Tully Still drove a forklift for a freight company in the industrial park north of town. He was working the night shift and easy to find. At 8:30 Wednesday night, Ozzie Walls gave him the nod and they walked outside into the darkness. Still lit a cigarette. The two were not related, but their mothers had been best friends since elementary school. Tully’s wife, Michele, was Juror Number Three. Front row, dead center, Jake’s prize.

“How bad is it?” Ozzie asked.

“Pretty bad. What happened? Things were rockin’ along fine, then the case blows up.”

“Couple of witnesses came outta nowhere. What are they sayin’ in there?”

“Ozzie, even Michele’s got doubts about Lettie Lang. The woman looks bad, man, sneakin’ round, gettin’ old white folks to change their wills. Michele and the Gaston woman’ll stick with her, don’t worry, but that means they got two votes. And the whites on the jury ain’t bad people, maybe a couple, but most were goin’ with Lettie until this mornin’. It’s not all black against white in there.”

“So there’s a lot of talk?”

“Didn’t say that. I think there’s a lot of whisperin’. Ain’t that pretty normal? You can’t expect folk to not say a word until the end.”

“I suppose.”

“What’s Jake gonna do?”

“I’m not sure he can do anything. He says he’s called his best witnesses.”

“Looks like he got blindsided, like those Jackson lawyers got the best of him.”

“We’ll see. Maybe it’s not over.”

“Looks bad.”

“Keep a lid on it.”

“Don’t worry.”

They were not celebrating with champagne at the Sullivan firm, though fine wine was being poured. Walter Sullivan, the retired partner who founded the firm forty-five years earlier, was a connoisseur who had recently discovered fine Italian Barolos. After a light working dinner in the conference room, he pulled some corks, brought in some fine crystal goblets, and a tasting came to life.

The mood was nothing short of triumphant. Myron Pankey had watched a thousand juries and had never seen one flip so quickly and so thoroughly. “You own them, Wade,” he said. Lanier was being revered as a courtroom magician, able to pull rabbits out of hats in spite of the rules of evidence. “Give the judge the credit,” he said modestly, and more than once. “He just wants a fair trial.”

“Trials are not about fairness, Wade,” Mr. Sullivan chided. “Trials are about winning.”

Lanier and Chilcott could almost smell the money. Eighty percent of the gross estate for their clients, less taxes and so forth, and their little ten-man litigation firm would net a fee in excess of $2 million. It could arrive quickly. After the handwritten will was declared void, they would move on to the prior will. The bulk of the money was in cash. A lengthy probate might be avoided.

Herschel was in Memphis, commuting to the trial with his two children. The Dafoe family was staying in the guesthouse of a friend near the country club. All were in fine spirits and eager to get the money and get on with their lives. After he finished his wine, Wade would call them and receive their accolades.

An hour after he spoke to Tully Still, Ozzie was leaning on the hood of his patrol car in front of Jake’s house, smoking a cigar with his favorite lawyer. Ozzie was saying, “Tully says it’s ten to two.”

Jake puffed and said, “No real surprise there.”

“Well, it looks like it’s time to fold up your chair and go home, Jake. This little party’s over. Get somethin’ for Lettie and get the hell out. She don’t need much. Settle this damned thing before it goes to the jury.”

“We’re trying, Ozzie, okay? Harry Rex approached Lanier’s guys twice this afternoon. They laughed at him. You can’t settle a case when the other side is laughing at you. I’d take a million bucks right now.”

“A million! How many black folk around here got a million bucks, Jake? You’re thinkin’ too much like a white man. Get half a million, get a quarter, hell, get somethin’.”

“We’ll try again tomorrow. I’ll see how the morning goes, then approach Wade Lanier during lunch. He knows the score and he obviously knows how to play the game. He’s been in my shoes before. I think I can talk to him.”

“Talk fast, Jake, and get out of this damned trial. You want no part of this jury. This ain’t nothin’ like Hailey.”

“No, it’s not.”

Jake thanked him and went inside. Carla was already in bed, reading and worrying about her husband. “What was that all about?” she asked as he undressed.

“Just Ozzie. He’s concerned about the trial.”

“Why is Ozzie out roaming around at this hour?”

“You know Ozzie. He never sleeps.” Jake fell across the end of the bed and rubbed her legs under the sheets.

“Neither do you. Can I ask you something? Here you are in the middle of another big trial. You haven’t slept four hours in the past week, and when you are asleep you fidget and have nightmares. You’re not eating well. You’re losing weight. You’re preoccupied, off in la-la land half the time. You’re stressed-out, jumpy, testy, sometimes even nauseous. You’ll wake up in the morning with a knot in your stomach.”

“The question?”

“Why in the world do you want to be a trial lawyer?”

“This might not be the best time to ask that question.”

“No, it’s the perfect time. How many jury trials have you had in the last ten years?”

“Thirty-one.”

“And you’ve lost sleep and weight during each one, right?”

“I don’t think so. Most are not quite this significant, Carla. This is exceptional.”

“My point is that trial work is so stressful. Why do you want to do it?”

“Because I love it. It’s what being a lawyer is all about. Being in the courtroom, in front of a jury, is like being in the arena, or on the field. The competition is fierce. The stakes are high. The gamesmanship is intense. There will be a winner and a loser. There is a rush of adrenaline each time the jury is led in and seated.”

“A lot of ego.”

“A ton. You’ll never meet a successful trial lawyer without an ego. It’s a requirement. You gotta have the ego to want the work.”

“You should do well, then.”

“Okay, I admit I have the ego, but it might get crushed this week. It might need soothing.”

“Now or later?”

“Now. It’s been eight days.”

“Lock the door.”

Lucien blacked out somewhere over Mississippi at thirty-five thousand feet. When the plane landed in Atlanta, the flight attendants helped him off. Two guards put him in a wheelchair and rolled him to the gate for the flight to Memphis. They passed several airport lounges, all of which he noticed. When the guards parked him he thanked them, then got up and staggered to the nearest bar and ordered a beer. He was cutting back, being responsible. He slept from Atlanta to Memphis, landing there at 7:10 a.m. They dragged him off the plane, called security, and security called the police.