I leave the detention center and walk the three blocks to the old federal courthouse, built in 1940 as part of a Depression-era stimulus program. The main lobby has a musty odor of yellowed parchment and imperfect justice. I always make sure to breathe deeply when I enter the building. I love that smell, just as a boxer might love the sweaty smell of an old gymnasium.

I take the escalator to the second floor, where my friend and former partner Manfred Mason is arguing a pro bono case on behalf of some gang members. Manny is now associate dean at St. Thomas More School of Law. He’s convinced me to teach a course in trial advocacy. The only person other than Deanna who knows about my stage fright, he views the teaching gig as the first step in my getting back into the courtroom. He doesn’t realize that teaching isn’t trial work.

My first class begins at three o’clock this afternoon. Yesterday, he called and said he had to talk to me before the class started, so I agreed to meet him at the courthouse. I’m not wild about the idea of walking into a courtroom, but I’m curious—I’ve never seen Manny argue a case. He’s a corporate finance and tax lawyer, not a litigator. He certainly doesn’t have the typical attributes of a trial lawyer. Most of us are outgoing, combative. Manny’s humble, so reserved that people mistake his shyness for arrogance. In the past, his career suffered for it. At the law firm, he didn’t bring in much business. When the firm broke up, he became a law professor, a job that suits him perfectly. Finally, he’s on the fast track.

As soon as I enter the courtroom, my heart skitters. I find a back corner seat, close to the exit. I recite a silent mantra—no reason for stage fright because I’m not on stage. My heart just beats faster. I touch my fingers to my carotid artery so I can measure my pulse, but lower my hand when I see the judge’s clerk looking at me.

Manny is at the podium, asking the judge to dissolve an injunction against members of the Etiwanda Lazers street gang. The Lazers control the illicit drug trade in the north San Fernando Valley. Although Manny could use his considerable height to his advantage—courtroom presence is as much physical as intellectual—he hunches over, as if trying to hide his six-foot-four-inch frame behind the small lectern. He speaks in a scholarly monotone, his argument fraught with legalisms. Void for vagueness. Arbitrary deprivation of liberty interests. No mens rea requirement. He should be trying to humanize his dangerous clients, but he can’t muster any passion. After speaking for another five minutes, he raises an index finger, leafs through his notes, and sits down. So much for ending on a high note.

“The case is submitted,” the judge says. “Until I rule, the temporary restraining order will remain in effect.”

As soon as she leaves the bench, my adrenaline levels off. I approach Manny.

“I’m glad that’s over,” he says. “At least I’ve survived another day before this judge lowers the boom.”

“From what I saw, Harmon should have assigned you to the trial department.” We both know it’s a lie.

He raises his hands in mock horror. “I’m a business lawyer and a teacher. These pro bono matters are just my way of giving back to the community. And, of course, the constitutional issues are fascinating. But I’m not a litigator. I’ll tell you what. If one of my cases ever gets to the Supreme Court, you can argue it.”

“Right now, I couldn’t argue a fender bender in small claims court.”

“That will pass.”

“Sure it will.” There’s an uncomfortable silence. “Come on,” he says. “Let me introduce you to my client.” He gestures toward the back of the room.

I thought the courtroom was empty. I didn’t notice the man still sitting in the back row, on the opposite side of the room from where I’d been sitting. He appears to be in his mid- to late-twenties, wearing a conservative gray suit and white shirt without a tie—a well-dressed spectator. Only when he stands and swaggers toward us does he resemble a gang member. Though he’s no more than five foot nine, he must weigh 190 pounds, all weight-trained muscle. He has a buzz cut, a dark brown moustache, and a soul patch. Up close, I can see the tattoos on his knuckles.

“Parker, I want you to meet Victor Galdamez. Victor, this is Parker Stern. He was my law partner. And one of the best trial lawyers in the city. Starting today, he’s teaching a class at the law school.”

We shake hands. Though his grip is weak, it’s typical of powerful men who don’t want to hurt anyone. He smiles warmly. “Dean Mason did a great job, today, huh?” I expected to hear at least a hint of the barrio in his speech, but there isn’t any.

“I was just telling him that,” I say.

“Not many people are brave enough to take our side, even when we’re right. We don’t have the money to pay lawyers, and Dean Mason has been very generous with his time.”

We chat for a while about constitutional law and the merits of the Lazers’ legal position—fortunately, Manny doesn’t hold out false hope—and then Galdamez excuses himself.

“He doesn’t sound like your typical gang member,” I say when we’re alone.

“What’s typical?”

“Look, I wasn’t saying—”

He waves his hand dismissively. “That’s the problem. Even someone like you makes assumptions. Victor’s a junior at Whittier Poly. Prelaw. We hope to have him with us at St. Thomas More in a couple of years. He’s a former member who got out and wants to better himself and his community. He serves as a liaison. He’s the perfect client representative.” He checks his watch. “Let’s go down to the cafeteria and talk. I have an administrators’ meeting over at UCLA in an hour.”

The courthouse cafeteria hasn’t been renovated since just after World War II ended. I suspect the food is of the same vintage. I buy a granola bar; at least it’s wrapped. Manny orders two hot dogs, the casings of which have a greenish tinge. When I point that out, he says it’s just the lighting. We find a table in the corner and he gives a minilecture about how to teach a law school course—assume the students know nothing, but don’t talk down to them; teach only what you’re interested in; don’t let them walk all over you, but don’t be a tyrant. Platitudes.

“We’ve gone over all of this before,” I say. “What’s the real reason you made me come down here?”

He takes a drink of Coke. “You’ll be performing in front of an audience in a few hours. I just want to make sure that—”

“It’s a classroom, not a courtroom. It only happens in courtrooms.”

“Still.”

“How many students are enrolled?”

“I haven’t checked lately. Usually there are twelve, fifteen people in these practice courses. You’ll get the enrollment sheet from the registrar’s office.”

“I can handle a dozen law students.”

He raises his arm and gives me a desultory fist bump. “I know you can.”

“There’s something I want to talk to you about. Rich Baxter’s in jail.”

“For what?”

“A federal rap. They say he embezzled money from the Assembly.”

He shakes his head slowly and scratches his scalp with a bony index finger. “I’m shocked, but not surprised.”

“You’re not surprised?”

“I know it’s an odd thing to say. But you know how he struggles with the technical aspects of the law.”

“He got by at the firm.”

“At the firm, he had help. As a solo practitioner he’s been left to his own devices. And the problems that arise in representing the Church of the Sanctified Assembly are labyrinthine. I’m one of the legal ethics teachers at the law school. Studying that area from an academic standpoint has been very illuminating. Didn’t Harmon used to say that incompetence breeds wrongdoing? He was right. Most attorney defalcations start with malpractice, and I fear that for our friend Rich, the malpractice part was only a matter of time.”

“You actually think he could’ve ripped off his own church and only client? We’re talking about Rich.”

“I don’t know anything, of course. It’s just that I’ve worried about him since the firm split up, feared he was adrift.”

“Rich wants me to represent him. I just met with him at the federal detention center.”

“Whoa. Back up. You saw him?”

I nod.

“You’re not serious.” He shuts his eyes for a moment, as if trying to choose just the right words. “Listen to me, Parker. Given all you’ve been through this last year and a half, you’re not making sense. You said it yourself. You can’t handle a simple procedural hearing.”

“I can at least look into the charges. I owe him that after what happened between us.”

“You don’t owe him anything. And as far as your career is concerned, you’ve got to take things a step at a time. See how you do teaching this class over the next few months, and maybe after that—”

“Deanna thinks—”

“Deanna’s reckless, and she wants everyone around her to be reckless. The last thing you should do right now is to jump into a major criminal case. Especially a case where you’d be adverse to the Church of the Sanctified Assembly. Under normal circumstances, there’d be no one better, but these aren’t normal circumstances, are they, Parker?” He sounds like a parent gingerly trying to dissuade a child of limited talent from pursuing a pipe dream.

“You’re patronizing me, Manny. Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m just being a caring friend.”

“You know, as your good friend, I could give you some helpful pointers about how to present an effective oral argument. Like telling the judge a story rather than speaking in legalese. Or having a conversation rather than reading from your notes. Or changing your facial expressions so you look like you give a shit about your case.”

He smiles thinly, but his eyes are cold and hard. “You might be suffering from stage fright, Stern, but you’re still a contentious son of a bitch. Insult me if you must. I’m not going to change my mind about your representing Rich. But the next time I have a pro bono court appearance, I’ll definitely have you tutor me.” He looks at his wristwatch. “I’ve got to head out to the Westside. But keep this in mind. If you were to take this case on, you’d be jeopardizing Rich’s freedom. That cannot happen.”

We stand and face each other, the tension still palpable. After a moment, he smiles again, this time more broadly. “Look, Parker, I know how much you love trying cases, how much you miss it. But slow down. Your time will come again. And knock ’em dead in class this afternoon.” He squeezes my shoulder with his large hand.

I force a smile. As a star trial lawyer with a growing number of accolades, I was once more important than Manny. I made more money and had more power. Our relative positions at the firm even distorted my visual perception of him. Back then I never thought of him as physically imposing, though he’s at least six inches taller than I. Now, he towers over me.