Judge Leonard Green takes his seat at the bench. Green is mid-sixties, tall and lean, with a hawkish face and perfect silver hair. He moves with the effeminate gait of a drag queen onstage. He’s as pure a son of a bitch as I’ve ever known, and he hovers over us from his perch on the bench, scanning the crowd like a vulture searching for carrion. Green could just as easily give my trial date to Tanner and let him pass it along to me, but since I’m handling the case for the district attorney’s office, the judge insists I appear in court. He knows I have no other reason to be here, but he won’t call the case early so I can go on about my business. He’ll make me sit here for hours, just because he can. If I leave the courtroom, he’ll call the case and then hold me in contempt of court because of my absence. Such are the games we play.

Green leans to his left and whispers in the clerk’s ear. She shakes her head and whispers back. I notice a look of concern on her face, a look I’ve seen hundreds of times. It means that Green has spotted a potential victim and is about to indulge his ever-present, masochistic need to inflict pain or punishment on an unsuspecting victim.

“Case number 32,455, State of Tennessee versus Alfred Milligan,” the clerk announces.

I turn to see Alfred Milligan, who appears to be in his late- fifties but is probably at least ten years younger, rise from his seat in the gallery. Milligan looks like so many others inhabiting the seemingly bottomless pit of criminal defendants. He’s decimated by a lack of nutrition, probably caused by a combination of poverty and alcohol or drug abuse. He uses a cane to walk. What’s left of his black hair is greasy and plastered to his forehead. He’s wearing what is most likely his best clothing, a black T-shirt with “Dale Earnhardt” written in red across the front and “The Legend” written in red across the back, and a pair of baggy blue jeans. He saunters to the front of the courtroom and looks around nervously.