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like something from a bad B-movie: a big jowly head perched atop an obese mountain of flesh. It was the first time I’d ever seen a judge in a tight robe. His hair was an unruly white mop, wiry and thick, his eyebrows a briar patch covered in snow.
    An assistant district attorney was there for the prosecution, and I of course had Lucas Benton at my table, looking like he stepped straight from a GQ cover. Paying him for my defense would put me in the poorhouse, but as addresses go, the poorhouse beats the gas chamber every time. Benton was as good as advertised. The prosecutor tried to paint me as a hardened criminal and a flight risk, but Benton prevailed and got me out on a hundred-thousand-dollar bond. I could pay ten thousand cash, nonrefundable, for a bail bondsman to post the bail, or put up sufficient collateral to cover the hundred grand myself. I put up our house, which we had finished paying for a few months before. I held the pen, looked at the signature line. Just like our pawn tickets, it said PLEDGOR underneath. I signed my name, slid the paper across the counter, and slapped down the pen.
    “Let’s get the hell out of here,” I said.
     
    *          *          *
     
    The three of us sat in a big booth in the back corner at Hatley’s. After the waitress took our orders, Benton said, “Abby has been getting me up to speed on your background, Gray.” He shot her another of those smiles, but it looked different, almost intimate. Abby smiled back and it lasted a few seconds too long to suit me. I couldn’t help but wonder if she was getting ready to bed him, too.
    He took a smooth sip from his iced tea and continued. “I also had our firm’s investigator prepare a dossier on you, so I can see what the prosecution sees and hopefully get a glimpse of where they’re going. You realize that they will of course use your background against you.”
    “Background?” I glanced at Abby and she shrugged.
    “Gray, it’s imperative that you be forthcoming with me. We can’t afford surprises, and everything you tell me is—”
    “I have been forthcoming. What background?”
    “Twelve years ago, the incident in Arkansas?”
    “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I spoke truth.
    Benton sighed, reached for his briefcase. Opened it on his lap and pulled out a manila file folder. He pulled out a sheet of paper, handed it across the table to me. Abby and I read it together.
    Most of it was mundane: name, date of birth, education, employment history, typical vitae. It was the paragraph at the bottom that took a rather radical departure.
     
    CRIMINAL ACTIVITY
     
    Arrested 1990 in Little Rock, Arkansas, for aggravated assault and battery of a law enforcement officer. Incident described as Bolton having been stopped for a minor traffic violation, then losing his temper with the police officer, at which time he took the officer’s baton away from him and beat him severely. Left the scene. Subsequently arrested at a state trooper roadblock on I-40. Pled guilty to the charge, received a suspended sentence with five years probation.
     
    *          *          *
     
    “You need a new investigator, because this did not happen.”
    Benton steepled his fingers, rested his chin on the spire. “Very well. I’ll have it run again. It’s probably just a computer error, a transposed Social Security number, something like that.”
    Dinner arrived and we all ate in silence. The scene in the jailhouse mirror played out over and over in my mind. I excused myself and walked to the pay phone in the restroom corridor. I dialed the police department and asked for Bobby Knight. I got his voice mail, and left a two-word message: I know.

 
    Chapter 13
     
     
     
    At home that night, I wrestled with whether to confront Abby over what I’d seen with Bobby Knight. I decided to sleep on it. The kids were in bed and Abby and I were watching a CSI rerun when a soft knock sounded on the front