The Doraville Municipal Court House is a sleepy three-judge hall in northeast Atlanta plopped on a green hill around the corner from a Waffle House. On a bright early October afternoon, a door marked PROBATION OFFICER swings open, and 21 Savage comes stomping out.

In his hand is a manila folder full of court documents. From his stony facial expression, it’s hard to tell if the news is good or bad. As he rounds the hallway corner, an older police officer pulls him aside for a quick, quiet, stern-but-loving coach-talk. “Don’t fuck this up, OK? You get in trouble, you can call me.” Savage locks eye contact, nods plainly, says nothing. They shake hands.

Trailing behind is Meezy, Savage’s co-manager, a big happy bearded man. Just a minute ago, Meezy was in the hallway having an animated phone conversation about tour dates — “I said New Mexico! New!” Now he’s hustling to get Savage into their rental white Dodge Charger and the hell away from court.

In the car, Savage lights a Newport, the first of many, and lightly fumes. “Wish I could have paid another fine rather than do this shit.” He shuffles through the papers; a few months back he was caught driving without a license for a third time, according to Meezy. “They gave me 10 days of community service-type shit," Savage says. "I gotta wash the police cars and cut the grass.” He reconsiders his situation. “As long I ain’t get no fuckin’ jail time.” Here, Meezy chimes in: “I knew you wasn’t going to jail!" Savage, minutely, brightens up. “And this ain’t a felony probation. I can still carry a gun.”

With both front seats reclined to nearly 180 degrees, and me squeezed knees-up in the back, we head toward Savage’s apartment. He’s antsy to change out of his court shirt, a crisp button-down with just a touch of accoutrement — off-white pinstripes and navy button-accents. (Meezy: “That nigga dressed like he about to do the salsa.”) But first, we stop by Meezy’s house in a suburban subdivision. There, we watch Meezy’s adorable toddler gamely attempt to skateboard, and meet Meezy’s girlfriend.

“You know you famous now, right?” she asks Savage through the passenger side window, as he thumbs his phone. “My homegirl wants to FaceTime you ‘cause she don’t believe you out here.”

Catching her words from the driveway, where he’s helping his kid get back on the board, Meezy yells, “Bro! That man just got out of court!”

Smiling, she shoots back, “He look OK to me!”

Meezy’s girlfriend waits impatiently for a few minutes — “Come on, you famous now, come on!” — for a tacit sign of approval. Then she goes ahead and FaceTimes. “Gigi! He right here!” As anticipated, Gigi can’t believe it: she’s stunned into silence. Neither Gigi nor Savage do much interacting; briefly, they look at each other, through the glass. “You ain’t gon’ say nothing?” Meezy’s girlfriend prods. Then she turns to me, still holding up the phone with Gigi’s blank expression. “They love him, bro! I’m serious!”