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was pleased she had used my first name. “I figured that much.”
    “So your Harvard clubs, and your secret handshakes, won’t help us. Still with me?”
    “I’m trying, but I can’t seem to focus.”
    “Why not?”
    “I’m trying to remember the secret handshake. Which worries me, because if I can’t remember it, no one else will tell it to me. It’s a secret.”
    She laughed, an incongruous laugh considering the circumstances, but a great laugh considering any circumstances. It was a laugh that you expect to hear in a bar, after a bunch of beers and a bunch of stories. Not in a prison while figuring out how to die. And it was a laugh that matched her eyes, which were much warmer than when we had first met.
    It was the kind of laugh that invited others to laugh along, and I did.
    “You going to work your ass off on this?” she asked, her tone changed. Weirdly, my joke about the secret handshake had for the first time implausibly earned me some respect.
    I could have given her a knee-jerk “yes,” but I didn’t, because her question jarred me a little, and made me think. The concept of working my ass off, not because I had to but because I wanted to, was not one I was very familiar with. The last time I had voluntarily worked my ass off was never.
    “I’m going to do the best I can, Sheryl.”
    She paused, maybe because someone doing the best they could for her was not exactly an everyday occurrence. Then, “Let’s get it done, Harvard.”
    As motivational speeches go, in that moment “Let’s get it done, Harvard” ranked up there with “Win it for the Gipper.”

 
    Uncle Reggie’s office was the size of a broom closet. Actually, I think it had been a broom closet before Reggie converted it into a place where the accused could find salvation, coffee, and a way out of their legal troubles.
    Reggie was a legend in New Jersey legal and criminal circles, which in itself was quite revealing. He believed that everyone deserved a competent, vigorous defense, and their ability to get such a defense should not be predicated on their ability to pay. That also happens to be what the justice system purports to believe, which is why it was sort of a surprise that Reggie always stood out so much.
    On a per-square-inch basis, there was more paper in Reggie’s office than anywhere on Earth. It was possible to pace the office, or sit down, without ever actually touching floor or chair. The paper was strewn everywhere, and Reggie always claimed that if a single piece were cleaned up or moved, he wouldn’t be able to find anything.
    “Well, if it isn’t life’s great disappointment,” he said when he saw me, softening the verbal blow with a warm hug.
    “Thanks, Reggie. I can always count on you for a pick-me-up.”
    “How’s my pain-in-the-ass brother?” he asked.
    “I would describe him as unchanged,” I said.
    “That’s not always such a bad thing.” He thought for a moment, then, “Make a note of this … that’s what I want on my headstone. ‘Here lies Reggie Wagner. He was unchanged.’”
    “You’ve got me making notes about your headstone?”
    “Why not? You’re the executor of my will. You’re also the sole beneficiary.”
    “Are you serious?”
    “Don’t be too flattered,” he said. “You didn’t beat out any other serious contenders, and I have no money. In fact, you’re probably going to have to spring for the headstone.”
    I laughed out loud; Reggie was one of the few people on the planet who could make me do that. “Then stone might be the wrong thing to call it. ‘Headwood’ might be more accurate. Balsa wood.”
    “So what brings you here? Planning the next family circle?”
    “I was in the New Jersey State Prison for Women this morning,” I said.
    “Who bailed you out?”
    “This is serious. I have a client in there.”
    He nodded. “Let’s hear it.”
    I told him the whole story, and he listened attentively, not interrupting once. When I finished, I asked,