I last appeared in court a week after Harmon Cherry died. I was representing Lake Knolls, the acclaimed film star who’s now a member of the US House of Representatives. A victory was crucial to the survival of the law firm, because it would mean that Knolls would stay on as a client at the firm despite Harmon’s death. And if a high-profile client like Knolls stayed, so would lesser lights.

Not long before his successful run for Congress, Knolls starred in a movie called Repulsion, portraying an aging rapist and serial killer. His performance was riveting, but after women’s groups and victims’ support organizations attacked the movie, he donated all his earnings from the picture to a shelter for abused women and exhorted his fans to boycott his own film, a move that dashed any hope of an Oscar nomination. Knolls didn’t care—he had higher aspirations. To everyone’s shock, he decided to give up his acting career to run for a congressional seat (a senate run was out of the question because he belonged to the incumbent’s party). He won the election hands-down. Of course, the House is a mere stepping-stone to higher office.

The producers sued Knolls for fifty million dollars. I thought of a way to get rid of the case early by arguing that the producers were using the lawsuit as a way to censor Knolls’s First Amendment rights. It was a novel legal theory, but I’d won eight consecutive jury trials, two in supposedly unwinnable cases. Six weeks earlier, National Lawyer Magazine had named me one of its top five attorneys under forty. I felt invincible.

I lost. Worse, I didn’t put up a fight. The Knolls hearing took place a week after I’d collapsed in court after learning of Harmon’s death. I’d kept telling myself that the incident was a one-time thing, an understandable reaction to the trauma of losing Harmon. But as soon as I walked into the courtroom for the Knolls hearing, the same debilitating fear overwhelmed me. Though the only way I could win was to plead my case—oral advocacy had always been my most potent weapon—I submitted on the papers, telling the judge in a barely audible voice that I had nothing to add to what I’d already said in writing. I could’ve shredded my opponent in less than five minutes, but I sat mute while she took pot shots at me, couldn’t get up from my chair to speak even after the judge urged me to. Knolls fired the firm the next day.

After that, I postponed as many court appearances as I could, and if I couldn’t get a postponement I invented a conflict and persuaded a colleague to cover for me. But I couldn’t hide in my office forever, not with major hearings and jury trials approaching. I lived in dread of the humiliation.

And then, six weeks to the day after Harmon shot himself, the law firm imploded. Although there were fifteen lawyers still at the firm, Harmon was responsible for generating something like 75 percent of the firm’s revenue. His clients found other lawyers within a matter of weeks. Rich Baxter could have kept the firm afloat with his representation of the Sanctified Assembly, but he announced he was leaving to open up his own office, a one-person operation with a single client.

The rest of us couldn’t afford to pay the rent, much less the firm’s considerable operating expenses. The last thing I wanted was to shutter the doors, but when it happened, I felt the way a criminal must feel when an unforeseen catastrophe obliterates the evidence of his crime.

United States v. Richard Baxter is the only matter on the judge’s calendar this afternoon. Although I asked my students to help on the case, I didn’t tell them about the hearing, couldn’t tell them. I hope they haven’t found out about it. If they were to show up and watch me perform, they’d drop my class immediately.

The instant I walk into the courtroom, the muscles in the back of my neck tighten. My shoulders roll forward, giving me a slight hunchback. My feet turn cold and numb. My gut twists. I put my hands behind my back and interlace my fingers so no one will see them trembling. The odor of disinfectant and mildew constricts my breathing. My woolen suit weighs me down like armor, but unlike armor, offers no protection from my enemy. Worst of all is the flop sweat. I can more or less hide the other symptoms, but I can’t hide the flop sweat. I find a seat at the defense table, reach into my pocket, grope around for some tissue, and dab at my brow. At least I’m not feeling nauseated. Not yet, anyway.

I’ve met with Rich several times to prepare him for his arraignment hearing. He’ll enter a plea of not guilty to the charges against him, and the judge will set a trial date. Because of the phony passport and the cash stashed in his computer, there’s no chance of bail. During our meetings, I’ve tried repeatedly to get him to admit to a drug problem. He won’t, although on my third visit he finally owned up to knowing about the crystal meth.

“There are reasons,” was all he said. “I’m not an addict. Not a user.”

“What reasons?”

“That’s personal and confidential. They have nothing to do with this.” No matter how much I plead or cajole or point out that he looks like a drug user, he won’t budge.

I glance around the courtroom. To my dismay, it’s filling up. The Church of the Sanctified Assembly has been so high profile recently—only last month it ensnared a Hall of Fame ex-NBA player and a Grammy-winning songwriter in its ever-widening net—that the news media is interested in anything it does. Deanna, the only person I do want to see, hasn’t arrived yet.

United States Attorney Neil Latham and his young assistant walk into the courtroom and take their places at the counsel table. Latham is powerful, pompous, and on the fastest of career tracks—Princeton undergrad, Harvard Law School, editor of the Law Review, president of the National Black Law Students Association, a top partner in a large international firm before becoming US Attorney. At forty, he’s one of the youngest US Attorneys in the country. He’ll be a federal judge someday, but his aspirations go much higher than just the district court.

I can hear the courtroom filling up, can actually feel the spectators approach like the advance guard of an invading army. Where’s Deanna? I don’t dare look back. When fear is rational—in the heat of war or in the throes of a natural disaster—the presence of others is comforting, a way to diffuse the cruel force of uncertainty. But with a phobia like mine—an irrational fear of something with no true inherent threat—the presence of others is incendiary.

The hearing was set to start at 1:30, and it’s already ten minutes after that. The marshals should have brought Rich into the courtroom twenty minutes ago. Maybe there’s a holdup over clothing. Neither of us wanted him to come into court in a jail jumpsuit, so I arranged to have a suit and tie delivered to the detention center. Proper attire has always been important to Rich. He insisted on a charcoal blue suit and a blue tie. He says a blue tie signifies honesty.

I feel a hand on my shoulder.

“Sorry I’m late,” Deanna says.

She’s dressed in her black T-shirt and pants and still has the piercings in place. The tattoos on her arms are visible. I didn’t expect her to wear a business suit, but this is unacceptable. Only when I see her expression of remorse for her tardiness do I understand—no matter what I’ve told her about my stage fright, she doesn’t get it. She still thinks it’ll be like before, that I’m still me, that all she’ll have to do is stay quiet and enjoy my performance. She sits down directly behind me on a long bench where young associates and paralegals usually sit so they can whisper in lead counsel’s ear.

“Where’s Rich?” she says.

“They haven’t brought him in. Probably just a glitch in logistics.”

“All rise,” the clerk cries out, and I stand up herky-jerky on shaky legs.

Our judge, the Honorable Cyrus Walker Harvey, is a crusty old-timer. He’s in his late seventies, but with his bald dome, pasty skin mottled with liver spots, and triple-chin, he looks older. He’s a loose cannon who’s been known to shout down lawyers he doesn’t like. He could have gone senior years ago—meaning a reduced workload at full salary—but he stubbornly remains on active status with a full slate of cases. The good news is that he doesn’t trust the US government.

The clerk says, “Criminal Case 2011-455-A, United States of America v. Richard Elton Baxter. Will counsel please note their appearances for the record?”

“Good afternoon, Your Honor. Neil Latham for the United States.”

“Parker Stern for the defendant.” I can barely hear my own voice.

The judge raises his hand to his ear. “Speak up, counsel.”

“Parker Stern for the defendant!” It’s a crackly shout. I hear a few titters behind me and feel my cheeks flush. I sense Latham’s eyes on me.

The judge raises his eyebrows over his half-size reading glasses. With many other lawyers, Cyrus Harvey’s short fuse would have ignited after this misstep, but he’s cutting me some slack. “We’re here for the arraignment hearing on the indictment. Is the defendant present in court?”

I look at Latham, who looks at me. I want to tell the judge that I don’t know where my client is, but I’m paralyzed, so I shake my head.

The judge squints at me. “Mr. Stern, does the defendant waive the right to be present?”

“He does not,” I say, and then force out the words, “Your Honor.” They come out as an afterthought, which makes me sound disrespectful.

The judge scowls at me, and I don’t know if it’s because he thinks I’m being sarcastic or because he believes that Rich and I are playing some sort of game.

“Where is the defendant?” the judge asks.

It’s really a question he should ask the marshal. I feel the perspiration on my chest and underarms seeping through my cotton dress shirt. I stand mute for five, ten, thirty seconds, wanting to tell the judge that I have no idea where Rich is, but the words are irretrievable, mired in mental quicksand.

There’s a rustle from behind me, and Deanna says, “Your Honor, we expected our client Mr. Baxter to be here. Is there a way to check on his status at the jail?”

Judge Harvey’s eyes expand, twin moons half-covered in fog. “Who are you? And what are you doing in my courtroom looking like that?”

I want to step in and take over, I really do, but the part of my brain that controls the power of speech is frozen.

Deanna straightens up to her full five feet three inches and juts out her jaw. “I’m Deanna Poulos, Your Honor. Cocounsel for defendant Richard Baxter. And I’m respectfully asking the Court to inquire about his whereabouts, unless the US Attorney knows where he is.”

The judge frowns. Deanna speaks with so much authority that he accepts her, at least for the moment. “Well, Mr. Latham?” he says.

“I do not know where the defendant is, Your Honor,” Latham says.

The judge raises an index finger and then huddles with his clerk, who picks up the telephone and dials a number. The courtroom falls silent as we wait; they should have a law school class that just teaches you how to wait.

While the clerk is still on hold, a marshal bursts into the courtroom. “My apologies, Your Honor.” Without waiting for permission, she approaches the bench and whispers something to the judge.

Judge Harvey taps his fingers on the bench three times but otherwise seems impassive. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re going to take a short recess because of a procedural matter. I’ll see counsel in the United States v. Baxter case in chambers.”

The judge goes through the private door into his office, while Latham and I follow the marshal through another door that leads into a hallway, and then to an anteroom where the judge’s secretary sits. She shows us inside. Judge Harvey has already taken off his robe. He sits behind his desk in shirt sleeves. From up-close, his eyes are rheumy and red.

“Sit down, gentlemen,” he says.

We sit. He takes out a cloth handkerchief and wipes his brow, which doesn’t seem damp, and I wonder if it’s a sympathetic reaction to the sweat that’s undoubtedly glistening on my own forehead.

“I just received some startling news from the detention center,” the judge says, blinking his eyes. “They tell me that the defendant Richard Baxter has committed suicide.”