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complete stranger, one Colonel James Safford, U.S. Army retired. Colonel Safford, who in civilian life is a lawyer in Idaho specializing in estate planning, wills, trusts, and the like, in his spare time volunteers his services as part of a small veterans’ advocacy group known as the GI Defense Fund. The organization was formed in the 1970s in the waning days of the Vietnam War when a growing number of returning veterans found themselves in trouble with the law, oftentimes the result of seemingly senseless and unprovoked acts of horrific violence; this from men who had no prior criminal history or problems with the law before their military service.
    Safford had been given my name, along with the names of several other local lawyers, from the office of the base commander at North Island Naval Air Station on Coronado Island in San Diego. It seems the Navy keeps in touch with a handful of local lawyer-veterans who from time to time have drawn attention to themselves by defending members of the armed services who have gotten sideways with civilian legal authorities. These attorneys have on more than one occasion given up on collecting their fees. Some might call this pro bono work. But as a practical matter it is difficult to collect from soldiers and sailors whose spouses and children sometimes have to line up at the county welfare office for food stamps just so that they can eat through the end of the month.
    What Safford was looking for was some help with a case. It seemed that a retired Army sergeant had gone a little beyond the usual military brush with the law, your typical bar brawl or flashing incident involving a general mooning of society brought on by unbridled hostility, a domestic dispute, or a few too many beers.
    It’s the reason we are here today, my partner Harry Hinds and I, heading for the elevator at the county jail to interview a prospective client. His name is Emiliano Ruiz. We have never met.
    He is thirty-eight years old and until two and a half years ago was an Army staff sergeant, what some would call a lifer. He spent twenty years in uniform. And according to what little I know of him, he saw action in Panama and the first Gulf War. He retired and took a job with a security firm in San Diego about two years ago, one of those companies that offer high-end protective services for corporate executives here and abroad. For the last four months Sergeant Ruiz has been behind bars on a charge of first-degree murder with special circumstances. If he is convicted, considering the profile of the case—involving a victim of prominence in this community—and the cold and calculating nature of the crime, Ruiz is a likely candidate for San Quentin’s death row.
    As Harry and I turn the corner for our two o’clock conference somebody over by one of the satellite trucks hollers, “There they are,” and within a few seconds they are on us like locusts.
    We are engulfed in a sea of bodies hoisting microphones and pushing camera lenses in our faces. Bright lights and a million questions, most of them unintelligible, are drowned out by more shouted questions from behind.
    There is no telling how many are here. I can’t see far enough into the crowd, but the camera crews are jostling each other for position. There are satellite trucks from as far north as L.A., all of the network affiliates, their dishes already arrayed and aimed skyward, generators running. They are parked at the curb in front of the entrance to the county jail, blocking the sidewalk so that we have to move around them to get there.
    “Mr. Madriani”—some guy sticks his microphone in Harry’s face—“can you tell us, have you spoken to your client yet?”
    With that, everybody jumps on Harry. He is awash in questions, everybody figuring the reporter must know him.
    “When are you going to see Ruiz?”
    “Why did the defendant fire Dale Kendal? Was he unhappy with Kendal’s representation?”
    It is my chance to slip the crowd, but I