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Overdue bill. Junk. Junk. Hey, Billy, here’s a bill that ain’t overdue. Somebody has a lot of nerve, sending this. Ha!”
    The Wisconsin punter hit a low line drive, which Michigan State fielded at the twenty-three-yard line, with twenty seconds left in the game. Billy held an open hand over the television, like a faith healer.
    â€œBilly?” the old man said, sounding grave. “Did you get arrested and not tell me?”
    â€œMmmm!” Billy said to silence him. To the TV, he preached, “Block that guy! And that guy! Run! Cut it back! Good!”
    â€œBecause this letter is from the superior court,” the old man said. “Addressed to you.”
    â€œHallelujah!” Billy screamed. “He broke it! Run! Run! Yes! Score!”
    Billy threw up his arms, jumped in celebration, and jammed his fingers on the yellowing stucco ceiling. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered. He stuffed his hands under his armpits and watched the Michigan State players pile onto their kick returner in the end zone. Billy had no joy in victory, only relief: The money he had just won from a Federal Hill bookmaker would cover his debt to a loan shark in South Providence. Michigan State had just saved Billy from another broken nose.
    â€œFine, fine—you won,” the old man said, not sounding too happy about it. “What about this letter from the court?”
    Billy snatched the envelope and ripped it open. There was a sheet of blue paper inside.
    â€œAw, goddamn,” he said. “I got jury duty.”
    Billy looked up, to see his father sipping from George Washington’s head, and his son, with tight-lipped determination, stirring margarine into his chocolate cereal with the barrel of his toy gun.
    The old man said, “You’ll probably just hang around in the jury pool for a day, and then come home.”
    â€œProbably,” Billy agreed, barely listening. He felt a quick flutter in his chest. He had never before been called to duty by the court. To sit on a jury would be good, he thought, in case one day he had to face one.

three
    T he frosted glass rattled in the door. From the hallway outside the law office came a muffled muttering, “I’ll sue that goddamn locksmith.”
    Inside the office, Carol dog-eared the page to mark her place in the ten-year-old decision from the first circuit court of appeals, and then called, “Martin? It’s not locked.”
    The door rattled more violently. “I’ll take his house!”
    â€œMartin?”
    â€œHis car, his boat, his wife, children—and his cocker spaniel!”
    â€œTurn the knob to the left.”
    The door burst open and Martin Smothers stumbled into the oneroom office, clutching together in one hand a McDonald’s bag, a sheet of white paper, and a battered silver briefcase. The other hand still held the doorknob for balance as Martin’s slippery fake-leather vegan shoes skidded on the buffed tile. With the door open, Carol could read the black stenciling on the glass: MARTIN J. SMOTHERS, ATTORNEY AT LAW . The letters had been painted in a curve, like a giant frown, which seemed right for the moment.
    â€œWhat the hell did they do to my goddamn door?” Martin shrieked.
    â€œThey fixed it,” Carol said, but Martin didn’t seem to want an answer. He blew into the office, let the door slam, slapped his briefcase and his lunch on his steel desk, and sent loose papers fluttering.
    Martin Smothers was sixty years old, slim-shouldered, and potbellied, with dark, puffy bags beneath his eyes, a shiny bare forehead, and long, wiry white hair bound by a rubber band into a ponytail, which had been threaded through the back of a Providence Steam Roller cap. The 1928 National Football League champions went out of business before Smothers was born, but he liked their logo, which looked like a drunken border collie sticking out its tongue.
    Martin dressed in a tan linen suit, as he did