In the courtrooms of Chicago, as in the creaking justice system throughout the country, the mills of the gods grind slowly.  By the time the details have been worked out with De-De and his lawyers, twenty-one months have slipped past and it’s winter again.  The sentencing is finally set for December 8, 1994, and Frank Goff makes it a point to be there—but not with any sense of vengeance.  Although De-De did his best to blast Goff full of holes, the even-tempered cop makes it a point not to take any of this personally. On the other hand, given all the back room orchestration he’s already witnessed on this case, Goff just wants to make sure the guy doesn’t slip through the cracks.

The Cook County Criminal Courts building at 26th Street and California Avenue is five miles southwest of the Loop and light years from the experience of the average citizen. The seven-story limestone facade with its chisled motifs—Veritas... Publicas... Justitia—speak of another era, and the broad steps rising to meet the fluted Doric columns no longer lead anywhere. The ornate bronze doors are permanently sealed. The entrance is now in the glass lobby to the south, which is able to accommodate something the original architects could never have forseen—metal detectors.

The third floor courtroom has also made a concession to the times: a wall of bullet-proof windows now separates the officials from the onlookers. Inch-thick panels of Lexan angle upward from steel framed partitions in front of the spectators, and the judge’s words come to them through speakers in the ceiling. It would be hard to imagine a more telling symbol of the apprehension that permeates the criminal justice system.

Since this is a plea-bargain there’s no jury, so Goff takes a seat in the box next to Scotty Freeman. When De-De is brought out from the holding cell, they’re surprised to see that he’s lost about 25 pounds. Goff leans to Freeman. “Doesn't look like jail set well with him.” For his part, De-De fixes on the judge as