“Sustained. The numbers will speak for themselves.”

Given what I had to start with, I’d done better than I had any right to expect, though my argument was more likely to confuse a jury than this judge. It ignored the facts that Townsend, Cheetam’s prime candidate for the blood, was not among the twelve thousand souls I’d fingered, and that Ben was.

It worked once so I trotted it out again, this dead horse that fed on numbers.

“Doctor. Do you have any idea how many people work in the building where Mr. Potter had his office?”

“No.”

“Would it surprise you if I told you there are nearly four thousand people who work in that building? That doesn’t count salesmen, vendors, repair people who come and go, deliverymen?”

I was dealing totally in the dark, testifying and pulling numbers from the air. I had no idea how many people work in the Emerald Tower.

Coop shook his head. “It wouldn’t surprise me,” he said.

“Then assuming a random distribution in the general population of these two so-called blood markers-the B-negative blood type and the enzyme factor-and using your figure of eight in one thousand, that means that of the four thousand people in that building at or around the time that Mr. Potter died, there were as many as thirty other people besides Ben Potter who worked there who might fit the blood characteristics or factors of the drop found in that elevator. Is that correct?”

My question ignored the obvious, that trendy secretaries in spiked heels and executives in thousand-dollar suits don’t generally travel in service elevators. Cheetam had left me no choice but to go boldly where no man had gone before-I was on a five-minute mission to evidentiary la-la land.

Coop made a face of concession.

“Am I right?”

“I haven’t made a precise statistical calculation.”

Thank God for little favors, I think.

Nelson was twitching in his chair, but so far had refrained from any objection.

“That might be close,” said Coop.

I had what I wanted, a tiny slice of shadow in the prosecutor’s bright light, some ray of doubt.

I could tell from his face that Coop now wished he’d done DNA. I considered pushing it just a little further. But I looked at him sitting there in the witness box, waiting, like an alligator submerged at the bank except for the eyes. Two blips on the surface. I’d taken it as far as I could. I thought better than to offer myself as a meal in a losing cause. Save it for the trial, I thought.

“That’s all for this witness.”

As I returned to the counsel table Cheetam was all over me. Cheap kudos and handshakes. Talia was more reserved, with a warm smile and eyes that knew the truth. Quibbling over blood in an elevator was not going to avoid an order binding her over for trial.

Now she is shaking. Time is drawing short and she senses mat a new horror is about to envelop her.

The bailiff saunters out of chambers with furtive looks behind him. He’s running interference for O’Shaunasy. She’s a dozen steps behind him with a sheaf of papers in her hand, Talia’s fate. She mounts the bench.

“Come to order. Remain seated, municipal court of Capitol County, department 17, is now in session, the Honorable Gail O’Shaunasy presiding.” The bailiff takes his place off to the side of the courtroom.

O’Shaunasy clears her throat and shuffles the papers until she has them in proper order. She looks directly at Talia before she speaks, men off to some broad undefined horizon beyond the bench.

“I have listened to all of the testimony presented here,” she says, “examined all physical and documentary evidence. I have considered it all very carefully before rendering this decision.

“The standard of evidence confronting this court is not that of guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, and no judgment of this court can determine guilt or innocence.

“The standard of proof here is that of probable cause. It is merely for this court to determine whether there is sufficient evidence to establish a reasonable belief that a crime has been committed and whether that evidence points to this defendant as the perpetrator.”

This is fodder for the tube, a vain effort to keep the story in perspective, to avoid the unavoidable, the mantle of guilt being laid on the accused before trial. A legion of jurors will later be asked if they’ve heard about this case, if they know anything about the defendant. Too many will say that they read or saw somewhere that Talia Potter was the woman who killed her husband. By tonight the nuances of evidence and standards of proof, the notion that Talia is entitled to a clear and unfettered presumption of innocence, will die on the lips of this judge, lost in an onslaught of headlines and thirty-second spots.

Now O’Shaunasy reserves her gaze for Talia.

“It is the judgment of this court that mere is ample evidence, albeit circumstantial, that probable cause exists to believe that Benjamin G. Potter died as a result of some criminal agency and that the defendant had ample opportunity and motive to commit that crime.

“On the charge of violation of penal code section 1murder in the first degree, mere is sufficient evidence to believe that the charged offense has been committed and that the defendant Talia Pearson Potter committed said offense.

“Further, I find that special circumstances exist as charged by the district attorney with regard to the commission of this crime and that she shall therefore be bound over for trial in the superior court on a charge of murder in the first degree with special circumstances.

“The filing of a formal criminal information is ordered within fifteen days. Arraignment is ordered at that time. The defendant is ordered into the custody of the sheriff, pending a hearing on modification of bail.”

It appears that Talia is no longer considered a minimal flight risk.

Cheetam is on his feet. “Your Honor, we can conceive of no possible reason why bail should be increased in this case. The defendant has appeared at every hearing, cooperated in every way with these proceedings.”

“That’s true,” O’Shaunasy concedes. “But your client is now bound over for trial on a capital charge of murder. The question of bail is one for the superior court. My order will stand. This court stands adjourned.”

Talia looks over at me, two tears cutting a furrow down each cheek.

“We’ll get you out.” Cheetam’s making promises as the matron moves in behind Talia to escort her to the steel door that leads to the holding cells below.

I lean over and speak into her ear. “I’ll see you first thing in the morning,” I say.

“Yes, first thing,” she says in a daze. I don’t think she’s heard me. I can’t tell if she comprehends any of this.

She is taken by one arm, assisted at the elbow from behind, and led from the courtroom. My last view is of her descending the steps to the lower bowels of the building, to the cold holding cells and the van that will transport her to the night of noises and horror that is the Capitol County Jail.

CHAPTER 20

And so we meet in the lockup the next morning, through glass-encased tiny wire mesh, talking on a telephone, reading each other’s minds. We are alone now, Talia and I, that is, if you believe the official policy of the sheriff’s department, which says they don’t tap in on lawyers and their clients.

Cheetam is now history, off to Houston or Dallas or some other damn place. His commitment to spring Talia from a cold cell was forgotten before he skipped down the courthouse steps. It died like every other hot flash of enthusiasm the man had, the victim of a more pressing agenda.

“I have a bail hearing set for this afternoon. I’ll try to hold the bail at $200,000,” I tell her.

She nods. “What if they won’t go along?”

“Then I’ll keep it as low as I can.”