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stilted and artificial things are in his courtroom right now. Ginder isn’t a racist, not by a long shot. But whether or not Joseph Ginder is a racist isn’t what’s going to play in the newspaper tomorrow unless the next words out of his mouth are the right ones. All that’s going to come across is that he lets white people out for the same crimes he keeps black people in for, and that is going to play like shit.
    Ginder is very angry now, but not yet so angry he can’t think. He locks onto Towns, eye-to-eye, knowing it’s too late now to throw her out; he’s entered the zone where appearance is everything. The standoff doesn’t move for several seconds, until a barely perceptible smile creeps into his face. I recognize the “I’m brilliant” look; I’ve seen it a hundred times. He relaxes a little, leaning back in his chair. “October 27, that last date you mentioned,” he says. “You say that was the same crime as Mr. Bol?”
    Towns doesn’t need to look at her notes. “The crime was aggravated assault with intent to do bodily harm, and first-degree murder, Your Honor.”
    â€œWhat bail did I set on that occasion, Ms. Towns?”
    â€œYou set bail at seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
    Ginder nods sagely. “How about the date before. What was that one?”
    â€œApril 23, 1998. The crime in that instance was rape with special circumstances.”
    â€œWhat was the bail in that instance, Ms. Towns?”
    â€œFour hundred thousand dollars.”
    â€œAll right, Ms. Towns. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll set bail for Mr. Bol for one million, two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Mr. Bol is facing both counts, and unless my math is rusty, that’s the combination of the two.”
    â€œIt is, Your Honor.”
    I look over at Stillman and smile; Bol couldn’t raise fifteen hundred dollars’ bail, much less nearly a thousand times as much. A million dollars to Moses Bol might as well be a billion. Ginder is smiling when he grants the bail and states court is adjourned. I’m impressed; it’s a deft move that is scrupulously fair and deflates the racism charge without actually confronting it. Ginder stands—shit-eating grin on his face—and the gallery rises with him.
    At which point, Fiona Towns asks, “Where do I pay?”

CHAPTER
4
    â€œ THAT DIDN ’ T GO WELL .”
    â€œNo,” I say, “it didn’t.” I stare at Stillman, who, along with David Rayburn, has gathered with me around the district attorney’s conference table. It’s two hours after Stillman and I left the courthouse. The last few moments there are a blur, but at least I managed to recommend to Ginder that he arrange for security to escort the Africans out of the building. The judge, still shell-shocked by the pastor’s ploy, managed to pull himself together enough to get four officers to walk out the Sudanese in a long, protected line. The Nationites, angered that the man they considered Tamra Hartlett’s killer would soon be walking the streets, hissed at them as they passed. The officers gave the Africans a fifteen-minute head start, but eventually, they had to let the lions loose. Bol was remanded to Towns’s care, and his monitored house arrest will be at the church, not at Bol’s apartment in Tennessee Village, which is right next door to the Nation.
    â€œI did a Nexis search on Towns,” I say. “I got six hits. It’s definitely interesting reading.”
    â€œWho is she?” Rayburn asks.
    â€œShe took over the Downtown Presbyterian Church about eight months ago. The place has been on the verge of closing for years. Towns showed up, and it’s become a hangout for the hard-core peace and justice types. She’s got the eco-crowd, antiglobalization, the whole thing. It’s more like a political party than a church. Apparently, she