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knees, and he tries this one time too often. Tadeo reads it, times it perfectly, and executes his finest trick, a blind elbow spin, a move that takes balls because for a split second his back is turned to his opponent. But the Jackal is too slow and Tadeo’s right elbow crushes into the right jaw. Lights out. The Jackal is out before he lands on the mat. The rules allow Tadeo to pounce on him for a few shots to the face, to properly finish him off, but why bother? Tadeo just stands in the center of the ring, hands raised, staring down, admiring his work as the Jackal lies as still as a corpse. The referee is quick to stop it all.
    Somewhat nervously, we wait a few moments as they try and revive him. The crowd wants a stretcher, a casualty, something to talk about at work, but the Jackal eventually comes to life and starts talking. He sits up, and we relax. Or try to. It’s not easy staying calm in the aftermath of such furious action, when you have something at stake, and when five thousand maniacs are stomping their feet.
    The Jackal gets to his feet and the maniacs boo.
    Tadeo walks over to him, says something nice, and they make peace.
    As we leave the cage, I follow Tadeo and smile as he slaps hands with his fans and soaks up another win. He made a couple of boneheaded moves that would get him killed against a ranked opponent, but all in all it was another promising fight. I try and savor the moment and think about the future and the potential earnings, maybe some sponsorships. He’s the fourth fighter I’ve invested in and the first one who’s paying off.
    Just before we leave the floor and enter the tunnel, a female voice yells, “Mr. Rudd! Mr. Rudd!”
    It takes a second or two for this to register because no one in this crowd should possibly recognize me. I’m wearing an official Team Zapate trucker-style rap cap, a hideous yellow jacket, and different eyeglasses, and my long hair is tucked away. But by the time I pause and look, she’s reaching for me. A heavyset woman of twenty-five with purple hair, piercings, enormous boobs exploding from just under a skintight T-shirt, pretty much the typical classy gal at the cage fights. I give her a curious look and she again says, “Mr. Rudd. Aren’t you Mr. Rudd, the lawyer?”
    I nod. She takes a step even closer and says, “My mother is on the jury.”
    “What jury?” I ask, suddenly panicked. There’s only one jury at the moment.
    “We’re from Milo. The Gardy Baker trial. My mom’s on the jury.”
    I jerk my head to the left, as if to say, “That way.” Seconds later we’re off the floor and walking side by side along a narrow corridor as the walls shake around us. “What’s her name?” I ask, watching everyone who passes.
    “Glynna Roston, juror number eight.”
    “Okay.” I know every juror’s name, age, race, job, education, family, residence, marital history, prior jury service, and criminal record, if any. I helped select them. Some I wanted, most I did not. I have been sitting in a packed courtroom with them five days a week for the past two weeks, and I’m really getting tired of them. I think I know their politics, religions, biases, and feelings about criminal justice. Because I know so damn much, I’ve been convinced since they were seated that Gardy Baker is headed for death row.
    “What’s Glynna thinking these days?” I ask cautiously. She could be wearing a mike. Nothing surprises me.
    “She thinks they’re all a bunch of liars.” We’re still walking, slowly, going nowhere, each afraid to look the other in the eyes. I am stunned to hear this. Reading her body language and knowing her background, I would bet the farm that Glynna Roston would be the first to yell “Guilty!”
    I look behind us to make sure there’s no witness, then say, “Well, she’s a smart woman because they
are
lying. They have no proof.”
    “Do you want me to tell her that?”
    “I don’t care what you tell her,” I say, looking around as we