After my plea was entered and the trial date set for a month later, we drove to another town to meet with my new attorney. He was out to lunch, so we met with his partner, whose name, believe it or not, was Mr. Picket. Mr. Picket was an expensively dressed yellow-haired man who chainsmoked and seemed barely able to hold himself up above his desk. A thick burble of lung mucous percolated with his speech. I asked him what the success rate is with this kind of case and he begged the question, answering, "I've handled all kinds of drug cases, crack cases, heroin cases, pot cases, you name it."

He made more sense when he explained the plan, however. We'd pay him $750, which would cover everything. He'd represent me, and I might or might not need to be present during the trial, depending on the judge's whim. He'd request a change of judge, and then attempt to get me a Suspended Imposition of Sentence. This meant that the judge would find me guilty but would not impose a sentence for one year. If, after one year, I had not again darkened the door of the Missouri legal system again, the case would be sealed and forevermore ignored. I would not be obligated to disclose the case as a drug conviction nor would it in fact be one, for without a sentencing there is no conviction. He seemed reasonably confident, within reason, and said that the incriminating pictures would help the case.

Raoul felt guilty about getting me into the whole situation and insisted on paying for everything. "If I can't use my money to help my friends when they're in hot water, what good is it?" he asked. He payed the money in cash notes and received in return a receipt on a yellow Post-It note.

"And if it doesn't work," Mr. Picket added, "They can't extradite you from California, so you just stay out of Missouri."

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