Roy meekly returned to his cubicle. “As for the clerk, he’s digging around still and said he should have something to me by today or tomorrow,” Evan reported. “You know, as much as I hate Judge Friedman for treating me like trash, I have to say, I do hope she kicks butt today. I am so sick and tired of people shitting on poor African American men. I bet if roles had been reversed—had Dell Nelson been found slaughtered in the U. Penn dorms—we wouldn’t be talking about it twenty years later.”

“I agree,” I said, lifting a pile of briefs and walking to the elevator. “And I think Judge Friedman knows that. The crazy part of all this—what’s getting lost in the media—is that Nelson’s not even asking to be freed or anything like that. All he wants is a fair hearing that will result in death once again or life in prison. It’s not really asking for a lot.”

We entered a packed courtroom. Midtown Manhattan during rush hour seemed less crowded. Evan and I placed the judge’s materials in her chair, to the right of Chief Judge Fleck, who’d be presiding over today’s hearing. Hundreds of eyes fixed on us.

I allowed myself a quick glance from the bench, like a janitor sweeping the stage at Madison Square Garden before a Rolling Stones concert. A mosh pit of law clerks, lawyers, and regular citizens. The media wasn’t allowed inside the courtroom, and despite a threatening letter from Geraldo Rivera (unearthed by the Smoking Gun), most reporters seemed OK with waiting outside.

Evan walked down to our seats with Matthew and Kate. I turned to follow him when I caught Dell Nelson out of the corner of my eye. He smiled and nodded, looking meek in an oversize double-breasted suit. I returned the gesture before sitting down between Evan and Matthew.

“How are you?” Matthew asked, putting his hand on my knee. I jumped instinctively, causing him to quickly pull back.

“Fine, fine.” I took a deep breath. “I just saw Dell Nelson.”

“Really?” Matthew asked. “Where is he?”

“Right over there, between those beefy security guards,” I said, pointing. “Oh my God, Robert Nussbaum is right behind him.”

“Where?” Evan and Matthew whispered in unison.

“All rise,” the clerk of the court announced. The crowd silently stood, following his solemn order. The door behind the bench opened and a stream of old people in robes paraded in one by one, taking their place behind their respective chairs, arranged—like everything else in the legal profession—according to seniority. Standing next to Chief Judge Fleck and three seats down from Judge Adams, Judge Friedman surveyed the room.

“I present the Honorable Judges of the United States Court of Appeals for the Third Circuit.”