When the pizza comes, LeMarcus suggests that we stop our work to eat. The receptionist I met upon my first visit—who I now know is named Brian and serves a multitude of functions around the office besides greeting visitors, including being a paralegal and, in this case, a server of late-night pizza—brings out actual china on which to put the pizza, and crystal glassware into which our soda can be poured. More often than not in my late-night pizza days, I ate it straight out of the box, without even a paper plate.

Throughout the trial, LeMarcus has not asked anything about me that wasn’t relevant to the case, and he hasn’t revealed anything about himself. I am not sure whether that’s because he makes it a practice not to get to know his clients on any personal level—the lack of familiarity no doubt easing the blow when they’re convicted—or because it’s part of his legal strategy not to be tainted with information that might create an ethical quandary for him if I were to take the stand.

Yet over our meal, his formal bearing eases up. LeMarcus says that he is the father of eight-year-old twins. After establishing that they are fraternal, I ask what they’re like.

“Couldn’t be more different, actually. James takes after his mother, both in looks and personality. He’s the prettiest little boy you’re ever going to want to meet, but shy. He likes to read picture books about dinosaurs and other fanciful things. Lawrence, sadly for him, is his father’s son. A born lawyer, I fear. If you say day, he’ll argue that it’s night. Doesn’t matter how high the sun is in the sky, he’s got some explanation for why you shouldn’t believe your own eyes.”

I laugh at the comment, imagining a tiny LeMarcus Burrows. “Does he wear three-piece suits?”

“No. Not yet, anyway,” LeMarcus says with a laugh of his own.

“My little guy, he’s all about superheroes,” I say. “Sometimes I envy that he can believe that there’s this greater force that can save you no matter how much peril you’re in. You know?”

LeMarcus looks puzzled by my statement. “I’m not sure if you’re suggesting that I’m your superhero in this instance, or that you don’t think my superpowers are up to the task.”

“No, I’m sorry. It wasn’t intended to be a comment about you at all. I know you’re doing everything you can. But even you have to admit you’ve been dealt a bad hand.”