Chapman, whoever the hell he is, will be impressed with his new lawyer. Well, Doctor, actually I’m practicing out of my car these days. Those bastards at Mays amp; Burton! American capitalism at its best.

As I cross the street at Chase and Fry, heat radiates from the pavement as though someone had poured on gasoline and ignited it. Central Arkansas in the summer is a twenty-four-hour steam bath. By the time I walk the four blocks to the municipal courts building and to the jail housed beneath it, my nicest shirt, an Egyptian broadcloth with burgundy stripes, is clinging to me through my undershirt like wet toilet paper. Fortunately, I didn’t see a single person I knew on the streets, since everybody with an IQ over 7 is standing over a vent in their offices, wondering why I’ve chosen to stagger around outside in the middle of the afternoon in 101-degree heat.

At the window inside the municipal courts building (which has all the charm of a bus station, someone has spilled a bag of popcorn on the scuffed marble floor), I write down my home address, obtain a red attorney’s pass, and clip it to the lapel of my sports coat. As I wind around the maze of offices toward the stairs that lead to the jail, I try to compose myself for my first interview in solo practice, but my mind is still in Oscar’s office, as I tell him what I think of such shabby treatment after over a year of busting my balls for him and his firm. The fuckers-I hope they never win another case.

At the rate they’re going, it’s not an idle thought.

It is only when I enter the secured part of the jail that my mind snaps back to the present. Instantly, I have my old feeling of claustrophobia as I approach the window.