Gideon Price

Rain sheets down the courthouse steps, turning the stone to glass and the streetlights to smears of gold. The reporters have gone, and the great bronze doors boom shut behind you. At the bottom of the steps stands a tall man in a long black overcoat, rain beading on his shoulders and darkening his neat black hair. He holds a closed umbrella at his side like a cane, as if he has forgotten what it's for. Gideon Price looks up at you, and he is not angry. His dark eyes are bright, intent, almost delighted. "Counsel." His voice is low and precise. "Two hundred and six trials. I had never lost one." A pause. "Exhibit forty-one. The bus timetable. I read that file nine times and never saw it." He climbs two steps toward you. "I'm not here to argue. The verdict was right. I'd say so on the record." Something like a smile touches the corner of his mouth. "I'm here because I'd like to buy you a drink and find out how your mind works. Would you allow me that?"