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before Kimberly Pincus could say another word.

15
    T HE JUDGE WAS Sharon Solomon, late forties, African American. She had reading glasses on her nose and a red and blue scarf around her neck.
     Tall and regal. We all stood as she took the bench, and court was called to order by the clerk.
    Judge Solomon began dispatching cases with relentless efficiency. I watched her closely, trying to get a read. One of the
     best skills a lawyer can have is judge reading. Figure out what annoys them, where their hot buttons are.
    And then, depending on the circumstances, hit or don’t hit those buttons.
    I could tell after the first few arraignments that Judge Solomon liked lawyers who were prepared, who could cite authority
     on the spot, and who didn’t try to dance around the obvious.
    Not like the poor, balding sap who tried to get his client out O.R., and when the judge said no, said, “You have to, Your
     Honor.” And Judge Solomon said, “Why do I have to?” And the sap said, “Because you just do.”
    At which point the bailiff, clerk, and Ms. Kimberly Pincus issued synchronized sighs. Then Judge Solomon said, “Don’t you
     ever come in my courtroom and tell me what I can and cannot do unless you have a case, a page number, and a host of angels
     by your side, do you understand me?”
    The sap opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, and said, “Yes, Your Honor.”
    A good time was had by all, then my case was called.
    “Good morning, Your Honor,” I said. “Tyler Buchanan on behalf of Mr. Richess, who is present in court. We will waive a reading
     of the complaint and statement of rights and enter a plea of not guilty. We will not waive time.”
    Judge Solomon looked at me over her glasses. “You want to set this for trial?”
    “Yes,” I said.
    “Have you read the arrest report?”
    “Yes.”
    “Have you talked to Ms. Pincus?”
    “Yes, Your Honor. She said she was going to eat my lunch.”
    The judge looked at the DCA. “Ms. Pincus, did you tell Mr. Buchanan you were going to eat his lunch?”
    “Yes, I did,” Kimberly Pincus said.
    “Then what will Mr. Buchanan eat?”
    “Crow,” Ms. Pincus said.
    She was quick. And she said it with a glimmer. I had to respect that. Talking smack with a little style never hurt a trial
     lawyer.
    “We shall convene the meal on the twenty-sixth, if that’s all right with counsel,” Judge Solomon said.
    “Works for me,” I said.
    “I’ll be here,” Ms. Pincus said.
    “Who’s bringing dessert?” I said.
    Judge Solomon smiled, which I took as a minor victory. But then she said, “I can assure you, Mr. Buchanan, I will be the one
     cooking the goose.”
    I decided to give her the last line.

16
    “W HAT DID SHE mean?” Kate Richess asked me in the parking lot. “About cooking goose?”
    I looked at Carl. He would indeed be stuffed and basted if we lost at trial. Which seemed to be highly likely.
    “She’s just trying to scare us,” Eric said.
    “Us?” Carl said.
    Eric put his hand on his brother’s shoulder.
    The sky was dark and spitting drops.
    “Maybe you should be scared,” Kate said to Carl.
    “I’m tired of dancing like a monkey,” Carl said. He put his Dodgers cap on defiantly.
    Eric Richess said, “People want to push us around. Maybe we don’t want to be pushed.”
    “You’re not accused of anything,” I said.
    “Yeah, but if I was, I’d fight it out.”
    “You guys like to fight,” I said.
    “That’s what Mom gave us,” Carl said, putting his arm around her shoulders. “It’s in the genes.”

17
    A FTER C ARL AND Kate went off to their car, Eric said he wanted to talk to me.
    “I don’t know how much you know about Carl,” he said.
    “I know he’s heading for a possible jail sentence.”
    “Do you really think so?”
    “It’s a maybe. The judge has that option, and there’s really not all that much I can do. I’ve advised him to take the plea
     deal.”
    “You don’t know us,” Eric said. “We’re kind