I had not met the judge before, or the federal prosecutors, Elliot Enoki and Walter Schroeder. In the informal setting of his chambers, Judge King looked and acted grandfatherly, complete with thinning gray hair, alert eyes magnified by glasses, and heavy jowls that shook like bowls of Jell-O when he chuckled. He always had a quip or two, even from the bench, and he appeared to enjoy making people laugh. I immediately like Sam King because he seemed to lack the silly pomposity found in so many judges. He was a regular guy. Enoki, thirty-six, a straitlaced Japanese-American with a compact frame, had a perpetual wry smile that hinted he knew something no one else did. His straight black hair matted against his forehead as if he’d just stepped from the shower. A native of Hawaii, Enoki chose the mainland for his advanced schooling, receiving his undergraduate degree in English literature from Northwestern, and his law degree from the University of California at Davis. Four years with the state public defender’s office in Hawaii following law school convinced Enoki that he’d rather prosecute the bad guys than defend them.
