“Oh.” Cheetam stands in front of the witness box, his mouth half open-like the emperor without clothes. He has violated the cardinal rule of every trial lawyer: Never ask a question unless you already know the answer.

“In this case it was thin and small,” says Coop, describing the fragment of jacket. “The wound that it inflicted was insufficient for a high-caliber rifle. Therefore, I arrived at the obvious conclusion that it was part of a bullet from a small-caliber handgun. Probably a twenty-five caliber …”

“That’s all for this witness, Your Honor.” Cheetam’s trying to shut him up.

“Because that’s the smallest caliber that uses a steel-jacketed round,” says Coop.

“Move to strike the last answer as not responsive to any question before the witness, Your Honor.” Cheetam is shaken, standing at the counsel table now, looking for refuge.

“Very well, counsel, but I should remind you that since you’ve opened this matter up, Mr. Nelson is free to explore it on redirect.”

O’Shaunasy’s put him in a box.

With nowhere to retreat, Cheetam withdraws his motion to strike, allowing all of Coop’s answer to remain.

Nelson passes on redirect. George Cooper has done all the damage necessary for one day.

Cheetam sits fidgeting nervously with a pencil, as Nelson calls his next witness. It is Matthew Hazeltine, Ben’s partner. It was left to Hazeltine to craft wills and living trusts for the firm’s wealthy clients. Probate and estate planning are his specialties. He comes to this role well suited in appearance, a miserly-looking man with a craggy face and round wire-rimmed spectacles. If social reserve were a religion, Matthew Hazeltine would be its high priest. I can count on the fingers of one hand the times that I had spoken to him while with the firm. With Sharon Cooper’s probate file still hanging fire, I have wished on successive occasions that I’d made a greater effort to cultivate him.

He testifies to the existence of the prenuptial agreement, a document that he says the victim asked him to prepare before Potter and the defendant were married. He now produces a copy of this contract, which Nelson has marked for identification.

“Have you ever drafted a document similar to this agreement for other clients?” asks Nelson.

“On a few occasions.”

“What is the purpose of such an agreement?”

Hazeltine considers for a moment before speaking. “Usually it’s intended to protect the rights of heirs, children by a former marriage.”

“But the victim had no children in this case. Isn’t that true?”

“That’s correct.”

“And the defendant possessed no children?”

“Right.”

“So what purpose would such a document serve?”

Hazeltine squirms a little in the chair. His is a gentleman’s venture, the drafting of wills and other papers of property where delicate questions of motive are, more often than not, left unstated.

“Mr. Potter was a very cautious man. He believed in keeping his personal affairs in order. He was not one to take chances.”

Hazeltine smiles at Nelson as if to say, “Enough on the issue.”

“Mr. Hazeltine, have you ever heard of something called the Rooney clause?”

Hazeltine’s eyes turn to little slits behind Coke-bottle lenses.

“I have.”

“Can you tell the court where this term comes from?”

“Mickey Rooney.”, Hazeltine is curt, to the point. He does no more than answer the question stated.

“The actor?”

“Yes.”

“And what’s the purpose of this clause-briefly, in layman’s terms?”

“It’s designed to protect a party from a spouse who may seek to take unfair advantage.”

“In what way?”

Hazeltine is uncomfortable with the turn this line of inquiry is taking.

“A spouse who might marry for money and seek a quick divorce,” he says.

“Ah.” Nelson’s nodding, playing obtuse, as if he’s just now understood the significance of all of this. “Have you ever heard another name for this clause?”

Hazeltine looks at him, down his nose. “Not that I recall,” he says.

“Haven’t you ever heard the term ‘gold-digger’s covenant’?” asks Nelson.

The witness gives a little shrug. “Some people may call it that.”

“Well, wasn’t this clause, this so-called ‘gold-digger’s covenant,’ included in the prenuptial agreement you prepared for Mr. Potter?”

“Yes.”

“And was it the victim, Mr. Potter, who specifically asked you to include this language in the agreement?”

“It was.”

“And did you explain to the two of them, to Mr. and Mrs. Potter, at the time that they signed this agreement, its implications and what the legal effect was?”

“I did.”

“And what is that legal effect?”

“Mrs. Potter could inherit nothing from the estate of Mr. Potter unless she was lawfully married to him on the date of his death.”

“So if she divorced him”-Nelson pauses for a moment-“or if he divorced her, she would get nothing, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Your witness.”

Cheetam takes one long look at Hazeltine sitting in the box and waives off. He’s still stunned, shaken by Cooper’s torpedo.

“Your Honor,” I say, “I have a few questions for this witness.”

Cheetam looks over at me as if to throw daggers with his eyes. I look the other way, ignoring him.

O’Shaunasy nods for me to proceed.

I remain seated at the counsel table, and hone in on one gnawing question, the answer to which has remained closed to me in discovery.

“Mr. Hazeltine, isn’t it true that prenuptial agreements are often drafted in concert with wills, that the terms of such an agreement are carefully coordinated with the terms of a will?”

“That is common.”

“Were you asked to draft a will for Mr. Potter at the time that you drafted the prenuptial agreement?”

“Objection.” Nelson is on his feet. “Irrelevant, Your Honor.”

O’Shaunasy’s looking at me.

“The district attorney has opened this entire area, the question of the victim’s testamentary intentions. He’s produced evidence that unless my client was married to the victim at the time of death, she stood to lose everything acquired during the marriage. I think we have the right to see the full picture in these regards.”

“Overruled. The witness will answer the question.”

“I was asked to draft a will at the same time that I did the prenuptial agreement.”

I get up from the table, and move laterally, keeping an appropriate distance from the witness.

“I think you’ve already stated that Mr. Potter had no children.”

Hazeltine nods his assent.

“Did you prepare mutual wills for the Potters, or just one?”

“Just one, for Mr. Potter.”

“Under the terms of that will, if for any reason the defendant, Mrs. Potter, were disqualified from inheriting, because of divorce, or for any other reason, did Mr. Potter name any other heirs, persons who would inherit his estate?”

Hazeltine is clearly uncomfortable with this. He’s looking up at the judge as if for a reprieve. “Your Honor, the will has never been read. I am the executor, but until these proceedings are completed, I thought it best that any probate be postponed. These are matters of considerable confidence.”

“I can appreciate that,” says O’Shaunasy, “but they are also material to this case. You will answer the question.”

Hazeltine looks back at me, a little hopeful that perhaps I have forgotten it.

“Were there any other heirs named in the will?”

“There were several. A distant cousin in the Midwest was the only surviving relative other than Mrs. Potter. He was to get a small inheritance. Mr. Potter left several hundred thousand dollars to the law school. The balance of his estate went to his wife, and if she predeceased him or for any other reason was disqualified, then the entire estate went to a single alternate beneficiary.”

“Who was that?”

Hazeltine is pumping little points of perspiration through his bald scalp.