One Shot

the city’s population, she was sick and shocked and stunned. She had seen the news Friday night. And she caught it again Saturday morning. She heard a police detective say her brother’s name. At first she thought it was a mistake. That she had misheard. But the guy kept on saying it.
James Barr, James Barr, James Barr.
Rosemary burst into tears. First tears of confusion, then tears of horror, then tears of fury.
    Then she forced herself to calm down, and got busy.
    She worked as a secretary in an eight-man law firm. Like most firms in small heartland cities, hers did a little bit of everything. And it treated its employees fairly well. The salary wasn’t spectacular, but there were intangibles to compensate. One was a full package of benefits. Another was being called a paralegal instead of a secretary. Another was a promise that the firm would handle legal matters for its employees and their families free, gratis, and for nothing. Mostly that was about wills and probate and divorce, and insurance company hassles after fender benders. It wasn’t about defending adult siblings who were wrongly accused in notorious urban sniper slayings. She knew that. But she felt she had to give it a try. Because she knew her brother, and she knew he couldn’t be guilty.
    She called the partner she worked for, at home. He was mostly a tax guy, so he called the firm’s criminal litigator. The litigator called the managing partner, who called a meeting of all the partners. They held it over lunch at the country club. From the start, the agenda was about how to turn down Rosemary Barr’s request in the most tactful way possible. A defense to a crime of this nature wasn’t the sort of thing they were equipped to handle. Or
inclined
to handle. There were public relations implications. There was immediate agreement on that point. But they were a loyal bunch, and Rosemary Barr was a good employee who had worked many years for them. They knew she had no money, because they did her taxes. They assumed her brother had no money, either. But the Constitution guaranteed competent counsel, and they didn’t have a very high opinion of public defenders. So they were caught in a genuine ethical dilemma.
    The litigator resolved it. His name was David Chapman. He was a hardscrabble veteran who knew Rodin over at the DA’s office. He knew him pretty well. It would have been impossible for him not to, really. They were two of a kind, raised in the same neighborhood and working in the same business, albeit on opposite sides. So Chapman went to the smoking room and used his cell phone to call the DA at home. The two lawyers had a full and frank discussion. Then Chapman came back to the lunch table.
    “It’s a slam dunk,” he said. “Ms. Barr’s brother is guilty all to hell and gone. Rodin’s case is going to read like a textbook. Hell, it’s probably going to
be
a textbook one day. He’s got every kind of evidence there is. There’s not a chink of daylight anywhere.”
    “Was he leveling with you?” the managing partner asked.
    “There’s no bullshitting between old buddies,” Chapman said.
    “So?”
    “All we would have to do is plead in mitigation. If we can get the lethal injection reduced to life without parole, there’s a big win right there. That’s all Ms. Barr has a right to expect. Or her damn brother, with all due respect.”
    “How much involvement?” the managing partner asked.
    “Sentencing phase only. Because he’ll have to plead guilty.”
    “You happy to handle it?”
    “Under the circumstances.”
    “How many hours will it cost us?”
    “Not many. There’s practically nothing we can do.”
    “What grounds for mitigation?”
    “He’s a Gulf War vet, I believe. So there’s probably chemical stuff going on. Or some kind of delayed post-traumatic thing. Maybe we could get Rodin to agree beforehand. We could get it done over lunch.”
    The managing partner nodded. Turned to the tax guy. “Tell your secretary we’ll do everything in our power to help her brother in his hour of need.”

    Barr was moved from the police station lockup to the county jail before either his sister or Chapman got a chance to see him. His blanket and pajamas were taken away and he was issued paper underwear, an orange jumpsuit, and a pair of rubber shower sandals. The county jail wasn’t a pleasant place to be. It smelled bad and it was noisy. It was radically overcrowded and the social and ethnic tensions that were kept