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first-class uppercut punch had made all the difference in the world.
    Rick punched good.
    And he’d been cut out for military service.
    After he killed a few carloads of Afghanis, after he survived the helicopter crash and brought Jack back from the dead, after he got a medal and a handshake from the high command and had a government pension in the bag, he didn’t care what anyone said to him or thought about him anymore.
    They had to watch out for
him
.
    If he had a motto, it was Do Not Fuck with Me.
    And now he was being fucked with.
    Rick thought about how, three months ago, he had been home in his very sweet house on Sherman Canal, drinking a Coors and eating pork chops in front of the TV, his plate on his lap, his feet up on the hatch cover he’d made into a coffee table.
    Godfather II
had been on his fifty-inch flat-screen, and just at the point when Fredo was going for his boat ride, Rick heard the footsteps on the deck followed by a loud shout: “Open up. LAPD.” And then the door was kicked in and about eleven guys stormed his place.
    They threw him facedown on the floor, and one of those assholes put a knee into his back, almost crippling him. Another stepped on his hand with a boot, acting like the remote control was something dangerous. What? A grenade? A piece?
    Or were they just fucking with him?
    After the cops roughed him up and dragged him downtown, he got his phone call. Twenty minutes later, Jack was there with Eric Caine, who took pictures of the abrasions on Rick’s face and told him don’t say anything and don’t give the cops any reason to pile on extra charges.
    Next day, Eric had appeared with him at his arraignment and put up bail, a half million bucks, which had allowed him to go to work and sleep at home.
    After today, he might not sleep in his own bed ever again.
    The bailiff called out, “All rise,” and Rick stood up.
    How had this fucking happened?
    He just didn’t fucking get it.
    He sat down. There was a whoosh of the people in the crowd behind him taking seats, adjusting their clothing, whispering to one another. He felt Caine’s arm go around his shoulders.
    Rick’s ears were burning, but, man, he was doing his best not to let Bambino off the leash. Last thing he needed was to start barking at the ADA and his twelve peers in the box who were going to decide what happened to him.

Chapter 13

     
    AFTER JUDGE JOHNSON instructed the jury, she asked Dexter Lewis if he was ready to make his opening statement.
    Rick thought,
Right, like, is a shark hungry?
    The kid said, “Yes, Your Honor,” stood up in his sharp blue suit, and went through the short gate to the middle of the courtroom.
    He said “Good morning” to the jurors, looking like he could be the kid or grandkid of some of them: a polished, attractive young man with fire in his belly and blood in his eye.
    Lewis said, “Folks, this is a straight-up case of aggravated assault. The People will prove to you that on June fourteenth of this year, Mr. Del Rio went to the house of the victim, Ms. Victoria Carmody, a defenseless woman of forty, and gave her a beating that almost killed her.
    “Ms. Carmody isn’t in court today. She’s in a coma because of that beating—but before she slipped into this state of unconsciousness, she did testify to the police that Mr. Del Rio was the one who assaulted her.”
    Rick clasped his hands together so hard they hurt. He thought of other things: the boat he was building in his garage, what he would name it, what colors he would paint the hull, that if he got out of here, he was going to take a gun to the range and blow off a little steam.
    Lewis was saying, “This tragic story actually started a year ago, when Mr. Del Rio was dating Ms. Carmody. Ms. Carmody is an independent tax consultant and a quiet person who lives by herself. She met Mr. Del Rio in a singles chat room, and after a few months of seeing him, she decided that they were ultimately incompatible and she ended the