“Mr. Pond,” the judge said, “please continue.”

“Thank you, Your Honor. On this particular night of July twenty-second, Mr. Anthony did sell crack cocaine to an undercover Charlotte police officer.”

“Is this officer in the courtroom?” The judge squinted at the sea of wretches below her.

Mungo stood. West turned around, dismayed when she saw who had caused such creaking and shuffling and whispering. Oh God, not again. West’s sense of foreboding darkened. Hammer remembered Seth bringing her breakfast in bed and dropping keys on the tray. The new Triumph Spitfire was green with burl wood, and she had been a sergeant with free time, and he was the rich son of a rich land developer. Back then, they went on long drives and had picnics. She would come home from work, and music filled the house. When did Seth stop listening to Beethoven, Mozart, Mahler, and Bach, and start turning on the TV? When did Seth decide he wanted to die?

“The subject, Mr. Anthony,” Mungo was saying, “was sitting on a blanket in the thicket Mr. Pond has just described. He was with two other subjects, drinking Magnum Forty-four and Colt Forty-five. Between them they had a dozen steamed crabs in a brown paper bag.”

“A dozen?” Judge Bovine queried. “You counted them, Detective Mungo?”

“Most were gone, Your Honor. I was told there had been a dozen originally. When I looked there were three left, I believe.”

“Go on, go on.” What patience the judge had for this drivel from the dregs of humanity was inversely proportional to her filling bladder as she took another slug of water and thought of what she would eat for lunch.

“The subject, Mr. Anthony, offered to sell me a rock of cocaine in a vial, for fifteen dollars,” Mungo continued.

“Bullshit,” was Mr. Anthony’s comment. “I offered you a fucking crab, man.”

“Mr. Anthony, if you aren’t quiet, I will hold you in contempt of court,” Judge Bovine warned.

“It was a crab. Only time I used the word crack was when I told him to crack it himself.”

Mungo said, “Your Honor, I asked the subject what was in the bag, and he distinctly replied, ‘crack.’”

“Did not.” Mr. Anthony was about to approach the bench, his public defender restraining him by a sleeve that still had the label sewed on it.

“Did too,” Mungo said.

“Did not!”

“Too.”

“Uh uh.”

“Order!” the judge declared. “Mr. Anthony, one more outburst and . . .”

“Let me tell my side for once!” Mr. Anthony went on.

“That is what you have a lawyer for,” the judge said severely, and she was beginning to feel the pressure of water and a loss of composure.

“Oh yeah? This piece of shit?” Mr. Anthony glowered at his free-lunch defense.

The courtroom was awake and interested, more so than A.D.A. Pond had ever witnessed before this morning. Something was going to happen and no one was about to miss it, people nudging each other and making silent bets. Jake on the third row, defendant’s side, was putting his money on Mr. Anthony ending up with his butt in jail. Shontay two rows over was betting on the undercover detective who reminded her of a haystack wearing a wrinkled pin-striped suit. Cops always won, no matter how wrong they might be, it was her belief, based on hearsay. Quik, way in the back, didn’t give a fuck as he practiced flicking his thumb out like a switchblade. As soon as he could, the asshole responsible for Quik’s show cause warrant was gonna pay. Ratting on him like that. Man.