Blood of Angels by Reed Arvin Read Free Book Online Page B

state. Architecture, I’ve found, often contains clues to the intentions of the people behind the structure. From the immaculate, unscalable walls of the exterior to the invisible, bomb-sniffing sensors in the entryway, this is a building bereft of history, thoroughly committed to the present and future. It sits a city block wide on the banks of the Cumberland River, testimony to the burgeoning prison population of metropolitan Davidson County. By the time I arrive, Stillman is already there—God, he’s an eager beaver—and the two of us walk up the concrete stairs to the big, revolving doors of the main entrance.
    Stillman and I clear security together. Stillman is looking nifty in a well-tailored, gray linen suit, white shirt, and bloodred tie. He jokes with the guards like an old hand, even though he’s going to court for about the fifth time in his life. One of the guards, a huge black man everybody calls Hap, motions me over. “You going up to Ginder’s courtroom?” he asks.
    â€œYeah,” I say. “Another day in paradise.”
    â€œWhat’s goin’ on today?” he asks. “The United Nations is up there.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    Hap shrugs. “I haven’t heard a word of English the last half hour, except a lot of brothers want to know the way to Ginder’s room.” I glance at Stillman, who gives me a blank look. We take the elevator to the second floor and Judge Joseph Ginder’s courtroom. Ginder is a decent guy whom I know well, since I’ve spent about a thousand hours arguing cases before him. He’s generally fair, although he has a temper. This doesn’t usually present a problem, because most of the prosecutors know how to avoid his hot buttons. These mostly have to do with respect issues, along the lines of treating him like he’s a god. He’s got an election coming up in three months, and he’s been on his best behavior, making sure he gets the endorsement of the trial lawyers’ association.
    Stillman and I come around the corner and see a crowd of about twenty white people standing around with pissed expressions on their faces. Most are male, under the age of twenty-five, and dressed in this summer’s version of Caucasian street thug. Stillman pulls up short. “Is it just me, or did a trailer park just empty out around here?”
    I smile. “Welcome to the Nation, Stillman,” I say. “That’s with a capital N. ” I point to the crowd. “I probably had five cases with this crowd my first year. They live in the whitest and poorest forty square blocks of Nashville. Their parents worked low-end manufacturing jobs, except there aren’t any anymore. So now they have lots of time to decide whom to blame.”
    â€œWhy do they call it the Nation?”
    â€œAll the cross streets are named after states. Indiana, Kentucky, Florida, that kind of thing. They don’t look happy, do they?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhat’s bothering them, Stillman, is the fact that their little place in the world is now completely surrounded by Laotians, Ukrainians, Hispanics, Cambodians, and God knows what else. These are not the kind of people who like to hear Croatian at the corner grocery store. The city planning commission has been dumping immigrants on their borders, and they’re freaked.”
    Stillman stares. “Somebody didn’t think that through.”
    I nod. “And now, thanks to the United Nations of We-Bail-Everybody-Out, we can add Africans to their volatile little mix.”
    â€œSo what are they doing here?”
    â€œThey’re here, Stillman, because a member of yet another group of people they don’t want to live next to raped and killed one of their own. Tamra Hartlett.”
    â€œShe lived in the Nation?”
    â€œNationite, third generation,” I say. “They want to get a look at the man who killed her.”
    Stillman