One of them is a slickly dressed attorney named Darwin Cope, who Joey soon realized had been hired by his old boss, Karloff. (Karloff isn’t his real name; no one knows his real name. Apparently, he’s from Russia or some country around there so he’s known only as Karloff.) Joey has no clear idea why Karloff has gotten involved or is footing the bill for this high-priced mouthpiece. He knows enough to know he doesn’t really rate in the organization. He’s always been just a foot soldier at best so this special counsel, this sudden special treatment, is a mystery to him.

The third lawyer, Len Carter, a straight-laced, well-spoken black dude, is some kind of technology whiz who Cope or somebody else is paying for. That’s not clear to Joey either.

And while all three technically represent him, none of them really talk to him. It’s almost like they’ve all forgotten about him. His defense seems to be something that goes on around him, that doesn’t involve him much at all. Cope and Carter slap his shoulder, and Cope even occasionally ruffles Joey’s hair, which makes Joey pretty uncomfortable.

The lawyers consult with each other in hushed murmurs. For weeks now, they’ve rarely even asked Joey a question. Cope and Carter interviewed him in his cell when they were first assigned to the case, and during those interviews, he noticed that Cope never looked at him directly. As if Joey was merely an annoyance, a distasteful but necessary hindrance in the process of ascertaining the facts, of doing his job.

The first attorney, Simms, the lean but jowly sad sack who was assigned by the state, has definitely retreated—or been pushed—into the background, overshadowed by Cope and Carter.

There is excitement and energy between Cope and Carter, and Joey hears them refer to something they call “strategy.”

The state has been presenting its case clearly, methodically. Joey and the jury have looked at all the photographs that were on his phone—gruesome shot after gruesome shot, never intended to be blown up to the size of a big screen in a courtroom. The photos brought gasps from the gallery.

Joey looked at the jury. Several of them turned away. Two of the women looked like they might retch. Joey thought the prosecuting team would relent—you get the idea—and not make them suffer through every photo, every angle. But no. They made the jury sit through every photo and angle.

Photographic evidence pulled down from the Cloud. On a phone originally registered to one Joseph Richter. They even showed the bill of sale for the phone. Other cases undoubtedly hinged on witnesses, DNA, taped conversations. Here were photos. Photo after photo after photo.

It seemed pretty open and shut to Joey.

It wasn’t.