She lifts her gaze, a defiant expression, not good, but better than a whipped dog, I think.

Nelson moves on to other evidence from which inferences can be drawn linking Talia with this horror. He tells the jury that a witness, a neighbor, will testify that the victim’s vehicle was seen at the residence he shared with the defendant at or near the time of death.

“While Talia Potter claims to have been out of town at this time, ladies and gentlemen, police over months of intensive investigation have been unable to verify this story,” he says.

Nelson leaves Talia’s lame alibi at the jury railing like some spoiled morsel of meat, already beginning to send up rancid odors.

His sense of timing is meticulous, pauses in all the right places for effect. His speech borders on closing argument, but not close enough for me to disrupt it with objections, well prepared, rehearsed, like some out-of-town play finally arriving on Broadway.

He talks about the prenuptial agreement, the fact that Talia stood to lose everything from her liaison with Ben unless she was married to the victim at the time of his death. He discusses this document in hushed tones, as if it were holy writ.

He takes more time talking about the marriage, the undeniable difference in their ages. He trips deftly through the tulips of Talia’s reputation, mostly inferences, innuendo, but all supported by witnesses, he says, nothing with which he might draw a colorable objection. There is the leopard-skin jock strap found by the maid in Talia’s bed, clothing which the maid will testify did not belong to the victim. This is enough to raise a few eyebrows, titillate a few libidos. He finesses this, then becomes more overt.

“A witness that we will produce, ladies and gentlemen, will tell you that the defendant was seen on numerous occasions in the company of other men, not her husband, registering, taking a room at a local motel, with these men.” He plays upon this effect, letting the full force seep in for the jury.

It is becoming clear that it is not Talia on trial here, but her passions.

He has yet to explain in clear terms how Talia murdered Ben, and then by herself moved the body and dealt with the grisly task of the shotgun in the mouth. But it is now no quantum leap for this jury to close the loop of inference, to find that she had help from a lover for these chores.

Nelson steals a glance at his watch, moving sideways, out of the jurors’ sight. Everything well staged. Forty minutes he has been at this, the optimum time for a jury to retain the critical elements.

“Finally, ladies and gentlemen, the state will produce a witness, an intimate friend and business associate of the victim, who will tell you that at the time of his death, Ben Potter, for reasons which will become obvious to you all, was seriously contemplating a divorce from the defendant, Talia Potter, and that he was in the process of searching for a good divorce lawyer for that very purpose when he was murdered. A divorce, ladies and gentlemen, which when coupled with the prenuptial agreement, would have left the defendant, Talia Potter, in financial ruin.

“The evidence will show,” he says, “that to avoid this divorce, to avoid the prospect of losing everything that mattered to Talia Potter-wealth, social status, a marital relationship which she treated as casual and convenient-that Talia Potter engaged in an intricate and diabolical plot, and that with careful premeditation, she murdered Ben Potter.”

He stands for a moment, again at center stage, by the railing, engaging their eyes, the collective soul of this jury, then moves to the counsel table and takes his seat.

The jurors, at least half of them, are taking a more studied and cautious look at Talia, weighing these words against the figure they see at our table. I can feel her shaking in the chair next to me. Carefully I take my hand and put it over hers on the arm of the chair, out of their view. It is as if I have somehow grounded her, and the trembling passes.

“Mr. Madriani, your opening argument?” Acosta’s looking at me.

“The defense will reserve its opening, Your Honor, until close of the state’s case.”

It is a calculated risk, to wait, one theory being to dispel any forceful impressions left by Nelson before these thoughts can find a home among the jury.

I believe that I can be more deliberate, more damaging to the state’s case after it has closed, presented all of its evidence. I am lying in wait, to pummel the prosecution with the Greek. Nelson may have theories, educated hunches as to where I am headed. For the moment I choose to leave him only with these.

Acosta looks at his watch. It is after three o’clock.

“Unless there are objections we will adjourn, to reconvene at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. The state will be prepared to present its first witness at that time.”

CHAPTER 29

Jimmy Lama’s run up a dead end looking for Susan Hawley. She has disappeared. He has his finger in my face, spitting expletives at me on the steps in front of the courthouse, for the world to see.

It’s a chance passing. Lama’s coming out as I’m going in. Nikki is with me, taking off the morning from work to see the opening shots in Talia’s trial. Purely a commercial interest, she says.

“Where is she, hotshot? Where ya hiding her?” Lama’s calling my client every vile name he can think of and invents a few of his own, applying them to me, loud enough for a few passersby on the street to hear.

Hawley has given him the slip, and me too, pulled out of her apartment with no forwarding address or phone number. Immunity does funny things to different people. In the case of Susan Hawley it has given her an aggravated case of wanderlust.

If Lama has ambitions for advancement based on his part in “boinkgate,” Hawley’s disappearance has put a big hole in his plans. He is being hammered by the prosecutors to find her, before they must dismiss. It seems that without Hawley, they have no case, and Skarpellos has no alibi.

I’ve put Nikki behind me, with Lama still in my face.

He’s working his way through the cop’s version of Gray’s Anatomy, calling me names I don’t recognize.

Finally he breaks off this tirade and frames what, for Lama, is a coherent question.

“Where is the cheap fuck?” he says.

I don’t think this deserves an answer, even if I had one, and I begin to move around him up the steps, keeping myself between Lama and Nikki, shielding her as best I can from this spray of offense.

“You gettin’ a little on the side?” he says. “We know she’s a good fuck, but we only need her for an hour. I promise we’ll give her back when we’re finished.”

This stops me dead in my tracks, and for a fleeting instant I consider the curb a few feet away and the buses rolling by at a good clip. I would be doing humanity a vast service. But Nikki’s tugging on my arm.

“You really should get help for that,” I tell him.

“What?” he says.

“Professional assistance to keep the foam from dribbling down your chin.”

We are pitched, our necks bowed like two bucks ready to do primordial battle.

From the corner of my eye I see a figure approaching; it grabs Nikki by the arm and tugs her up the steps. It is George Cooper, come to the rescue, removing my wife from this ugly scene.

“We’ll subpoena her ass,” says Lama, “and serve it on you.”

“Spit is still spit,” I tell him.

With this he pulls up close, an inch from my face, without touching me. “One day,” he says. “You’ve got one day to produce her. Blow it and I’ll kick your ass.”

Coop is back down the steps, leaving Nikki on higher ground.

“Jimmy,” he says, his hand cuffing the back of Lama’s neck, where the hair bristles. “This is not the place.” Coop winks at me, playing a little matador with this mad bull, giving the two of us an honorable path of retreat. He moves Lama a few inches back toward the sidewalk, where the two talk quietly. This is Coop the peacemaker. One thing you always like about George Cooper is that he never checks his friendship at the courthouse steps.