'Just a minute, Mark. You went out to your car. But before that, at the back door, do you remember what you did?'

'I don't remember anything specific, no.'

'And yet we've heard Mrs Matsun testify that you stopped and did something with the electric light above the door. Do you remember doing that?'

'No. There may have been cobwebs up in the light. Sometimes they gather there. I might have cleared them away, but I don't specifically remember doing anything.' A quick look towards the jury, explaining, 'I may have.'

This, of course, had been rehearsed. Dooher wasn't denying anything that Frances Matsun had testified to. He was being reasonable, telling his own truth without attacking hers. It played, as they knew it would, very well.

'Mark, your house has an alarm system, doesn't it?'

A wry shake of the head. 'Yes, it does.'

'Did you turn it on when you left the house on this day?'

These carefully prepared questions would defuse Jenkins's contentions before she could even make them. 'No. I just walked out of the house.'

'Didn't you lock the door behind you, either?'

'No.'

'Was this unusual? Why didn't you do either of these things?'

Dooher sat back a minute, phrasing his response. 'I guess the real reason is that neither of them even occurred to me.'

'Why not?'

'Well, first, it was light out. I wasn't thinking about somebody breaking in. We'd never been broken into before.'

'But you didn't lock the door?'

'I go out to work every morning and don't lock the door behind me. It wasn't like I was leaving an empty house. Sheila was there. It never occurred to me she couldn't take care of herself. We live in a safe neighborhood, or I thought we did. When I do check the locks, it's usually before turning in at night, you know, like people do.'

'What about the house alarm?'

'Sheila doesn't – didn't – like the alarm.'

'Why not?'

'Because when we first got it installed, three or four times she opened a door to walk outside to take out the garbage or whatever, and it went off, and she had some trouble overriding the turn-off switch or something – anyway, it was a hassle for her. We didn't tend to use it unless we went on vacation, or away for the weekend, something like that. I wasn't about to turn it on when she was just taking a nap upstairs. If she woke up and went out for some reason and it went off, she'd have killed me.'

Then to the driving range, where Dooher bought two buckets of balls. Yes, he remembered specifically which mat he'd hit from. He wore his most self-deprecating expression. 'I'm afraid that before all this' – an inclusive gesture indicating the world they were in – 'I used to be vain about my… about how I looked. I didn't like to appear to flounder. And this included my golf game. I didn't want people – anybody – to see me when I was working on my swing, maybe over-correcting to find out what I was doing wrong.'

'Your honor.' Jenkins was showing her impatience. 'This is all very fascinating, but it doesn't answer the question of what mat he hit his golf balls from.'

Thomasino leaned over the bench. 'Just answer the question, Mr Dooher.'

'It was the last mat, at the very end, to the left as you go out the door of the clubhouse.'

Farrell kept up the rhythm. 'And you stayed, hitting golf balls off that mat, until when?'

'I think around nine-thirty, twenty to ten.'

'Did you leave the mat at any time?'

'I went to the bathroom after the first bucket, bought a Coke in the office. Then went back out and finished hitting.'

'All right.' Farrell led them all, again, through the gruesome discovery, the emergency call, waiting for the police. It all came out, compelling and believable as he told it.

Now Farrell shifted gears. 'Mark, Lieutenant Glitsky has testified that I was present at your house when he interrogated you on the night of the murder. Why was I there?'

'I called you and you came.'

'Did I come as your lawyer, because you wanted to protect yourself from police questions? Because you knew you'd be suspected of murdering your wife?'

'No. None of that. I called you as a friend.'

'Why did you call me, who happens to be your lawyer, out of all of your friends?'

'I have known you for thirty-five years. You are my best friend. That's why I called you.'

Farrell glanced at the jury, then back to his client. 'On another topic, during your last visit to Dr Peter Harris's office, did you remove a vial of blood and take it with you?'

Dooher, still obviously amazed at the ridiculousness of the question, shook his head, looked directly at the jury for the last time. 'No. No, I did not.'

'And finally, once and for all, and remembering that you are testifying under solemn oath, would you answer this question for the jury: did you kill your wife?'

This time there were no histrionics. He sat forward, took a breath, let it out, and answered in an even, clear voice that rang through the courtroom. 'As God is my judge, I did not.'

Farrell nodded, said, 'Thank you,' and turned on his heel.

'Your witness.'

Before Jenkins got to the blow-by-blow cross-examination of Dooher's movements throughout the afternoon and evening of June 7th, she wanted to clear up one specific point.

She moved to the exhibit table and pulled two poster-size exhibits that she'd introduced as evidence during the questioning of the driving range's maintenance man. The first was a blow-up photograph of the hitting area taken from out in the middle of the range, and the other was a schematic rendering of the placement of the mats. She put both of these next to one another on an easel next to the witness chair.

'As you can see,' she said, 'these exhibits represent the layout of the driving range. Just so we're clear on where you hit your balls from, would you please point out to the jury the mat that you stood on?'

Cooperative and relaxed, Dooher did so.

'The very last mat, you're sure of that?'

'I am, yes.'

'This is the mat nearest the hole in the fence leading to the parking lot, is it not?'

'I don't know about that. I'd never noticed the hole in the fence. Although if your witness says so, I guess it's there.'

Jenkins stood unmoving in the center of the courtroom. After twenty or thirty seconds, the Judge spoke to her. 'Ms Jenkins?'

She blinked and brought her attention back from where it had been.

Her cross-examination lasted three and a half hours.

She got nothing.

'What was that all about?' Christina sat at the table in their ante-room eating from a pile of carrot and celery sticks on a paper plate while the men busied themselves with salami on sourdough rolls. 'The exact mat you hit the balls from?'

Dooher shook his head. 'I don't have any idea.'

Farrell was chewing, staring out the window. 'I don't like it. She's got something else she's not showing us.'

'You mean new evidence?' Christina couldn't envision it. 'How could that be, Wes? We've seen her discovery. We know all her witnesses. She'd have had to tell us before this.'

'Well, that would be in the rules, that's true.'

But Dooher was looking carefully at his friend. 'Anyway, Wes, what could she have?'

'I don't know. But it worries me. It's my job to worry.'

'Don't worry,' Dooher said. 'I was there at the last mat hitting golf balls and that's all there is to it.'

Farrell nodded again. 'Let's hope so.'

Glitsky thought that Richie Browne believed Dooher's story in all its detail. He was the golf pro at the range and could have been sent from Central Casting – a well-formed man, mid-thirties, in slacks and a polo shirt. He had gotten to know Dooher in the three or four months prior to the murder when the defendant started frequenting his range instead of the Olympic's.