Holliston stares at our final juror, in flannel shirt and work boots, as he walks to the front of the room. When Mr. Harmon settles into the number-one spot in the box, right next to Cora Rowlands, our client clicks his pen and sets it on the table. “There,” he says to no one in particular. “That’s better.”

Chapter 9

For attorneys in the midst of trials—particularly defense attorneys in the midst of criminal trials—lunch breaks have little to do with food. Unless, of course, the attorney is Harry Madigan. We’re at the Piccadilly Deli, waiting for his mega–meatball sub with extra mozzarella and a gallon of Tabasco. We take seats at our usual spot—near the front windows—and slide today’s Cape Cod Times to one side of the table’s mottled red Formica surface. Harry downs a quart of chocolate milk. I sip my coffee and call the office.

The Kydd answers on the third ring. “Marty,” he says as soon as he hears my voice, “this is nuts. We need a secretary.”

He’s right; we do. The three of us have been operating without administrative help for two years now. It’s getting old.

“Well, why didn’t you say so sooner, Kydd? I’ll hire one today. Della Street, if she hasn’t retired yet.”

Harry opened our South Chatham office a couple of years ago, after spending two decades as a public defender. I joined him within weeks, having resigned from a ten-year stint with the District Attorney’s office six months earlier. We recruited Kevin Kydd—then in his second year of practice—right out from under Geraldine’s nose. She’s still sore about it—and with good reason. The Kydd’s a keeper.

“I’m not joking,” he says. “I’ve spent the entire day talking to walk-ins and fielding phone calls. I’m getting zero done here.”

I know how frustrated he is; I’ve been there. But between the substandard hourly rates paid on court appointments and the fee forfeitures we face in drug cases, the office isn’t exactly a cash cow these days. “Hang in there,” I tell him. “We’re hoping to bring an administrative person on board in the new year—part-time, at least.”

A deli worker delivers Harry’s sub to our table—a perk reserved for the regulars—and Harry grabs a second quart of chocolate milk from the cooler. He also takes a cranberry muffin from the basket on top and puts it in front of me, even though he knows better. I don’t eat lunch during trials; my stomach doesn’t allow it. He takes an enormous bite of his foot-long feast and then leans over to read while I jot down a list of the phone calls we’ve missed so far today: eight for him; a half dozen for me.

“And the Senator,” the Kydd says. “He called just before you did.”

“Kendrick?” The question isn’t necessary, of course. There aren’t many senators on my Rolodex.

“How did you know?” The Kydd oozes sincerity. I don’t get away with much in our circle.

“Lucky guess,” I tell him. “What did the good Senator want?”

“He needs to see you. He’s coming in this afternoon.”

“I won’t get back until after five. Probably closer to six.”

“I told him that,” the Kydd answers, “but he insisted. Says it’s important that he see you today.”

“Did he say why?”

“Nope. Once he found out when you’d be back here, he seemed anxious to get off the phone.”

It occurs to me that the Commonwealth’s senior senator is frequently anxious to get off the phone.

“Wish they all felt that way,” the Kydd adds. “Every other joker who calls this joint wants to tell me his life’s story.”

“Have you had lunch?”

Like Harry, the Kydd tends to get pretty cranky when he misses a meal. “Lunch?” he bellows. “I haven’t had time to pour a second cup of coffee. How the hell would I have gotten lunch?”

“Order in,” I tell him. “And put it on the tab.”

Harry and I have an open account with Cape Wok, Chatham’s only Chinese takeout. The food’s pretty good and they deliver. It’s one of our heftier monthly expenses.

“Oh, I get it,” the Kydd says. “Szechwan duck will fix everything. Throw in a little pork fried rice and I won’t mind spending my days in the secretarial pool.”

“Eat,” I tell him. “We’ll see you in a few hours.”

He’s still complaining when I snap my cell phone shut.

Harry swallows the last of his sandwich, drains the milk carton, and then dumps his trash in the bin. I stand to put on my coat, but his stricken expression stops me.

“What?” I ask.

“We can’t leave yet,” he says.

“We can’t?”

“No way.” He carries his empty tray to the counter, exchanges a few words with the clerk, and then hurries back to our table.

“Is there a reason?” I ask.

He unwraps my cranberry muffin, pops a third of it into his mouth, and then leans down to whisper, as if he doesn’t want the other customers to hear. “They have apple pie,” he says at last. “And it’s warm.”

Chapter 10

“An ice pick,” Geraldine says. She’s seated at her table, next to Clarence, motionless. She was in that spot when the rest of us left for the break at two and she was there when we got back an hour later. This isn’t normal. Geraldine Schilling rarely sits; her metabolism doesn’t allow it. Everyone involved in this case seems unusually troubled by it. Everyone except Derrick Holliston, that is.

The courtroom isn’t filled to capacity, but it’s close. More than a hundred people sit in the gallery’s benches—plus the twenty of us up here in front. Even so, there’s not a sound in the room as we all wait for her to continue. She swivels her chair toward the jurors now and steeples her hands beneath her chin. “Our Medical Examiner will tell you that Father Francis Patrick McMahon was stabbed to death with an ice pick.”

The pause is so long that a person who doesn’t know our District Attorney might think she has nothing more to say. That person would be wrong; Geraldine always has more to say. She wheels her chair back, away from the table, and stands. “Stabbed,” she repeats. “Eight times.”

Fourteen pairs of eyes remain fixed on her as she takes slow, deliberate steps toward the jury box. No one blinks.

“Three times in the left shoulder.” She holds up one finger, then a second, then a third. “Twice in the right.” She adds her little finger, then her thumb, and falls silent again, her raised right hand rigid as if she’s about to take an oath.

Maria Marzetti closes her eyes. Cora Rowlands does too, then bites her lower lip. No one else moves.

“Twice in the upper abdomen,” Geraldine says at last. She uses both hands now to continue the count. “And once…”

She abandons her finger tally and leans on the rail of the jury box.

“…directly into the aorta.”

Most of them react. A few shake their heads; others cover their mouths. All but two look away from Geraldine—at their laps, at the ceiling, at the floor—as they absorb the information she’s giving them. Side-by-side stoic souls in the back row, though—Robert Eastman and Alex Doane—remain immobile, arms folded across their suit coats.

“Dr. Ramsey will tell you that Father Francis Patrick McMahon bled to death in minutes. He was dead less than an hour when his body was discovered by his pastor.”