Moments later, the prosecutor comes out and introduces himself.

“Melvin Butterfield,” he says, apologetically, extending his hand as if I have an appointment and he has forced me to wait.

“Gideon Page,” I say, as we shake hands.

“I’m representing Class Bledsoe.”

The prosecutor’s mouth doesn’t exactly drop open, but he is clearly surprised as he stares at me for a long moment. Perhaps he thought Class

would hire a black attorney.

“How do you do?” he says.

“Sorry, I was on the phone. Want to come on back?”

“Sure,” I say and follow him back into the office. Butterfield is tall, perhaps 6‘4”, and can’t weigh more than one sixty.

“I know you,” he says emphatically as he takes a seat behind his desk.

“You’re that guy who got off Dade Cunningham in that rape case up in Fayetteville. Damn. First, Taylor gets Dick Dickerson, whom I can’t even beat on a parking ticket, and now Class hires a hot-shot from Blackwell County.” He grins, splitting his face from ear to ear.

“Maybe we can plead this out to simple assault tomorrow, and I can go back to trying DWIS against the public defender.”

I laugh out loud. Prosecuting attorneys invariably take themselves as seriously as God. This guy has a twinkle in his yellowish eyes.

Compared to him, the sheriff was positively pompous.

“That would be fine with me,” I reply.

“Man, you’re famous around here. How’d you get an acquittal in that case? There was only two blacks on that jury.”

Flattered that he knows so much about me, I say modestly, “It probably

helped that he had caught the pass that beat Alabama.” “Isn’t that the truth?” he says breezily.

“As long as they win, the Razorbacks can do no wrong.”

Is this guy really the prosecutor? He seems pretty loosey-goosey.