Freeman seemed to be recovering. He looked up, caught Hardy's eye, put a finger on his legal pad, upon which he'd written and underlined a question.

The dog! Hardy thought. The sneaky, brilliant dog. Slowing him to a stop, getting him back into focus. He couldn't blow it now because he had been baited into losing his temper.

Hardy stayed a moment longer to make sure that David was breathing again. Finally, Freeman stood and apologized, and Hardy returned to the witness.

'Mr Visser.' Hardy was speaking too loud now, standing too close to the witness. In desperation, Freeman had given him a question that probably broke his own cardinal rule, but phrased in such a general way that there could be no wrong answer, and maybe, just maybe, a very good one. 'Have you ever had occasion,' Hardy asked, 'to enter the evidence room in the basement of the Hall of Justice?'

The change of direction wiped the complacency from Visser's face. 'Yes.'

Hardy successfully kept the exultation out of his voice, although he thought he'd just hit the jackpot. 'And when was the last time you did this?'

Visser tried to keep up the show of nonchalance, but it wasn't as convincing as it had been. 'I don't know exactly.'

'You don't know?' Hardy pressed. 'We can find out in five minutes by calling downstairs, Mr Visser. Would you like us to do that, or do you think you can remember? You have to sign in upon entering down there, don't you?'

'Yeah. I don't know,' he repeated. 'A couple of weeks ago, maybe. Maybe less.'

'A couple of weeks ago,' Hardy repeated. 'Maybe less.'

He caught a glimpse of Hill out of one eye. The judge had straightened up in his chair and was now leaning in toward the witness. A keen intensity had galvanized him.

'Now, Mr Visser, it is my understanding that a private citizen cannot be admitted into the evidence locker unless they are accompanied by a lawyer or police officer. Isn't that correct?'

'I think so.'

'Were you so accompanied the last time you were there? In the last couple of weeks,' he couldn't help repeating.

'Yeah, I usually go with some lawyer I'm working with, something like that.'

'And two weeks ago, who was that?'

For the first time, the facade weakened. Visser looked to the floor, then drew a nervous hand over his jawline. 'I think… it probably must have been Dash Logan,' he said.

'You think? Are you sure?'

Another pause. 'Yeah. I'm sure. It was Dash Logan.'

'Mr Logan,' Hardy began. 'When you went to the evidence locker within the past couple of weeks with Mr Visser, what was your purpose?'

Logan spread his hands, turned in the witness chair and faced the Cadaver. 'This is ridiculous, your honor. What is this all about?'

'Just answer the question,' Hill shot back.

Hardy had a sense that he was on to something. The current had finally begun to flow in his direction, and he was going to ride it as far as it could take him. 'Mr Logan,' he said. 'Would you like me to repeat the question?'

'No.' Where Visser had used confidence to blunt Hardy's attack, Logan thought he'd go with arrogance. His eyes were shining with ill-concealed anger. His jaw was set. 'I was there, in the locker, to review evidence in one of my cases. That's why you go there, Mr Hardy, to review evidence.'

But Hardy didn't rise to the bait. A cool detachment had settled over him. He even allowed himself a cragged grin. 'Thank you for that information, Mr Logan. I'll keep it in mind. Now, the specific case you were working on, how would you classify it?' This was another question for which Hardy didn't know the answer – except that by now the answer had become all but a certainty.

'I don't classify my cases. I work for my clients. I don't understand your question.'

'Well, for example, was your client being charged with robbery? Murder? Rape?'

'No. None of those.'

'How about traffic in narcotics?'

That's privileged information,' Logan said. 'I don't have to discuss the nature of my cases with you or anybody else.'

Hardy turned to the judge. 'Your honor?'

Hovering almost over the edge of his podium, Hill had never looked more cadaver-like. 'Your cases are public record, Mr Logan. Tell the court what this one was.'

Logan cast his eyes from side to side. Seeing no escape, he sat back in the chair, crossed one leg over the other, adopted a wounded air. 'Yes. It was a narcotics case.'

'And you were there with Mr Visser?'

'Yes.'

'And afterwards, did you both go together to Jupiter?'

'All right, so what?'

Pratt, who'd been little more than a bystander for the past hour and a half, finally rose to her feet. A simmering anger scalded her voice slightly, but she managed to keep it under a lid. 'Your honor, if the court please, there can really be no relevance here between Mr Logan's and Mr Visser's visit to the evidence locker less than two weeks ago, and the death of Elaine Wager more than two weeks ago. She was already dead when these events that Mr Hardy is so interested in transpired. I understand the latitude that you've given defense in this case, but none of this can possibly matter. He's allowed to go there. So is Mr Visser. So what if he's got a drug dealer for a client? Almost every criminal defense attorney does. The whole thing is just a smokescreen, a desperate, unethical smokescreen.'

Sharron Pratt half turned now, aware that she was also playing to the gallery, which had come to life behind her. Perhaps she took the judge's silence for forbearance. Whatever drove her, she took another deep breath and forged ahead, her voice becoming louder and more shrill as the volume behind her in the courtroom increased.

'This hearing is about the actions of Cole Burgess, your honor. Not Dash Logan and Gene Visser. They are not the criminals here. Let's not lose sight of that fundamental truth in our zeal for fairness here.' And suddenly she was all but screaming, turning to the defense table, pointing her whole hand. 'That boy there is a cold-blooded killer. He killed Elaine Wager. There can be no doubt. Look at the facts, your honor. My God, this is insanity. Look at the facts.'

She stood at the prosecution table – firm, proud of herself for having spoken out, for having put the judge on notice. She, not Hill, was controlling the agenda at this moment. The judge might have the power of the bench, but she had the power of righteousness. The people had elected her to do what she was doing now – driving the appeal to higher ground, toward justice and away from these lawyers' tricks. Enough was enough.

The Cadaver sat back in what Hardy took to be a state of disbelief, even awe. He held his gavel in his right hand, inches from the top of the bench, and did not lower it, but instead let the noise in the room subside for what seemed an eternity, although it probably wasn't more than forty seconds. Finally, when the silence was complete, Hill placed the gavel carefully in front of him, and spoke in a moderate whisper.

'Because of your elected position, Ms Pratt, I'm going to do you the courtesy of not throwing you into jail. I do, however, find you in contempt of court for that outburst and order you to pay the sum of one thousand dollars to the clerk of the court before noon tomorrow. In accordance with the business and professions code, you will report this incident to the State Bar.'

The buzz began again, and this time Hill didn't hesitate a second, but slammed his gavel three times rapidly in succession, until once again he addressed a tomb. 'Let there be no mistake that this is a court of law. It's not a soapbox upon which to make election speeches. Now,' he continued to the courtroom at large, 'Mr Hardy will proceed with this witness until he is finished or for the next twenty-five minutes, whichever comes first. After which we'll adjourn for the day.' He stopped speaking for an instant, then raised his head and started again. 'And for the record, Ms Pratt and Mr Torrey, I am quite persuaded to this point that the testimony elicited from the past few witnesses, as well as the evidence presented to the court, will pass any relevance standard you'd like to propose. So I'd prefer to let this direct examination continue with a minimum of objection for a while. Am I making myself understood? Ms Pratt?'