“No further questions.” Tuchio takes his seat.

That he would pop this question in this way tells me two things. One is that Tuchio is as convinced as I am, despite what Quinn may be saying, that the contents of the Jefferson Letter will at some point be admitted into evidence and read to the jury. Second is that if it must come in, Tuchio would prefer that it come in now, before the defense has completed presenting its case. He’s hoping that this might dissipate its effect. Or at least remove it as far as possible from the point of deliberations so that its impact on the jury will be lessened, once they’re sedated a bit by the passage of time, closing arguments, and other evidence.

For the first time I can recall, ever in a trial, the judge has lunch brought in for the lawyers. With the pressure on, he’s not letting any of us out of the courthouse. He tells court staff to stay close, to eat in the cafeteria. The race to a restaurant is not worth the risk of the melee outside, and Quinn wants everybody back in court by one o’clock.

A little past noon, and the rhythmic pounding of demonstrators, the ceaseless chants and yelling, against the pitched wail of electronic sirens outside, has the constancy and power of roiling surf.

It seems to overwhelm, until I realize that there are at least six solid walls of reinforced concrete between those of us in the building and the hell that is happening out on the street. I cannot fathom what the bedlam must sound like there.

Every few minutes Quinn takes reports from one of the senior bailiffs, updating him on the situation on the street in the event that it becomes necessary to evacuate the building. So far there have been no shots fired and no fatalities, but eight officers have been hospitalized and an untold number of civilians have been caught up in the burgeoning battle and injured.

According to the bailiff, a delegation from the local chapter of the NAACP and the National Lawyers Guild have appealed for calm, while another group has appeared at the courthouse’s main entrance and demanded a copy of the Jefferson Letter. One of the deputies, a lieutenant, told them that he would relay their request to the judge, who would take it under advisement.

By one o’clock we’re back in the courtroom. Quinn is running a taut ship at this point, hustling to get the case to the jury before the folks outside can burn the building down. His biggest fear is more revelations regarding the letter. But sooner or later it has to come out.

Our last two witnesses are both educators, one more surprise for Tuchio and, if the letter comes in, what may prove to be a hideous shocker for the nation.

Kathy Lafair is a teacher who also holds a joint degree in clinical and educational psychology and has been tucked into our witness list for months. She has given us nothing in writing that we would have to turn over to the prosecution, though Harry and I know what she will say.

Lafair teaches classes in the evenings at a school in the eastern area of the county. It is part of an extension program for special education, serving adults who dropped out of school when they were kids due to learning disabilities and who now find themselves locked out of the system because they lack basic skills.

Under oath and on the stand, she tells the jury that with counseling, encouragement, and sometimes one-on-one tutoring, some of these adults can find their way back to the dreams they once had as children, to learn and to enjoy more productive lives.

Sadly, however, this was not the case for Carl Arnsberg.

Harry was the one who discovered the problem, and he felt bad about it. He’d made a wisecrack about Carl early in the case, just after the three of us had met for the first time at the jail.

Harry and I were talking, and the issue was whether Scarborough’s book might have set Carl off, especially if he were a nutcase. Harry brushed it aside with one of his glib comments.

The comment came back to haunt him two weeks later in a meeting with Carl to go over some items of evidence delivered to us by the D.A.’s office. By that time Harry had some suspicions, but he wasn’t sure. He handed Carl a slip of paper and told him to take a look at it. Harry was busy hunting for other documents in his briefcase.

Carl picked up the slip of paper, studied it for a few seconds, and then put it down.

Harry regarded Carl and said, “What do you think?”

“Oh, it’s fine. Looks good.”

The half slip of paper was a form with some printing on it and some boxes to be checked. Two of the boxes had X’s typed in them. It was the charging document for “special circumstances”-the legal justification, and the basis if he is convicted, for the State of California to execute Carl Everett Arnsberg.

Carl is illiterate. It’s not that he has difficulty reading. He can’t read a word. He never told us, didn’t say anything. Carl has been hiding this from people all his life. We didn’t know the full story until he gave us the name of Kathy Lafair.

This morning she sits on the stand and smiles at him.

Carl’s head is down. He glances up at her every once in a while, but he won’t look her in the eye. Kathy Lafair is just another reminder of failure in Carl’s life, one of many.

“Can you tell the jury how you came to know the defendant, Carl Arnsberg?” I ask her.

“He was one of my students,” she says. “For about six weeks. Three times a week at night, he would come to classes.”

“And what did you teach?”

“Basic reading comprehension.”

“Can you tell the jury what that is?”

“It’s what you call beginner’s reading. What you would normally teach to children in kindergarten and first grade.”

“Was Carl able to read at all?”

“No.” She looks over at him. “Carl, you shouldn’t be ashamed. It’s not your fault.”

“Your Honor, I’m going to object to this.” Tuchio is up out of his chair. “If she wants to testify, that’s fine. But to be having conversations with the defendant…”

“Mr. Tuchio, relax,” says the judge. “Sit down.” He looks at the witness. “Go ahead, Mr. Madriani.”

“When you say he couldn’t read, did he have the ability to comprehend any words typed or written on a page? For example, could he recognize his own name if it were printed or typed?”

“No.”

“And you know this for a fact?”

“I do.”

“Before we go any further, can you tell the court what degrees or special training you have?”

“I hold a bachelor’s degree in education from the University of California at Berkeley and a master’s degree in clinical and educational psychology from UCLA.”

“As a clinical and educational psychologist, can you tell the jury what you do?”

“I do a good deal of testing. I administer standardized tests and conduct evaluations.”

“To what purpose do you do this?”

“To determine whether students suffer from any recognized learning disabilities. It’s diagnostic. There’s a wide range of learning disabilities, from hyperactivity and attention deficit disorder to autism and dyslexia and more,” she says.

“And how long have you been doing this?”

“Twenty-two years.”

“Did you have occasion to conduct any tests on the defendant, Carl Arnsberg?”

“I did.”

“When?”

“Let’s see. That would have been about two years ago.”

“So the tests were not performed in connection with this case?”

“No. They were related to his schooling.”

This is important, to avoid a claim by the prosecution that we had tests conducted and failed to disclose the results in discovery.

“And as a result of these tests, were you able to determine whether Carl suffered from any known or recognized learning disability?”

“Yes. He suffers from dyslexia.”