The judge took two glass bottles of RC Cola from a small refrigerator and popped the caps with a bottle opener attached to the wall. He offered Gibson one and settled behind his broad mahogany desk.

The Honorable Hammond D. Birk was a mixture of cantankerous southern gentleman and hardscrabble Virginia blue collar. He’d been a relentless hard-ass throughout the trial—scathing when his courtroom didn’t perform up to his standards, but charming and polite in the manner he conveyed his considerable displeasure. The lawyers on both sides treaded carefully to avoid incurring his wrath. Sitting in the judge’s leather armchair, Gibson was afraid to so much as take a sip of his soda.

“Son,” the judge began. “I’m going to make you a one-time-only offer. There’ll be no questions, no discussion, and no negotiation. When I’m done talking, I only want to hear one of two words out of you. Yes or no. Just one of those words, and then we’re going to go out there today and wrap up this damn circus, which frankly offends me. You understand me?”

Gibson nodded silently in case answering the question aloud was a trap that would disqualify him.

“Good,” the judge said. “My offer is pretty straightforward. Ten years in prison or an enlistment in the United States Marine Corps. Not that you asked, but an enlistment is five years. That’s half, in case you’re wondering. And you’d be doing something useful in the service with that brain of yours other than counting the weeks, months, and years until your release. So . . . ten years or an enlistment. At the end of which, I will personally expunge your record, and you may go about making your way in this petty world of ours.”

The judge emptied his bottle and squinted across the desk at Gibson.

“I’m done speaking now, son. It’s your turn. Take your time and think it over. Yes for Marines, no for jail. Just let me know your answer when it comes to you. And don’t go letting your RC get warm. It was your father’s favorite in college.”

Gibson looked up at the judge, who smiled at him.

They sat a spell in silence, though in truth the decision hadn’t taken any time at all. Twenty years in the service would have been a small price to pay to avoid another night in a cell. And that was just jail—real prison was an entirely different animal, and it scared Gibson to death. But he’d enjoyed sitting there with the judge, drinking RC Cola and hoping Birk might talk a little more about his father.