The newly pro se defendant helped himself to a seat as soon as we filed in here. Two guards keep watch on either side of him, standing just inches from his chair, hands clasped behind their backs, gazes focused on their prisoner. Clarence, Harry, and I are lined up against the side wall. Even Judge Gould is on his feet, leaning against the bookcase behind his desk. “Mr. Holliston,” he says, his tone grave, “I urge you to reconsider.”

Holliston snorts. The judge’s advice seems to rate right up there with Harry’s. “That’s what I did,” he says. “I reconsidered. I don’t want no lawyer. I want the job done right. So I’m gonna do it myself.”

“The ramifications of this decision will follow you for the rest of your life,” the judge tells him. “Taking this step will dramatically increase the likelihood of conviction. And if you are convicted of first-degree murder, you’ll spend the rest of your earthly days behind bars. I’m sure your lawyers have explained that to you.”

Holliston wags a finger at Judge Gould. “Used-to-be lawyers,” he says. “My used-to-be lawyers explained that to me. And I don’t like the idea of spending the rest of my earthly days behind bars.” He imitates the judge’s inflection when he repeats his words. “I don’t like it one bit. That’s why I’m my lawyer now.”

The judge sighs and turns to Harry.

Harry shrugs and looks up at the ceiling. “He’s a big boy. He’s made his decision. Let him live with it.”

Not exactly what the judge was hoping to hear.

“Mr. Holliston,” I try, “if there are specific issues you’re worried about, particular facts you want brought out during trial, I’m sure Mr. Madigan will accommodate you. You can have all the input you want without giving up the benefit of counsel.”

He snorts again, louder this time. My advice ranks a rung or two below the judge’s, it seems. “Benefit?” he says, pointing at Harry. “Ex-cu-uze me, but I don’t see no benefit with this counsel.”

“Mr. Holliston, you don’t have a clue.” Geraldine pivots in her spiked heels to face him. “You don’t have any idea what you’re in for if you go forward pro se.”

He juts his chin upward and sneers, inviting her to fill him in.

She pauses and glances at the court reporter, who’s perched on his stool beside the judge’s desk, tapping away. No doubt she’s weighing what she wants to say in the heat of the moment against the eventual impact her words will have on appeal.

“I’ll bury you,” she says.

To hell with the appeal.

“Don’t think we’re going to handle you with kid gloves,” she continues. “You’ll be held to the same standards every real lawyer is held to in that courtroom.” She points to the chambers door. “And I’ll shut you down every time you fall short.”

Holliston yawns. He’s unimpressed.

“And you will fall short,” she tells him, her green eyes ablaze. “At every turn. I guarantee it.”

Judge Gould pulls his chair out from the desk and sits. “Look,” he says to Holliston, “we can’t stop you. If you’re determined to represent yourself, you have an absolute right to do it. No one in this room can stop you.”

Our ex-client almost smiles. At last, an acknowledgment of his vast power. He pounds his palms on the armrests and slides to the edge of his chair. “That’s right,” he says, looking pleased that the judge finally figured it out. “So let’s get on with it.”

Judge Gould shakes his head. “Not so fast. We can’t stop you from taking your defense into your own hands. But we can stop you from doing it today.”

Holliston looks confused, then annoyed, his brief moment of omnipotence abruptly ended.

The judge checks his watch. “It’s late,” he says. “I’m going to dismiss the jurors for the day. If you’re still sure of your decision in the morning, sir, you may deliver your opening statement then.”

Holliston looks like he wants to argue, but Judge Gould doesn’t give him a chance. “Mr. Madigan, Ms. Nickerson,” he says as he stands, “I want you in the courtroom throughout trial.”

Holliston stands too, and his escorts inch closer to him. His expression is satisfied now. Overall, he’s pleased with the results of our powwow.

The judge continues talking to Harry and me as he heads for the door. “I want you waiting in the wings,” he says, “ready to advise when necessary, ready to jump back on board if the defendant changes his mind.”

He reaches for the doorknob, then stops. “And Mr. Holliston,” he says, turning to face him.

Holliston stares back at him, signature sneer in place.

“I sincerely hope you will.”

Chapter 12

Harry and I pull into our newly plowed office driveway at five, earlier than either of us expected to be back. Charles Kendrick is already here, though. The Senator’s enormous gray Humvee is parked next to my tired Thunderbird. Harry cuts the Jeep’s engine and jumps out, eager to play GI Joe with our senior senator’s tank.

He strolls around in the falling snow—seemingly oblivious to the biting wind—peering through the Hummer’s windows and whistling. “Damn,” he says, running his gloved hand along the hood. “I could live in this thing.”

“No, you couldn’t,” I correct him as I head for the old farmhouse. “You don’t have enough furniture. And the rent would kill you.”

The Kydd is seated behind the antique pine table in the front office, just hanging up the telephone, two almost empty Cape Wok cartons in front of him. He points to the ceiling with his coffee mug as soon as I close the door and then scrawls on a yellow legal pad: nervous breakdown in progress. Senator Kendrick is upstairs in my office, and apparently he’s not doing well. I hang my damp parka on the coatrack and head for the wrought-iron spiral staircase. Harry hasn’t come inside yet. He’s still hovering around the Hummer, I suppose, mentally moving in.

Senator Kendrick is standing, gazing out the double-hung rear windows, taking in the view behind our farmhouse-turned-office-building: an open field, a small stand of scrub pines, and the salty water of Taylor’s Pond in the distance. He wheels around when I reach the top step and shoves both hands deep into his pants pockets, seemingly embarrassed to have been caught alone with his own thoughts. “Marty,” he says, his tone suggesting he’s been waiting all day, “you’re here.”

Can’t argue with that. I gesture toward the slip-covered couch against the far wall and he takes a seat on one end of it. I slide my briefcase onto a corner of the cluttered desk, drape my suit jacket over the leather chair, and then join him. He leans forward when I sit, elbows on his knees, head lowered, fists clenched. The Kydd’s assessment was accurate. This is a man in crisis.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing,” he answers too quickly, then stares down at the worn, braided rug.

I don’t believe him. But I don’t say so.

“There are things I haven’t told you,” he continues. “And I should.”

He pauses, seems to grope for words. I wait.

“Things you should know,” he adds at last.

“And you just realized this today?” I’m pretty sure I know what he’s decided to tell me, of course, but I don’t let on. He should do the talking.

“Yes,” he says. “I’m sorry. I should have leveled with you at the outset.”

He pauses again. And again I wait.

“About Michelle Forrester.” He looks pained when he says her name. His eyes meet mine for the first time today, then dart to my empty desk chair. “Look, there’s no delicate way to put this.”