Free Free Fire by C.J. Box

the restaurant on him. He heard whispers:
    “Oh my God, look who’s here.”
    “It’s Clay McCann.”
    “What’s he think he’s doing here?”
    A few of the men’s faces hardened into deadeye stares, as if challenging him to start something. A young mother covered the eyes of her child, as if she thought simply seeing him would scar the little tyke for life.
    Even though he’d expected this reception, it still came as a sour jolt. Sure, he was used to indirect derision and whispered asides because he was a lawyer. Lawyers made enemies. But this was full-scale, almost overpowering. His only solace was the knowledge that it would be short-term and that he had a .38 in his pocket.
    He looked back at them, not without fear. Eight percent, he thought. Look for the eight percent. Take comfort in the eight percent.
    Early in his career, before he messed up, McCann had been a criminal defense attorney in Minot, North Dakota, after he’d fled Chicago to avoid that ethics charge. He’d been lucky enough to land a deep-pockets client almost immediately—a North Dakota banker accused of hiring thugs to kill his wife. The case was considered a slam-dunk conviction by the prosecution,and it looked hopeless to McCann. Because splitting the fee was better than losing the case outright, McCann brought in Marcus Hand, the flamboyant Wyoming trial lawyer who was famous for four things: long white hair, buckskin clothing, delaysthat sweetened the payout for the lawyers, and his ability to persuade a jury. McCann watched Hand perform in the courtroomand the Wyoming lawyer nearly convinced McCann himselfthat his client didn’t do it. Eventually, the jury deadlocked at 10-2, and couldn’t reach a unanimous verdict. In the retrial a year later, Hand managed to create almost the same result, with an 11-1 hung jury. Although the embarrassed prosecutors let it be known that they would bring the case to trial a third time, it never happened. The doctor walked away into bankruptcy and into the arms of his pretty, new twenty-five-year-old wife.
    Over victory drinks, Hand explained the Eight Percent Rule to McCann. “It’s really very simple,” he said, using the same melodic voice he used to pet and stroke the jury. “I have to convinceone juror out of twelve to vote with us. One of twelve is eight percent, give or take. Not that I need to convince him our client is innocent, understand. I just need to establish an intimatepartnership with that one fellow or lady in a crowd who is contrary . The man or woman who has an ax to grind. My theory,and you saw it happen twice, is that in any group of people forced to be together, at least eight percent of them will go against the majority if for no other reason than to shove it up their ass—if they have an authority figure they can trust to be on their side. I am that leader in the courtroom. I talk only to my soul mate, Mr. Eight Percent. That man—or woman, in the case today—will follow me into hell, just so we can put one over on the rest. Remember, Clay, we aren’t running for election. We don’t care if ninety-two percent of the voters want the other guy. Who cares about them if we have our pal, Mr. Eight Percent?We just want our evil partner, Mr. Eight Percent, who hates the guts of the majority and always will, to show his true colors. He just wants to be bad, unique—an individual !—and I’m there to show him the way.”
    McCann remembered that conversation as he tried to boldly return the stares. Sure enough, when he studied the dinner and bar crowd, he detected two or three people who looked back not with horror, disgust, or revulsion, but with guarded neutrality. All were former clients.
    Gavin Toomey, a local miscreant best known for poaching violations and his palpable hatred for the federal government, sat alone at the opposite end of the bar. Toomey actually noddeda discreet greeting.
    Butch Toomer, the former sheriff who was recalled by angry voters for accepting