“Then would it be unusual, given the fact that this weapon was stored at the Potter residence, that a single strand of hair perhaps belonging to Mrs. Potter might be found on this weapon?”

The witness looks quizzically at Cheetam.

“I mean, wouldn’t it be possible that such a strand of hair might be carried through the air, or could have been deposited on the gun when the case was being cleaned or dusted by Mrs. Potter?”

“I suppose,” he says.

“So it’s entirely possible that this strand of hair could have been on this weapon, caught in the locking mechanism, long before the day that Mr. Potter was killed, isn’t it?”

“Possible,” says the witness.

“Nothing further of this witness, Your Honor.”

I tear the page of notes from my pad and crumple it. They won’t make much of the hair at trial, I think.

Ballistics comes on next. The witness, an expert from the state department of justice, testifies about the weight and size of the various shot pellets found in the victim and in the ceiling of Potter’s office. He talks about velocity and the trajectory of the shot that took off the top of Ben’s head. The witness nibbles around the fringes of the monster pellet without actually stating that there was a second shot. Nelson is digging a pit and covering it with leaves.

Cheetam rises to cross-examine. He pops a single question.

“Officer, is it not true that the trajectory of the shotgun pellets from the shot inflicted to the head of Mr. Potter were in fact consistent with a self-inflicted wound?”

“It’s possible,” says the witness.

“Thank you.” Cheetam sits down.

I can’t believe it. Cheetam’s running on the theory that Ben committed suicide. He hasn’t read the pathology report, the fact that Potter’s hands tested negative for gunshot residue.

I can just hear Nelson on close: “And how does the defendant explain the lack of any fingerprints on the shotgun?”

The next witness is Willie Hampton, a young black man, the janitor who heard the shotgun blast and discovered Ben’s body in the office.

Nelson has some difficulty getting Hampton to repeat accurately the details he provided to police the night Ben was killed.

“Mr. Hampton, can you tell this court approximately what time it was when you heard the shot in Mr. Potter’s office?”

“I was doin’ the bathroom, the men’s room, down the hall,” he says. “Ah say it were maybe …” There’s a long pause as Hampton tries to conjure up the details in his mind. Nelson, sensing trouble, stops him.

“Maybe this will help. Do you remember talking to a police officer who questioned you later that evening?”

“Ah do. Ah do remember,” he says.

“And do you remember telling that officer that you heard the shot in Mr. Potter’s office about eight-twenty-five P.M.?”

“Objection, Your Honor. The question is leading.” Cheetam’s on his feet.

“Sustained.”

“Ah remember,” says Hampton. “I heared that shot about eight-twenty-five. It were about twenty-five minutes after eight o’clock. I remember cuz I was doin’ the bathroom and I always do the bathrooms about that time.”

“That’s all with this witness.” Nelson has what he wants. He will stiffen it with evidence that the police dispatcher received the phone call from Hampton before eight-thirty.

Cheetam passes on any cross-examination of the witness, and we break for lunch.

In the cafeteria, over a salad with lettuce browning at the edges, I’m pounding on Cheetam, telling him to drop the suicide scenario. Talia’s listening intently, swirling the tip of a plastic spoon in a small container of yogurt. She is playing with it more than eating.

“What’s wrong with it?” he says. “The state’s gotta show that the victim died as a result of criminal agency. If we can move in the direction that it was a suicide, there’s no criminal agency.”

“There’s only one problem; it doesn’t square with the evidence,” I tell him. This, it seems, is lost on Cheetam. I walk him through the GSR tests and the lack of Potter’s prints on the gun.

All the while Talia is watching the two of us bicker. A look of foreboding is in her eyes, as if to say, “If my lawyers cannot agree, what hope is there for me?”

“Potter was wearing a suit coat when he died,” Cheetam says. “What if he used the bottom of the coat to grip the gun, sort of wrapped the barrel in the coat? This would explain both the absence of prints on the gun and the lack of residue on his hands.”

It is lame in the extreme, insufficient to overcome the wealth of suspicion that has begun to settle on Talia.

“And how did he carry the gun to the office and avoid prints?” I ask.

“Maybe a gun case,” he says, “or a blanket.”

“Then why wasn’t the case or the blanket found in the office? And how do you explain the fact that the cartridge in the shotgun didn’t carry Ben’s prints, if he loaded it himself?”

“I don’t know, maybe he used gloves.” He looks at me, pushing his plate away. “I need a cup of coffee,” he says, and leaves Talia and me sitting at the table alone.

In recent days Talia has taken on the look of a trapped animal, small and frightened.

“There’s no way out of this, is there?” she says. “I’m going to have to stand trial in Ben’s death, aren’t I?”

“It doesn’t look good,” I concede.

She looks out the window for a moment, giving herself time to absorb this news. Then she turns her gaze to me. “Will you stay with me?” she says. “Will you continue to represent me?”

At this moment she is completely vulnerable. I consider the mountain of incrimination rising up before her and my mind fills with images of the death house. Only now it is not Brian Danley twisting and writhing under the straps, but Talia.

“I will,” I say. “I will stay with you as long as I can help, as long as you want me.”

She says nothing, but slides a hand along the table and takes mine. She squeezes. We are finding, I think, at long last a point of equilibrium for us, somewhere between animus and lust.

In the afternoon Nelson calls George Cooper to the stand. Cheetam refuses to stipulate to Coop’s expertise as a pathologist. One open-ended question from Nelson, and Coop begins to narrate his curriculum vitae into the record. O’Shaunasy is fuming on the bench. Ten minutes pass and finally she cuts him off.

“The man is qualified to testify as an expert on issues of medical pathology. Do you have any specific objection?” She looks over her glasses at Cheetam.

“No, Your Honor.”

“Thank God for little favors,” she says.

Coop looks at me obliquely from the witness box and smiles, a little Mona Lisa. This is the same look he uses when we play poker. Coop has one of those stealthy expressions that can mean anything from an inside straight to a pair of deuces.

Nelson wastes no time leading his witness into the well-charted waters of lividity. I suspect that Coop has kept his own counsel concerning our early conversation on the point. It is ancient history now, as the details were well covered in his report which came with discovery.

Coop talks about gravity and the flow of blood, the indisputable fact that the body was moved after death.

Cheetam leans toward me. “Was this in the report?”

I nod.

There is a sober expression on his face as he sees his suicide theory turning to dust.

“Dr. Cooper, can you tell us the cause of death?”

“Death was caused by a single bullet or bullet fragment that lodged in one of the victim’s basal ganglion. This produced,” says Coop, “almost instantaneous death.”

There follows, for the benefit of the court, a brief explanation using anatomical drawings, to show the location of the bullet fragment.

“This is a major nerve center at the brain stem,” says Coop. “This is where nerve cells connect to the cerebrum and from there down the spinal column to the rest of the body. If this nerve center is destroyed or disrupted, vital life functions stop.”