Stephen Kinnington whispered as he beckoned me toward the back of the house. “Does the house have an alarm system?” I asked, still winded from my hike up the path. “Yes,” he said as we approached the back door, “but my father never turns it on before he goes to bed.” Stephen produced a key, and we entered the house at the kitchen. I followed him to a corridor. He turned left, and we approached two large, polished double doors. Stephen looked up at me. “Ready?” he whispered. “Does he keep a gun at his desk?” I asked. Stephen shook his head. “Only upstairs, in the bedroom.” “Then I’m ready.” We opened the doors. The Honorable Willard J. Kinnington was standing in front of a mirror. Dressed in a Lacoste polo shirt and khaki pants, he had notes in his hand and appeared to have been rehearsing a speech, just as Stephen had predicted. “Practicing for the eulogy?” I asked. The judge looked at us as if we’d entered the Debutante’s Ball naked. “Sit down,”
