I direct a further question to Nelson: “As long as you’re being helpful, I take it there were no sworn statements by this witness following either interview?”

“That’s correct. Just police reports. You have copies of those, I believe.” Nelson smiles. Nothing reduced to writing that can be discovered by the defense.

“Let’s focus on the first interview, the one back in October of last year. Do you recall what you told the police at that time?”

“It was pretty general. They asked me if I was aware of any reason why Ben, Mr. Potter, might want to kill himself. They were still operating on the assumption that it was suicide.”

“And what did you tell them?”

“I told them no, I couldn’t. I never believed Ben killed himself.”

“Why is that?”

“He just wouldn’t, that’s all.”

“Intuition?”

“Call it that if you want.”

“What else did they ask you at that time, in October?”

“They wanted to know if I saw or heard anything the night he died.”

“Did you?”

“I wasn’t around. I was out of town, in Oakland, at a basketball game with a friend.”

“Anything else, during that first interview?”

He thinks for a moment. “That’s about it.”

“Fine, let’s turn our attention to the more recent interview, the one three weeks ago. Did the police come to you?”

“They came to my office, if that’s what you mean.”

“Just a second,” Nelson breaks in. “If we can confer for a moment.”

We go off the record. Nelson cups a hand to Tony’s ear, whispers, then backs away. Tony’s eyes when they come back to me are mean little slits.

“I’m confused,” he says. “The police did come to my office. But I called them.”

Confused, my ass. Nelson is keeping him honest. “You called them?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you call them?”

“I remembered something, something I thought might be important.”

“What was that?”

“Before he died, Ben told me that he was planning on divorcing his wife, Talia.”

“Just like that,” I say.

“Well, it wasn’t just like that. I mean, we were talking about something else. Business or something, his nomination to the court, I can’t remember exactly. And he told me that he was gonna have to get a good divorce lawyer.”

“Why did he tell you this?”

“We were partners. We didn’t have a lot of secrets from one another. I knew his marriage wasn’t real happy.”

“And how did you come to know that?”

“Well, hell, you know.”

“No, tell me.”

“Everybody knows Talia was sleepin’ around.”

My blood is beginning to boil. “So it was things you heard?”

“Yeah, things I heard.”

“Gossip.”

“Call it whatever you want.”

“What else would you call it?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that he wanted a divorce.”

“When did you have this conversation with Mr. Potter?”

“It was in early summer. I think it was in June.”

“And when the police spoke to you immediately following Ben’s death, in October, you didn’t think to tell them about it then?”

“No.”

“A man’s contemplating divorce, has a terrible married life by your own accounts, and when the police ask you if you can think of any reason why he might commit suicide, you tell them you can’t think of a reason?”

“I wasn’t thinking,” he says.

“Obviously. What made you think that this information was suddenly important three weeks ago?”

“I don’t know.”

“Could it have anything to do with the fact that by that time Mrs. Potter had been bound over for trial, charged with murdering her husband?”

“Maybe,” he says. “That had a bearing.”

“So this information wasn’t important when Mr. Potter was believed to have killed himself, and only became important when it was believed that someone else killed him?”

“Well. I don’t know.”

I leave it alone. Food for the jury.

“Mr. Skarpellos, did you tell the police that you participated in early discussions with the defense team, with Mr. Cheetam and myself, during Mrs. Potter’s preliminary hearing?”

“He was never of counsel.” Nelson has pitched in. “You can argue it at the time of trial, but our view is that Mr. Skarpellos never held an attorney-client relationship with the defendant. He advanced fees and assisted her in obtaining counsel, that’s all. He never represented her.”

Nelson, I think, has the better argument on this point. Trying to bar the Greek from testifying on these grounds is probably a long shot. He was careful to stay far enough in the wings, to make me think now that some active planning was going on behind those bushy eyebrows.

“On the question of divorce, did you have one conversation with Mr. Potter, more than one, how many?”

“One,” he says. Skarpellos is accomplished at this. Tony knows that when it comes to lying, the smart ones keep it narrow and tight. It limits the chances for contradiction.

“During this one conversation did he tell you anything else bearing on his marital life?”

He’s looking at me, searching, trying to figure out what I’m probing for. Nelson I think knows, but he can’t help him. Battles are won with little advances.

“That he was unhappy. That he wanted out of the marriage.”

“Had he taken any steps to accomplish this at the time that you talked to him, hired a lawyer, filed any papers?” I feint, bob, and weave, moving away from the objective for a moment. This one I already know the answer to.

“No. If he did, he didn’t tell me.”

“And you don’t know whether he took any overt actions after that date, until the time of his death, to end his marriage-is that true?”

“Yes,” he says. “That’s true. I don’t know.”

“So all he told you was that he was planning to divorce his wife? That’s the total sum and substance of your conversation with him on the subject, is that correct?”

Skarpellos is looking at Nelson for help. He senses that he’s reaching a precipice, but like a man in the dark, he’s not sure where it is.

“That is the sum and substance of your conversation with Mr. Potter on the subject of his divorce, is that right?” I repeat the question.

“Right,” he says.

“Then from your testimony you don’t know whether he ever told his wife, Talia Potter, of his plans for divorce, isn’t that true?”

It’s too late. Skarpellos has slipped off the edge. A fortuitous recollection now would strain credibility to the breaking point.

“No,” he says. The linchpin. I breathe a little easier. Nelson has no way of proving that Talia knew of these supposed plans for divorce. You don’t kill to prevent things you don’t know about. His motive is hobbling on three legs.

“But she might have known,” says Skarpellos.

It’s too late and Nelson knows it. His expression has fallen like a dark angel.

“But you don’t know that she knew?”

“You have to assume that a husband would tell his wife, if he’s planning on divorcing her.”

“We’re not here to assume anything, but to find out what you know and when you knew it.”

To this I get two dark Mediterranean slits. The proverbial “if looks could kill.”

“Are we finished?” he asks.

I look over at Nelson, who waves me off.

“I think we’re done.”

“Good,” he says.

The court reporter retrieves her notes and begins to close up her machine.

Skarpellos is still burning inside. I can see smoke around the ears.

Time to put the lance in, to see what’s bubbling under the surface.

“Tony,” I say. “Tell me. How much do you stand to inherit from Ben’s estate if Talia takes the fall in this thing?”

His head snaps toward me. He’s out of his chair. Nelson’s got him by an arm. Harry’s got a hammerlock.

“You little shit,” he says. His tone has all the acid of vinegar. “You can’t believe,” he says, “that Ben failed at even one thing in life?”

Nelson’s trying to pull him toward the door. The Greek is giving more than passive resistance.