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  Eroy was upset and embarrassed. He glared at his crew, and they stopped cheering. Eroy got the ball and drove in again. This time Danny made him earn his way to the basket, blocking him every step of the way. Eroy took a shot that missed. Danny got the ball and Eroy, sensing defeat, ran to attack him. He jumped on Danny as he shot the ball. Danny got the shot off, but Eroy fell on him with all his weight, knocking him to the ground. The shot bounced in anyway, and Danny won the game.

  Danny got up, tired, hurt, and sweaty. Some of Eroy's crew clapped.

  "Shut the fuck up!" Eroy screamed from the ground. He got up. To Danny he said: "You need to get out of here. And don't even think about taking that ball or them guns."

  "You lost. I'm taking what's mine," said Danny.

  Eroy threw a punch at Danny's face. Danny ducked to one side, easily dodging the blow. Then he responded by kicking out his foot into Eroy's abdomen. Eroy doubled over. Danny stepped closer and brought his knee up, while bringing Eroy's head down into it. Eroy straightened up from the blow. Then Danny spun around and caught him on the jaw with an elbow, which dropped him cold.

  Danny turned and walked over to Ray, who held Mo's ball and the guns. Respect was something the kids understood. There was a good chance that Eroy's crew would shoot him, but there was just as good a chance that they'd respect Danny for winning and defending himself.

  Danny got to Ray, who still had the gun under his coat. He waited a moment to give the kid a chance to play his hand. Ray didn't move. Danny stepped around him. Then, without a word, Danny took the ball and guns and walked off.

  As he moved along the street, he was aware of the kids watching him. He wondered what they thought. Were they thinking of shooting him in the back and avenging their fallen hero? Or were they thinking about changing their way of life now that they'd seen Eroy bested on the court and beaten in life?

  Mo was elated to get his ball back, but told Danny that he now had to watch his back for Eroy. Danny didn't think about it. He had business. Mo gave Danny a hundred bucks, and Danny would have normally turned it down, but he needed the cash right now.

  Mo told Danny where he might find Lewis Quince. Danny committed it to memory, got into his car, and drove off.

  The confrontation with Eroy had left him exhilarated. It was going to be hard to help Marshall and not get into trouble. The neighborhoods were not a place you went into softly.

  He turned a corner and headed toward Gratiot. Quince was one of those people who operated under the radar of all things lawful and proper. To get to him, Danny knew he would have to get down and dirty. But since he'd volunteered to help Marshall, he'd felt like a cop again. Maybe dirt was just what he needed.

T
he trial opened with a burst of energy that seemed to shake the courthouse. TV cameras lined the perimeter of the court making the room seem smaller.

  Outside, more media types filled the street. The court sketch artist drew pictures of TV reporters and gave them away to the delight of all. The somber, dignified days of court were gone. Now, important criminal trials were more pomp than procedure, more event than justice.

  Marshall looked at the statue of Lady Justice with fear in his heart. The symbol of all he stood for seemed to taunt him as he waited to begin the trial.

  He wondered what her eyes would look like without the blindfold. Would they be sad for the perversion that had befallen her cause, or would they burn like elemental fire, burning away the lies of lawyers and their clients to reveal the truth?

  These were his thoughts as he was about to start a case against a man who might not be guilty. But he couldn't say anything about his suspicions without proof. Indeed, who would he tell them to? His misgivings were connected to all the people he could conceivably confide in.

  More troubling was the fact that he was in possession of evidence that could exculpate Mbutu. It was his duty to give up those facts when they became evident. But what did he have, really? Conjecture, hunches, a bug in his office, and an air duct leading to a hollow floor. He'd be removed from the case, and likely fired from the department to boot.

  And there was still the question of Mbutu. He had at least tried to kill Douglas and so was guilty of attempted murder, as well as assault and the attempted murder of Wendel Miller, who still had the only good slug lodged in his spine. But what did Mbutu want? If he knew there was a second shooter, then surely he knew he was innocent. Why not just say that and use it to embarrass the government? It was almost as though Mbutu wanted to go to jail.

  Since he'd been incarcerated, Mbutu's popularity had grown. His organization, the Brotherhood, had gotten new members from all around the nation. Chapters had even started in some foreign countries.

  Mbutu was set to publish a set of letters from the jailhouse in a month, like Martin Luther King Jr. and Mandela had done. Mbutu was probably feeling like a hero, and sooner or later, a talk with him was going to be essential to find the truth.

  Roberta sat at the table with Marshall, looking as if she didn't have a care in the world. She was good at hiding her feelings; then again, she'd been doing it for a long time, he thought. Ryder and Walter seemed nervous by contrast. Walter wanted respect in the office, and this meant a lot to his career. For Ryder, the case meant a chance to move up in his already rarefied circle.

  On the other side of the room, Mbutu sat looking sick and tired. As the case went on, he seemed to grow more and more feeble. The case was stressful, Marshall thought. And Mbutu was no longer a young man.

  Marshall had gotten up early and exercised, as he always did on a trial day. Danny and Vinny kept the house feeling like a home, but even the presence of close friends couldn't replace the relationship he'd lost. He wondered what Chemin was doing. Was she as upset as he was? Or had she walked into a new life easily, making him a memory?

  A bailiff called the court to order. "All rise. The United States District Court for Eastern District of Michigan is now in session. The Honorable Clark Langworthy presiding."

  Judge Langworthy entered, carrying a load of books and papers. The gallery stood and grew quiet. Langworthy turned on his mike and got feedback. He seemed frustrated with all the electronic equipment in the court. He didn't want the media, but higher powers had intervened.

  "United States versus Daishaya Ali Mbutu, also known as Deion Wilson," said the bailiff. "The defendant is charged with one count of first-degree murder, one count of attempted murder, criminal assault, assault with a deadly weapon, and possession of an illegal firearm."

  "Before we begin," said Langworthy, "I want to caution the media."

  The TV reporters all seemed to become stiff at this statement.

  "This is a trial, a court of law. The public may have a right to view our proceedings, but I will not tolerate tawdry displays of low-class journalism. Some of you may be insulted by that, but then again, only those dealing in low-class journalism would be insulted."

  The gallery laughed, even some of the reporters thought it was funny.

  "Bailiff, bring in the jury."

  The bailiff opened a door and signaled the jury to come in. The twelve men and women and the alternates walked in and took their seats. Debra Gibson-Chandler had been chosen as foreperson. He was right about her, Marshall thought. She was a leader.

  "All right," said Langworthy. "The jury has been seated. Counsel appearances?"

  "Muhammad Rashad and Leslie Reed for the defendant," said Rashad.

  "Marshall Jackson, Robert Ryder, Roberta Shebbel, and Walter Anderson for the United States."

  "Let's begin with the opening statements. Mr. Rashad?"

  Rashad stood and walked in front of the jury. He was wearing a white dashiki and a kente cloth hat. He looked like he'd been kicked right out of the 1970s, and yet there was an elegance to him that overrode the retro clothes. He had the face of a father, a mentor, someone you trusted.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," began Rashad. "You are going to hear a lot of things in the case from the government. But they won't show you much of anything. They will say my client, a man who had given his life to service of his people, killed Farrel Douglas, but they won't show you how he did it. They will say DNA links him to the death, but they won't show you that it does. They will say bullets match a gun owned by my client, but they won't be able to prove it."

  Rashad went on to tell all about Mbutu's community activism over the years. Then he recounted the facts, saying that Mbutu was nowhere near the place where the crime was committed and did not know Anthony Collier, the man who'd been killed as a conspirator.

  ". . . in life, people say a lot of things to us, don't they? But do we judge them by that? No, we judge them by what they do. In life, actions speak louder than words, and in court, proof speaks louder than allegation. Listen to what the government says then watch what they show you, and you will clearly see that my client is innocent."

  Rashad turned, as if to walk back toward his table, then stopped.

  "I know what you're thinking," he continued. "If my client didn't kill the justice, then who did? Well, people, someone had to pay for the death of a Supreme Court justice. Do you think America will ever let an assassination go unpunished? These are the people who still cling to the belief that Lee Harvey Oswald inflicted five gunshot wounds with one bullet. James Earl Ray went to his grave denying that he killed Martin Luther King Jr., and mystery and suspicion still surround the death of Abraham Lincoln. There is more to this case than the government will tell you. But as I said, don't listen to what they say. Consider what they prove to you—nothing."

  Rashad walked back to his table. Marshall felt a little pressure. The man was good. He had kept it short so as to make the jury believe it was simple, but he made it compelling, getting in his defense and setting the government up as purveyors of deception.

  Normally, a government lawyer would counter with hard evidence and things you can touch. But Marshall had learned that emotion was the master of logic in the human heart and mind. Defense attorneys knew this too. He had to match Rashad with a plea to both sides of the brain.

  "Farrel Douglas was an exceptional man," Marshall began, still sitting down. He rose slowly and made his way to the middle of the courtroom. "He was born in poverty in Philadelphia and walked out of Harvard Law School at the top of his class. He was a man who personified everything we believe in this country. And he was murdered for those beliefs, killed by a man whose importance to his people had waned, whose beliefs were no longer popular."

  Marshall then went into a brief presentation of the facts surrounding Douglas's death. He kept it short, making sure it was easy to follow.

  "To the defendant," Marshall continued, "Farrel Douglas represented his demise as a leader and as a person. The defendant is no Oswald. We will prove that Daishaya Mbutu was at the murder scene, with the weapon that killed Farrel Douglas. We will present hard scientific evidence to prove it. Everything else is deception."

  Marshall sat back down feeling good about the opening, but guilty about himself. Had he just taken the first step toward injustice, or was he on a more noble path? It was hard to know which.

  Marshall showed the jury the tape of the assassination. Rashad and Leslie had objected, but Langworthy had allowed the tape. What he didn't allow were most of the forensic pictures of Douglas's body. Marshall didn't see the difference, but it was Langworthy again trying to be Solomon, to help the defense and look as if he were impartial.

  Marshall then called his first witness, Kevin Henderson, a former follower of Mbutu. Henderson was a postal worker and family man. He was a solid witness who had fallen out of favor with the Brotherhood as their views became more radical.

  "State your name for the record, sir," said Marshall.

  "Kevin Duane Henderson." Henderson was a tall, handsome man about forty or so. This always helped to sway a jury. Nice-looking people tell the truth.

"Are you known by any other names?"

"Omar Kahlil. That was my name when I was a member."

  "You were a member of the Brotherhood, the defendant's organization?"

  "Yes."

  "Why did you leave?"

  "Because Mbutu is crazy."

  Rashad jumped up. "Objection, Your Honor."

  "It's sustained," said Langworthy. "The jury will disregard the witness's characterization."

  "Were there specific reasons of a philosophical nature that you left the organization?" Marshall asked.

  "Yes," said Henderson. "I was upset that the Brotherhood's attacks were turning to other black people."

  "Can you explain that for the jury?"

  "The organization was supposed to be trying to free black people. Our enemy was the establishment. All of a sudden, all we did was jump on black leaders and criticize them."

  "Were there any leaders in particular who came under fire?"

  "Jesse Jackson, the NAACP, and of course Farrel Douglas."

  "Of the leaders mentioned who got the most criticism?"

  "Douglas. Mbutu was obsessed with him."

  "Objection," said Rashad.

  "Sustained."

  "Mr. Henderson," said Marshall. "Do you know how Mr. Mbutu felt about the deceased, Farrel Douglas?"

  "Yes. He said—"

  "Hearsay, Your Honor," said Rashad.

  Marshall expected this objection. Hearsay was basically the statement of one person offered to prove something in a case. In this instance, Henderson was offering statements about the defendant to prove he didn't like Douglas. Hearsay is also the one evidence rule that no lawyer completely understands.