Instead, it looks more like the place where I used to collect my welfare cheques. A line of cheaply dressed, dejected-looking people stand behind a nylon strap stretched between two silver poles, waiting for their turn at the counter, which is protected by shatterproof glass. A sign says, OPEN 8 AM TO 10 PM. Too much crime in Houston to deal with in normal business hours.

When I reach the front of the line, I explain my situation to a gaunt white lady. I’m a friend of Reese Thistle’s, here for moral support, but I’ve forgotten which room—

‘You want Bucetti versus Thistle,’ the woman says, her voice muffled by the glass. ‘Court 3.’

Apparently this isn’t confidential. And it’s Bucetti, not the state of Texas—so not a criminal matter, which makes sense. If it was, Thistle would be suspended from working cases.

‘Hey,’ a man says, walking in. ‘You here for the Bucetti trial? Come on, I’ll show you the way.’

He’s thirty-something, black, and dressed like a lumberjack in a flannel shirt and jeans. His shoes—polished leather, pointed-toe, thin laces—give him away as someone with a desk job, though.

‘Which side you on?’ he asks as we walk.

‘Thistle,’ I say cautiously.

‘Aw, that’s too bad,’ he says, smiling like we have opposing baseball teams. ‘How do you know her?’

‘We work together sometimes,’ I say. ‘But I’ve been away a while. I don’t even really know what the whole thing is about.’

We walk through a metal detector, like at the airport. A guard with a vacant stare waves an explosive residue wand over me before he lets us pass.

‘You didn’t hear about the shooting?’ the lumberjack says.

‘Shooting?’ I haven’t seen any sign that Thistle has been shot, which means she shot someone.

‘Oh, man.’ The lumberjack shakes his head. ‘Sorry to be the one to tell you, but your girl, she fucked up.’

I don’t know if he means she did fuck up, or she is fucked up. Either way I don’t believe him.

‘Big time,’ he continues. ‘She’s going down. How well do you know her?’

I should act like a casual acquaintance, but I can’t help but stick up for Thistle. ‘Well enough to know that she wouldn’t have done anything wrong. If she shot Bucetti, I’m thinking he had it coming.’

I expect the guy to be pissed off, but he just laughs. ‘Man, you got no idea. Your friend? She has a cold streak. You’ll see.’

I could bite your face off, I think. But he walks into court 3 before I come up with something I can say out loud.