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Masterson asked me to follow him back to the office for what he called a brief meeting. I expected an angry tongue-lashing. But when we arrived, he spoke in measured tones, conveying a profound sense of disappointment rather than anger. I wished he would have just yelled at me.

He estimated our chances of pulling out a guilty verdict as “slim to none.” Continuing with the case would just put my father’s reputation at risk and make the DA’s office look vindictive. And even if we won, Tate now had too many issues for appeal. Instead of fighting Tate on this case, we should work on tying him to the recent gang killings of Ricky Powell, Rontavius Eastbrook, and Jimmy Brandywine and the brutal murder of Latrell Hampton’s girlfriend and her young son. “We’re going to nol-pros this case first thing Monday morning,” Masterson told me. “It’s not open for discussion.”

I didn’t say anything. But I wondered how much of this was driven by politics. Dismissing the case would make Masterson look magnanimous, like he was committed to justice more than winning. Losing a jury verdict would make us both look incompetent.

“We’ll turn Rivera loose, and he can get what’s coming to him,” Masterson continued. “I’m not sending him out to California, and I’m not wasting any police protection on him. He lied on the stand, though that tape is too ambiguous for us to prosecute him for perjury. But now that he’s cut his deal, let’s see how long he survives.”

Even to me, the most hard-nosed of prosecutors, it seemed harsh. The man had perjured himself and played us for fools, but I didn’t like the idea of just abandoning him on the streets to die. Yet I was so angry with so many people right now—including Rafael Rivera—that I wasn’t about to stick up for him.

“And, Jamie, I hope you’ve learned a few things from today. You’re one heckuva prosecutor, but you’ve got to keep your emotions out of it.” Masterson paused and gave me a look that could melt steel. “And I mean that in every respect.”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

I sat there for another moment as Masterson got busy on some paperwork. He looked up. “That’s all,” he said.

I checked my BlackBerry on the way home, and I had more than twenty messages. Most of them were from friends who tried to encourage me. There were two phone calls and one text message from Mace James, who wanted to meet with me as soon as possible. The text said it was a critical issue that could impact Caleb Tate’s case. But Caleb Tate’s case was over. I ignored the message.

I didn’t ignore the text messages from LA asking if we could get together. I texted him back, telling him that getting together right now would be a bad idea. I wished with all my heart I could have taken back the night before. It wasn’t necessarily LA’s fault, but I knew Masterson was right. I’d let my emotions get out of control, and now I was paying for it in so many ways.

When I arrived home, there was a car in my driveway, and I recognized it immediately. My brother, Chris, to the rescue. He was sitting in the driver’s seat and got out to give me a big hug. Somebody had apparently called him about our day in court.

Justice greeted us both like conquering heroes. He jumped all over Chris, who laughed and played with Justice because anybody who came to our house had to play with Justice. They wrestled in the family room for a few minutes with Justice hunkering down and making runs at Chris and rolling on the floor and doing his fake growl. The only way I could calm him down was to feed him dinner.

Chris and I sat opposite each other at the kitchen table, waiting for the burgers to cook on the grill. I know Chris expected me to cry, but I had done enough crying in the last few months. Tonight I was just confused, frustrated, and angry. I started talking and put it all out there—the guilt at being away from the house when Mom died, my resentment toward Dad for being a defense lawyer, the frustration of not knowing whether Antoine Marshall was truly Mom’s killer, and even my disappointment in Chris for not being a more forceful advocate for justice. But most of all, my bitterness at everything that had happened in Caleb Tate’s murder trial and Masterson’s decision to nol-pros.

“I can’t believe God’s going to let him get away with killing his wife,” I said.

Chris listened patiently and responded softly. He had his hands laced together on the table and looked down as he spoke. He told me that I couldn’t blame myself for Mom’s death. He assured me that Caleb Tate wasn’t getting away with anything.

He paused and looked at me. Tonight, it was Chris who had tears in his eyes. “When you hurt, I hurt,” he said. Then he turned philosophical. “We can’t bring about perfect justice in this world, Jamie. It pleases God for us to try. But at the end of the day, this is a fallen world. Even the best systems put together by men—and I believe our justice system is pretty darned good—are going to be imperfect. But there’s a verse in Genesis that I’ve always loved: ‘Will not the Judge of all the earth do right?’

“That’s what I hold on to. Even on days like today, when the world is so messed up. That jury doesn’t have the last word. And Judge Brown doesn’t have the last word. And neither does Bill Masterson.”

Chris used the back of an index finger to wipe a tear from the bottom of his eye. “Sorry to preach,” he said. “I’d better go check on the burgers.”