Jesse Greer stood in the middle of a small storage room at the rear of a commercial building in downtown Madison, Wisconsin. It was midnight. Jesse's hands were encased in latex gloves. Shining a small flashlight beam around the room, he spotted a large cardboard box in a corner. Holding the pen sized flashlight between his knees, he reached into his jacket pocket and removed a utility knife, then deftly sliced the box open.

"Just what I was looking for!" the tall, dark-haired young man said aloud in a smooth Southern drawl as he saw the box contained reams of copy machine paper. "This will do nicely." He tore open two of the reams and scattered loose sheets of paper around the room.

"Kowalski!" Jesse called in a louder voice. "Get your ass in here, NOW."

A moment later another small flashlight beam appeared from an adjoining room. The young man holding this light was barely one year out of high school. He, too, was wearing latex gloves. And he was also holding a red can containing gasoline.

"Did you shove rags under those shelves like I told you?" Jesse demanded.

"Yes," the youth replied. He sounded nervous.

"And did you splash gas around like I told you?"

"Yes." The youth's head bobbed up and down.

"Good. I'm glad to hear you can follow directions. Now give me that." Jesse reached out and yanked the gas can out of the young man's hand. He unscrewed the top, then liberally doused the sheets of paper strewn about the floor with the foul smelling liquid.

"Don't you think that's enough?" the youth asked as Jesse continued to splash gasoline around the room.

"What's the matter, Benny?" Jesse asked. "You startin' to get cold feet?"

"Of course not," the youth replied. "I just thought maybe that was enough."

"And what would make you think that?" Jesse demanded.

"I don't know. . .," the young man stammered. "I was just thinking that there are houses on either side of here and people live in those houses and -- you know -- what if the fire spreads? Somebody could get hurt."

In an instant Jesse had dropped the can on the floor and was clutching the young man's throat with both hands. The youth's flashlight went flying. "What are you, Kowalski, some kind of fucking bleeding heart?" Jesse roared, squeezing Ben's throat as hard as he could. "Are you one of them fucking faggots? You know how much I hate faggots. Who are you to say what's enough? Who's in charge of this operation? ANSWER ME. WHO IS FUCKING IN CHARGE HERE?"

Ben Kowalski's eyes bulged out from lack of oxygen. He tried to push Jesse away but he was no match for the bigger and stronger attacker. Finally, when Ben felt himself starting to lose consciousness, Jesse relaxed his grip. Ben fell to his knees, gasping for air.

"Let me ask you again," Jesse said in a calmer tone. "Who is in charge of this operation?"

"You are, Jesse," the youth managed to choke out.

"Very good, son, " Jesse said, slapping Ben on the shoulder. "I might just make a worthy soldier out of you yet, boy." He pulled Ben to his feet and handed him the gas can. "Here, you go back to the truck and wait for me. I'll be there shortly, just as soon as I get the home fires burning here, so to speak." He laughed at his little joke, then shone the flashlight at his watch. "It's ten past twelve. We made real good time. We should be at our next stop in twenty minutes or so."

Jesse gave Ben a shove toward the door. "Get going. Don't let anybody see you. And don't even think about running away," he added menacingly. "Because if you run away, you know I'll find you."

Trembling with fear, Ben Kowalski eagerly fled the building.

Jesse reached into his pocket and pulled out a disposable lighter. A smile played about his handsome face as he flicked it on. "Take that, you godless murderers," he said. "May your filthy souls rot in hell." He leaned down and touched the flame to the gasoline-soaked paper. As the fire took hold and began to spread, Jesse retrieved Ben's flashlight from the floor and raced out into the dark night.

The sun streamed brightly through the windows of Ann Monroe's office as the dark-haired middle-aged man seated across from her expressed his anger.

"The criminal trial was a joke!" the man said. "Samuel Jenkins and Brad English nearly killed Bill, and they got off scot free." The man paused a moment and looked at the attractive thirty-something lawyer sitting across the desk from him before continuing. "We want those young punks held accountable for what they did to Bill. We want you to file a civil suit against them."

To Robinson's left his wife Laurie, a slender redhead dressed in a brown pants suit, nodded emphatically. To Robinson's right his son Bill, who was dressed in jeans and a red sweatshirt, sat looking down at the floor, the toe of his right sneaker nervously digging into the carpet.

Ann pushed her shoulder length brown hair behind her ears and collected her thoughts for a moment before commenting on Tom Robinson's request. She knew this family had been through hell, and she understood their anger.

Several weeks earlier, nineteen-year-old Bill Robinson had been at the center of one of Wisconsin's most closely watched trials. The previous fall, Bill, an openly gay student who attended the University of Wisconsin's Mt. Pleasant campus, about an hour's drive from Madison, had been viciously assaulted by two seventeen year olds. The young men, Samuel Jenkins and Brad English, had been charged with causing great bodily harm.

The prosecution's theory was that Bill had been singled out because of his sexual orientation. If they had been convicted, the defendants' sentences could have been enhanced by up to five years under Wisconsin's new hate crimes law, which applied to crimes committed against certain protected classes of people, including those victims selected on the basis of sexual preference.

Ann, a partner at Mishler & Stettler, a twelve-attorney Madison firm that handled exclusively plaintiffs' cases, had followed the trial closely and had hoped the jury would see fit to use the new law to enhance the penalty imposed on Bill's attackers. From what was reported in the media, it looked like the jury had plenty of evidence to find both defendants guilty. To Ann's dismay, both young men were acquitted. Ann relished the idea of filing a civil suit against Bill Robinson's assailants.

Ann turned slightly in her chair so she could get a partial glimpse out one of her windows. The firm's offices occupied the fourth and top floor of a historic building on the east side of the Capitol square in downtown Madison. It was late March, and the Capitol grounds looked barren and forlorn. Ann knew, though, that in a matter of weeks the thousands of tulips the grounds crew had planted the previous fall would be forcing their way out of the cold soil. By early May the dazzling display of color would rival anything that existed in Holland.

Ann nodded sympathetically in response to Tom Robinson's comments. "Like many people who followed the case, I was surprised - and extremely disappointed - with the verdict."

"It was a disgrace!" Tom Robinson exclaimed. "I don't know how the people who served on that jury can sleep at night. And as for those young punks who tried to murder my son. . ." His voice trailed off. "That's why we want you to sue. It simply can't end like this."

Ann leaned back in her black leather chair and pulled down the sleeve of her red wool suit jacket. "What do you think about filing a civil suit, Bill?" she asked the victim of the assault. "Is that something you truly want to do or is it just your parents' idea of how to achieve justice?"

For the first time in the ten minutes he had been in her office, the young man stopped his fidgeting and looked up at Ann. His ruggedly handsome looks were marred by a long jagged scar that ran down his right cheek, a vivid reminder of the attack. "I want to do it," he said, his eyes bright with conviction. "The three of us have talked about it a lot over the past two weeks, and we all agree it's the right thing to do."

Ann nodded again. "I always like my clients to know exactly what they can expect when they're involved in a lawsuit, so let's talk a little bit about that. Then we'll discuss the pros and cons of filing a civil suit so we'll all be better able to decide how to proceed. Is that agreeable with everyone?"

All three Robinsons nodded.

"Good," Ann said, smiling. "I always say that a well- informed client is a satisfied client, so forgive me if I get a little long-winded in my explanation. Just bear with me for a few minutes and when I'm through you can ask me any questions you might have."

Ann had given the "Lawsuits 101" spiel so many times that she could do it in a manner approaching autopilot. "So that's the way the civil litigation process works, in a nutshell," Ann concluded her remarks some minutes later. "Now let's talk a little bit about the specifics of your particular case." She referred to the legal pad in front of her on which she had jotted some notes during the earlier part of their discussion and swiveled her chair around so she was squarely facing her clients. A huge framed poster from The Wizard of Oz, Ann's favorite film, dominated the back wall of the office.

Ann addressed Bill. "Are you absolutely certain that you want to go ahead with this?" she asked again. "I can certainly understand your disappointment with the verdict in the criminal case, but at least now that it's over you'll be able to go back to being a private citizen. If we file a civil suit, the media circus will start all over again. Are you positive that you're prepared emotionally to deal with that?"

The young man nodded emphatically. "I am," he said in a firm, strong voice. "I'm not doing this on a whim. Of course I'd give anything to have my anonymity back. It's helped a lot that I've transferred to the University here in Madison. I'm doing well in school and I'm starting to feel like I fit in." "Are you sure you want to disrupt all that?" Ann asked kindly.

Bill nodded. "The outcome of the criminal case left me feeling like the bad guys won," he said, his voice cracking a bit, "and I don't want to leave it like that. In the time since the trial ended I've come to realize that I'm not ready to give up. Maybe the first jury didn't believe me, but the next one might. So the answer to your question is, yes, I'm prepared to do whatever it takes to get through this."

Ann looked at Bill for a long moment. She considered herself to be a pretty good judge of character, and this young man seemed to be both resolute and sincere. "Okay," she said, nodding to signal her approval of the plan to go ahead with the suit. "Let me ask you a few questions about the facts of the case. In the criminal trial the defense attorney kept harping on the fact that Jenkins and English only got rough with you after you attacked them--"

"That's bullshit!" Bill exclaimed, cutting her off. "It was a setup from the word go. I was riding my bike down a country road a few miles from school, like I did at least three times a week. They were hiding behind some trees and jumped me as I came by. They knocked me off my bike and started beating the crap out of me. I was lucky enough to be able to get in some punches. I broke two of Jenkins' teeth and dislocated English's shoulder. I only wish I could've done more," he said bitterly, "but there were two of them and it didn't take long before they beat me unconscious and took off."

"How did they know you'd be riding your bike by that spot?"

Bill shook his head. "I don't know. They claimed they just happened to be there looking for soil samples for an agriculture class and that I stopped my bike and attacked English with no provocation. Jenkins did the most damage, and he claimed he was just coming to English's rescue. I figure the two of them must've followed me on an earlier bike ride, figured out my route, and then waited for me to ride by that day."

"How did they know you were gay?" Ann asked directly. "Had you met them before?"

Bill nodded. "I'd seen them a couple times at a coffee shop near campus, the Copper Kettle. Both times I was there with my partner, Terry Rukeyser. We don't hide the fact that we're gay and we sometimes hold hands in public. The second time we saw them, Jenkins and English made fun of Terry and me and made some real nasty remarks like 'look at those queens over there.'"

"How long after they made that remark were you attacked?" Ann inquired.

"Five days," Bill replied. He paused a moment and gave an involuntary shudder, remembering the attack. "They broke three of my ribs, lacerated my liver, and gave me this nice little reminder on my face, all the while making terrible comments like, 'I hope you die, you stinking fag.'" He shook his head in disbelief. "I was in a coma for two days and in the hospital for twelve and still the jury chose to believe them instead of me. I suppose those jurors looked at me and thought a guy my size must've provoked things."

"You can't ever predict what a jury will do," Ann said. "I've tried cases where I would've sworn the jurors seemed to be hanging on my every word and then they turned around and returned a verdict for my opponent. It's human nature for people to be fickle. Just because that jury didn't see things your way doesn't mean the next one won't."

"Does that mean you're willing to represent us?" Tom Robinson asked hopefully.

Ann smiled at the Robinsons and nodded. "If you want to go ahead with this, you've got yourself a lawyer."