Джон Гришэм - Rogue Lawyer

The fights begin and I roam around the arena, killing time. The tension in the locker room is insufferable and I can’t stand to be in there as the clock ticks along. I know that by now Tadeo is laid out on a table, motionless, covered by a thick quilt, saying his prayers to the Virgin Mary and listening to filthy Latin rap. There is nothing I can do to help, so I find a spot on an upper level, high above the ring, and take in the show. It is indeed a sellout, and the fans are as loud and crazed as ever. Cage fighting appeals to the savage instinct in some people, including me, and we’re all here for the same reason—to see one fighter annihilate another. We want to see bleeding eyes, gashes across the forehead, choke holds, bone-ripping submissions, and brutal knockout punches that send the corners scrambling for the doctor. Mix in a flood of cheap beer, and you have five thousand maniacs begging for blood.

I eventually work my way back to the locker room, where things are coming to life. The first two fights ended with early knockouts, so the evening is moving quickly. Norberto, Oscar, and Miguel put on their glowing yellow jackets, same as mine, and Team Zapate is ready for the long walk to the cage. I’ll be in the corner, along with Norberto and Oscar, though my role is not as important. I make sure Tadeo has water while Norberto yells instructions in the fastest Spanish you’ll ever hear. Oscar tends to the facial wounds, if any. From the moment we hit the floor, everything becomes a blur. Along the tunnel, drunk fans reach for Tadeo and scream his name. Cops shove people out of our way. The roar is earsplitting, and it’s not all for Tadeo. They want more, another fight, preferably one to the death.

Outside the cage, an official checks Tadeo’s gloves, applies oil to his face, and gives him the green light. An announcer yells his name over the PA, and our man bounces into the cage in his bright yellow trunks and robe. His opponent tonight goes by “the Jackal,” real name unknown and unimportant. He’s a submission specialist, a tall white guy without much bulk, but looks are deceiving. I’ve seen him fight three times and he’s guileful and crafty. He plays defense well and looks for a takedown. He wrapped his last opponent into a pretzel and made him scream for mercy. Right now I loathe the Jackal, but deep down I admire the hell out of him. Any man who can climb into the cage has far more spine than the average guy.

The bell rings for round 1, three minutes of fury. Tadeo the boxer bores in straight ahead and immediately has the Jackal backing up. Both jab and spar for the first minute, then tie up but there’s no damage. Like the other five thousand fans, I’m yelling my head off, though I have no idea why. Any advice is useless and Tadeo isn’t listening anyway. They go down, land hard, and the Jackal has him in a scissors hold. For a long minute, the action dies as Tadeo squirms and wiggles and we hold our breath. He finally breaks free and manages a sharp left jab to the Jackal’s nose. Finally, there’s blood. There’s no question my man is the better fighter, but it just takes one mistake and you’ve got an arm twisted to the breaking point. Between rounds, Norberto unloads a torrent of instructions, but Tadeo isn’t listening. He knows much more about fighting than any of us, and he’s got the guy figured out. When the bell rings for round 2, I grab him by the arm and yell into his ear, “Take him in this round and there’s an extra two thousand bucks.” This, Tadeo hears.

The Jackal lost the first round, so, like many fighters, he starts pressing in the second round. He wants to get inside, to get his wiry arms fixed into some manner of vile death grip, but Tadeo reads him perfectly. Thirty seconds in, Tadeo does a classic left-right-left combo and knocks his opponent squarely onto his butt. Tadeo then makes a common mistake as he attempts to launch himself like an idiot onto the Jackal, much like a manic dive-bomber lunging for the kill. The Jackal manages to kick with his right foot, a brutal blow that hits Tadeo just above the crotch. He stays on his feet as the Jackal scrambles to his, and for a second or two neither man pushes the action. They finally shake it off and begin circling. Tadeo finds his boxer’s rhythm and begins peppering the Jackal with unanswered jabs. He opens a cut above his right eye and widens it with a relentless barrage. The Jackal has the bad habit of throwing a wild fake left hook just before he ducks and comes in low at the knees, and he tries this one time too often. Tadeo reads it, times it perfectly, and executes his finest trick, a blind elbow spin, a move that takes balls because for a split second his back is turned to his opponent. But the Jackal is too slow and Tadeo’s right elbow crushes into the right jaw. Lights out. The Jackal is out before he lands on the mat. The rules allow Tadeo to pounce on him for a few shots to the face, to properly finish him off, but why bother? Tadeo just stands in the center of the ring, hands raised, staring down, admiring his work as the Jackal lies as still as a corpse. The referee is quick to stop it all.

Somewhat nervously, we wait a few moments as they try and revive him. The crowd wants a stretcher, a casualty, something to talk about at work, but the Jackal eventually comes to life and starts talking. He sits up, and we relax. Or try to. It’s not easy staying calm in the aftermath of such furious action, when you have something at stake, and when five thousand maniacs are stomping their feet.

The Jackal gets to his feet and the maniacs boo.

Tadeo walks over to him, says something nice, and they make peace.

As we leave the cage, I follow Tadeo and smile as he slaps hands with his fans and soaks up another win. He made a couple of boneheaded moves that would get him killed against a ranked opponent, but all in all it was another promising fight. I try and savor the moment and think about the future and the potential earnings, maybe some sponsorships. He’s the fourth fighter I’ve invested in and the first one who’s paying off.

Just before we leave the floor and enter the tunnel, a female voice yells, “Mr. Rudd! Mr. Rudd!”

It takes a second or two for this to register because no one in this crowd should possibly recognize me. I’m wearing an official Team Zapate trucker-style rap cap, a hideous yellow jacket, and different eyeglasses, and my long hair is tucked away. But by the time I pause and look, she’s reaching for me. A heavyset woman of twenty-five with purple hair, piercings, enormous boobs exploding from just under a skintight T-shirt, pretty much the typical classy gal at the cage fights. I give her a curious look and she again says, “Mr. Rudd. Aren’t you Mr. Rudd, the lawyer?”

I nod. She takes a step even closer and says, “My mother is on the jury.”

“What jury?” I ask, suddenly panicked. There’s only one jury at the moment.

“We’re from Milo. The Gardy Baker trial. My mom’s on the jury.”

I jerk my head to the left, as if to say, “That way.” Seconds later we’re off the floor and walking side by side along a narrow corridor as the walls shake around us. “What’s her name?” I ask, watching everyone who passes.

“Glynna Roston, juror number eight.”

“Okay.” I know every juror’s name, age, race, job, education, family, residence, marital history, prior jury service, and criminal record, if any. I helped select them. Some I wanted, most I did not. I have been sitting in a packed courtroom with them five days a week for the past two weeks, and I’m really getting tired of them. I think I know their politics, religions, biases, and feelings about criminal justice. Because I know so damn much, I’ve been convinced since they were seated that Gardy Baker is headed for death row.