Downstairs I can detect relief by the spring in Chapman’s step as he is led toward me. Damn, I haven’t been on this case an hour, and I already feel guilty. Why? I think it’s because I already like Chapman, even though I’ve just met him. Some people (not many criminal defendants) I like instinctively and he is one of them. There is a dignity about the man that is appealing. I extend my hand formally, knowing at the moment I have nothing better to offer him. He crushes my fingers as if to reprimand me silently for allowing him to be degraded in this way. I explain his dilemma, and he listens intently. Fortunately, I didn’t promise him his re lease this afternoon. Still, guilt, like prickly heat, jabs my conscience while I explain that tomorrow morning he will appear before the judge for a bond hearing. This man should not be in jail even overnight. If he were white, given the nature of the alleged crime, he would most likely be released on his own recognizance. He may spend one night in jail, but I’ll be damned if he is going to spend another one.

“It’s okay,” Chapman says, consoling me.

“I know you did all you could.”

I shrug, not so sure. Hell, I should have called Bruton, the old bastard, at home and told him to get back down here and put in a day’s work.

“I’m sorry. Dr. Chapman.”

He gives me a wan smile.”

“My friends call me Andy.

“Dr. Chapman’ seems a little formal in a place like this.”

I look around the human zoo surrounding me and have to agree.

“Andy,” I say, “my parents. God forgive them, named me “Gideon,” and my friends don’t call me “Giddy.”