The fog of time has finally lifted, and the gavel now falls in the dusty heat of Las Vegas. After three long decades, a man by the name of Duane Davis—known in the darker corners of the city as 'Keffe D'—finds himself before the magistrates, accused of orchestrating the violent end of that most famous street-poet, Tupac Shakur.

I have seen many a wretch brought before the law in my time, but this trial smells of a long-delayed justice. The court is currently embroiled in the tedious business of selecting a jury; once the lawyers have ceased their bickering and the witnesses are summoned from their holes, the true drama shall begin. The solicitors expect this grim business to last a full month.

Now, the Crown's prosecutors do not claim that Davis himself pulled the trigger on that cursed evening of September 7th, 1896—or rather, the year of our Lord 1996. No, they paint him as the puppet-master, the one who provided the iron and the orders to the hired thugs. The prisoner, of course, maintains his innocence with a stubborn face, though he played a dangerous game with his own vanity: he wrote a memoir, a confession in ink, which gave the sleuths the very thread they needed to unravel his web.

Yet, the stench of this crime reaches even higher. There are whispers, born from the testimony of a former gang-member and hired killer, that the true architect of this slaughter was none other than the music mogul Sean Combs, known to the world as P.Diddy. They say he sought the blood of not only Shakur but also the formidable Sugar Knight. It is a tale of betrayal and greed that would make the most hardened denizens of a London slum shudder with disbelief.