Free The Laws of our Fathers by Scott Turow

that greets me. It feels as if both the lights and the heat have been turned up. Beyond the bulletproof divider, the gallery is thick with court buffs and other citizen-onlookers: sickos, retirees, court watchers, and the thoughtfully curious drawn in primal wonder to the act of murder. Within the well of the room, extra deputies in uniform mill idly at the periphery, while the many reporters crowd the limited space available. The jury box must remain empty, awaiting the prospective venire, which will be summoned shortly. Instead, Annie has created a makeshift press gallery, positioning folding chairs on the near side of the yellowish oak panels of the jury box. The best seats, in the front row, have been occupied by three sketch artists, who have laid their pastels at their feet.
        As soon as she catches sight of me, Marietta cries out her 'Hear ye's,' bringing court to order. The room is caught up in the commotion of hundreds of persons shifting to their feet, papers rattling, conversations adjourned in a final buzz.
         'People versus Nile Eddgar, ,' Marietta cries out, when we all are seated. 'For trial.' To my surprise, my stomach rebounds with the words. Two of the artists begin work immediately, eyes revolving between their pads and me. On the one earlier occasion I saw a rendering of Judge Sonny on T V - during a heated divorce case - I was disturbed by the severe look the artist gave me, my even-featured face grave with shadow. Surely I'm better-looking and lighter-hearted than that?
        Meanwhile, the participants stalk slowly toward the oak podium at the focus of the room: Gina Devore from the State Defender's Office, a sprite in Ann Taylor, accompanied by a burly black man who must be the lawyer from D C she said would appear for trial. From the other table advances Tommy Molto, the Homicide supervisor, who has elected to try this case, a rarity for him these days. He too has a companion, Rudy Singh, a slender, inexpressibly beautiful young man with a delicate way and a musical Indian accent, who was assigned to this courtroom only last week to handle more routine matters. Finally, behind all of them, somewhat shyly, stands Nile Eddgar. He is more than six feet, far taller than I remember his father, and looms over both Molto and Gina. When he was last here, for arraignment, his hair was pony-tailed and not especially clean. Since then, he's shaved and had a dramatic haircut too, albeit not a particularly becoming one. He looks as if he simply bargained to let the barber cut off half. Charged up by winter static, his brownish hair Christmas-trees about his ears, resembling some hapless Dutch boy's. Nonetheless, as the resident emblem of authority, I'm pleased Nile has made these concessions to respectability, even if off the bench I'd regard the same gestures as silly or conventional.
        Back in the lockup, keys are jangling and voices are raised. The transport deputies have been searching desperately for the prisoner, and a peal of relieved laughter sails into the courtroom when they realize he is not in custody but on bail. The lawyers state their name for the record.
        'Your Honor,' says Gina, 'may I introduce Mr Turtle from
        Washington, DC Her motion to substitute counsel and Turtle's appearance form ascend, handed up from Gina to Marietta to me: H. Tariq Turtle. At arraignment, I allowed the State Defender to stay on the case while Nile attempted to find his own attorney. An out-of-towner is welcome, since that will avoid the sticky conflict issues that might arise if Nile was the probation officer for other clients of his lawyer. I note aloud that Turtle has a local attorney number, meaning he's admitted to practice in this state.
        'Took the bar here, Your Honor, before I moved out to DC.'
        'Welcome back, then.' I allow the motion, and Gina, tiny and energetic, disembarks at once for the half a dozen other courtrooms where she has cases up. 'Mr Turtle,' I