The King of Torts by John Grisham Page B

days passed with no entries at all.
    The entry on Day 80 was different: “He realizes he needs spiritual guidance from above to stay clean. He can’t do it alone. Says he wants to stay in D Camp forever.”
    Day 100: “We celebrated the hundredth day with brownies and ice cream. Tequila made a short speech. He cried. He was awarded a two-hour pass.”
    Day 104: “Two-hour pass. He left, returned in twenty minutes with a popsicle.”
    Day 107: “Sent to the post office, gone almost an hour, returned.”
    Day 110: “Two-hour pass, returned, no problem.”
    The final entry was Day 115: “Two-hour pass, no return.”
    Noland was watching as they neared the end of the file. “Any questions?” he asked, as if they had consumed enough of his time.
    “It’s pretty sad,” Clay said, closing the file with a deep breath. He had lots of questions but none that Noland could, or would, answer.
    “In a world of misery, Mr. Carter, this indeed is one of the saddest. I am rarely moved to tears, but Tequila has made me cry.” Noland was rising to his feet. “Would you like to copy anything?” The meeting was over.
    “Maybe later,” Clay said. They thanked him for his time and followed him to the reception area.
    In the car, Rodney fastened his seat belt and glancedaround the neighborhood. Very calmly he said, “Okay, pal, we got us a new friend.”
    Clay was watching the fuel gauge and hoping there was enough gas to get back to the office. “What kinda friend?”
    “See that burgundy Jeep down there, half a block, other side of the street?”
    Clay looked and said, “So what?”
    “There’s a black dude behind the wheel, big guy, wearing a Redskins cap, I think. He’s watching us.”
    Clay strained and could barely see the shape of a driver, race and cap indistinguishable to him. “How do you know he’s watching us?”
    “He was on Lamont Street when we were there, I saw him twice, both times easing by, looking at us but not looking. When we parked here to go in, I saw the Jeep three blocks back that way. Now he’s over there.”
    “How do you know it’s the same Jeep?”
    “Burgundy’s an odd color. See that dent in the front fender, right side?”
    “Yeah, maybe.”
    “Same Jeep, no doubt about it. Let’s go that way, get a closer look.”
    Clay pulled onto the street and drove past the burgundy Jeep. A newspaper flew up in front of the driver. Rodney scribbled down the license plate number.
    “Why would anyone follow us?” Clay asked.
    “Drugs. Always drugs. Maybe Tequila was dealing. Maybe the kid he killed had some nasty friends. Who knows?”
    “I’d like to find out.”
    “Let’s not dig too deep right now. You drive, and I’ll watch our rear.”
    They headed south along Puerto Rico Avenue for thirty minutes and stopped at a gas station near the Anacostia River. Rodney watched every car as Clay pumped fuel. “The tail’s off,” Rodney said when they were moving again. “Let’s go to the office.”
    “Why would they stop following us?” Clay asked. He would have believed any explanation.
    “I’m not sure,” Rodney said, still checking his side mirror. “Could be that they were only curious as to whether we went to D Camp. Or maybe they know that we saw them. Just watch your tail for a while.”
    “This is great. I’ve never been followed before.”
    “Just pray they don’t decide to catch you.”
    ______
    J ERMAINE V ANCE shared an office with another unseasoned lawyer who happened to be out at the moment, so Clay was offered his vacant chair. They compared notes on their most recent murder defendants.
    Jermaine’s client was a twenty-four-year-old career criminal named Washad Porter, who, unlike Tequila, had a long and frightening history of violence. As a member of D.C.’s largest gang, Washad had been severely wounded twice in gun battles and had been convicted once of attempted murder. Seven of his twenty-four years had been spent behind bars. He had shown little interest in