jail before either his sister or Chapman got a chance to see him. His blanket and pajamas were taken away and he was issued paper underwear, an orange jumpsuit, and a pair of rubber shower sandals. The county jail wasn’t a pleasant place to be. It smelled bad and it was noisy. It was radically overcrowded and the social and ethnic tensions that were kept in control on the street were left to rage unchecked inside. Men were stacked three to a cell and the guards were shorthanded. New guys were called fish, and fish were left to fend for themselves.
    But Barr had been in the army, so the culture shock for him was a little less than it might have been. He survived as a fish for two hours, and then he was escorted to an interview room. He was told there was a lawyer waiting there for him. He found a table and two chairs bolted to the floor in a windowless cubicle. In one of the chairs was a guy he vaguely recognized from somewhere. On the table was a pocket tape recorder. Like a Walkman.
    “My name is David Chapman,” the guy in the chair said. “I’m a criminal defense attorney. A lawyer. Your sister works at my firm. She asked us to help you out.”
    Barr said nothing.
    “So here I am,” Chapman said.
    Barr said nothing.
    “I’m recording this conversation,” Chapman said. “Putting it on tape. I take it that’s OK with you?”
    Barr said nothing.
    “I think we met once,” Chapman said. “Our Christmas party one year?”
    Barr said nothing.
    Chapman waited.
    “Have the charges been explained to you?” he asked.
    Barr said nothing.
    “The charges are very serious,” Chapman said.
    Barr stayed quiet.
    “I can’t help you if you won’t help yourself,” Chapman said.
    Barr just stared at him. Just sat still and quiet for several long minutes. Then he leaned forward toward the tape machine