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“And try to get that scowl off your face,” said the tired young attorney,
     “when you go before the judge. You can do that for a minute, can’t you? Speak clearly and show remorse, understand?”
    “I hear you,” said the kid. “Can I go get me one of them sodas now?”
    “Go ahead.”
    The young man glanced over at Stefanos and gave him a hard look before rising out of his seat to walk, deep-dip style, toward
     the cafeteria line.
    Stefanos had choked down half his coffee by the time Elaine Clay entered the cafeteria. Clay was a Fifth Streeter, one of
     the court-appointed attorneys available to defendants under the Criminal Justice Act. In her middle years, with the legs to
     wear the skirt she wore today, she was tall and big boned, with a handsome, smooth chocolate face. Even before she had begun
     throwing work his way, Stefanos had heard of her rep from the cops who frequented the Spot, the bar where he worked part-time.
     Most cops derided the CJA attorneys — they were the enemy who undid police arrests. But over the years the strength and consistency
     of Elaine Clay’s performance had elicited a kind of muttered-under-the-breath respect from the cops. It had been one of the
     Spot’s regulars, in fact, homicide detective Dan Boyle, who had put Clay and Stefanos together the first time.
    Stefanos stood as Elaine approached the table.
    “Nick,” she said.
    “Counselor.”
    They shook hands. Elaine had a seat, dropping a worn leather bag at her side.
    “Well?” she said.
    “Here you go.” Stefanos placed an envelope into her hand. “I think I got what you were looking for.”
    She studied the photographs from the envelope. “You got a night and a day shot.”
    “Yeah. The day shot shows that the bulb of the street lamp’s been broken out. The night shot shows what you can see on that
     corner without the light — nothing. Newton Place dead-ends at the western border of the Old Soldiers’ Home property there,
     and there isn’t any light over that fence, either. There’s no way that cop saw your client dealing weed out of that car.”
    “The arrest was six months ago. You took these pictures, what, last week?”
    “Eight days ago. I know, it doesn’t prove the light was out the night those cops arrested him last summer. It doesn’t disprove
     it, either.”
    “The prosecutor will argue relevance — that a busted street lamp from a week ago has no relevance to a crime that occurred
     six months ago. And the judge will sustain it.”
    “Yeah, but I figure it’ll put, whaddaya call it, the seed of doubt into the jury’s mind.”
    “Seed of doubt? You’re getting fancy on me now, Nick.”
    “Sorry. But if the prosecutor can’t prove without a doubt that someone saw the kid dealing —”
    “They caught him with a Baggie of herb in the Maxima.”
    “Where was the buyer?”
    “By then the alleged buyer had beat it on foot.”
    “That’s possession, not possession with intent to distribute.”
    “That’s my case. Which is why I’m going to use these photos — they’re the only thing I’ve got. I get this reduced to a simple
     possession charge, they throw the jury trial out. Under the new District law, crimes carrying penalties of less than six months
     go before the judge without a jury.”
    “The kid’ll walk, then.”
    “It depends on who I draw behind the bench and what their temperature’s like that day. But most likely my client will get
     a tongue-lashing and community service.”
    Stefanos lit a smoke, side-exhaled, and tossed the match into the Styrofoam cup. In accepting these assignments from Elaine
     Clay, he’d known all along what his role would be. Still, it was hard to feel clean about his part in this daily cycle. He
     wondered how Elaine did this, every single day.
    She pulled a manila folder from her bag and dropped it on the table. “I’ve got something else for you, Nick, if you want it.”
    “What is it?”
    “I’m defending a kid named Randy