And I take my seat, nothing more to be gained from this witness.

Talia is clearly agitated, writing a note to me when I get back to the table.

“Why is the judge doing this?” it says.

I lean over in her ear. “You and me,” I say. “The news story. It offended his sense of dignity.”

She reads the sarcasm in my voice and knows she is now in deep trouble.

CHAPTER 34

Since the day Coop arrived at the house with Walker’s article, that morning when Nikki called and roused me from sleep, she has taken a totally different view of Talia’s trial. She’s been ensconced here in the courtroom for three days running, two rows back, watching me, burning what little she has of vacation from her job, and wondering if her husband, the father of her child, will soon be indicted for murder.

I’ve tried to assure her that they have nothing, that Walker and his sources are playing a game of reckless innuendo. I’ve reminded her of Lama and his threat, consoling her that he has only made good on some bad publicity.

But Nikki is a worrier born and bred. She has watched Talia’s case as it slides from optimism to the lip of oblivion and has now borrowed enough thoughts of woe to keep us both in misery for the next decade. In her mind I am already in shackles and striped pajamas, Sarah seeing me on weekends from behind a little screen of wire mesh. The only consolation she seems able to take from this experience is that I am master of my own fate, that in defending Talia I am in a very real sense now defending myself. Nikki has a renewed sense of confidence in my abilities as a trial lawyer-more confidence, I fear, than I have in myself.

This morning I sit with her briefly and talk, holding her hand and giving her more empty assurances that this is all just journalistic bluster, and wonder myself where it will end.

Talia is at the counsel table with Harry. I catch her eye occasionally looking at us. I sense a little embarrassment here for the pain she has caused, not just to me, but to Nikki. The two of them are cautiously polite to one another, Talia uncertain of Nikki’s feelings. But my wife has been surprisingly cordial, even supportive, in the few comments she has made.

It is eight A.M., and the bailiff waves us on. I hook up with Harry, who is assembling our little library on the counsel table.

The moment of truth has arrived. On the second day after my bashing by Acosta, the judge has us back in chambers to announce his ruling on James Preston, the motel clerk, and whether he may testify.

As I arrive, Nelson is down at the mouth, like maybe he and Acosta have just had words. The Coconut is all preened for his day on the bench. A shirt so heavily starched that he could sleep standing up in it, gold cuff links, and broad red suspenders. He hasn’t yet donned his black robe.

His facial good nature changes as I enter chambers behind Harry. Acosta’s mouth and eyes take on a grim set.

“A seat, gentlemen.” He’s leafing through papers on his desk, as if he can’t find the script on this one.

“This is a real problem,” he says. “Mr. Preston.” He’s still looking for his notes.

He stares at me briefly from under hooded brows.

“Of course, it wouldn’t be a problem if Mr. Madriani had learned to keep his pecker in his pants,” he says. There is no court reporter here today, so Acosta is free to indulge himself, a few cheap shots. He will enter his ruling by way of a minute order, a single-page form, typed by his clerk.

Meeks and Nelson are carrying on a whispering campaign in the far corner, like they already know what the court is going to do on this.

“I’ve given this great thought,” says Acosta. He’s playing at being Solomon, stroking his chin with the fingers of one hand, affecting the look of the wise.

“The various arguments, and the prejudice to the defendant should I allow unlimited testimony by Mr. Preston. After considering all of these arguments carefully, it is my view that James Preston should testify …”

There’s a palpable sigh from Harry. During the last two days, with its dark omen, he has been boning up hard for the penalty phase. Death looms larger on the horizon now than at any time since the start of the trial.

“I think,” says Acosta, “that it is both relevant and material, these affairs that the defendant appears to have had during her marriage. The jury should be allowed to draw its own conclusions in these regards.” He looks at Nelson deferentially, as if the DA has scored major points on this argument.

The full hammer of vengeance, I think.

“But,” says Acosta, “there is one troubling aspect. Mr. Madriani’s part in all of this.”

I sense more sackcloth and a dusting of new ash.

“Mr. Hinds makes a persuasive argument, that to allow the witness to identify Mr. Madriani is to so thoroughly discredit Mrs. Potter’s attorney as to deny her a fair trial. I think there is merit to this,” he says.

There are furrows over heavy brows here, as if to emphasize this thoughtful, weighty moment in the logical progression of things. As if this notion of fairness is the product of great inspiration, some original thought with the Coconut.

“So,” he says, “the testimony of the witness will be limited. He will not be allowed to identify Mr. Madriani. The others are all fair game,” says Acosta. He is beaming a broad smile at the desk. His arms are open in an expansive gesture to Nelson as if to say “Go get ’em.” This explains Nelson’s gloomy look as we arrived. He’d been given a preview of this by the court.

“One proviso,” says Acosta. “If there’s any independent evidence linking Mr. Madriani to this crime, all bets are off. I may alter my ruling.”

“What does that mean?” I say.

“That means you’d better be clean,” he says. “If I find out that you and your client hatched a scheme to deceive this court, I will allow Mr. Preston to be recalled and to finger you in front of the jury. Do I make myself clear?” he says.

We are to try the case under the cloud of the Coconut’s subjective suspicions.

“Perfectly,” I say.

“Fine.”

The cops have been beating the brush trying to poke holes in my alibi for the night Ben was killed. In assisting me through this travail, Dee has been worse than worthless. The only entry on her calendar for the night in question is a hairdressing appointment, something so cavalier and routine that it jogs nothing of her own recollections.

Instead of the obvious truth, that she has left the office at five and that I was there working when she pulled out, Dee has told the police that she has no idea where I was on the night in question. This has spawned more intrigue than answers, and the police are now redoubling their efforts to link me with Talia.

To my surprise, after all of the pain he has caused, James Preston’s testimony turns out to be largely anticlimactic. Even my own suspicions that he would recognize Tod have turned out to be wrong. On the stand he identifies two men, the illustrious Raul, Talia’s tennis pro, residing in Rio when Ben was killed, and another man, Joseph Blackborn, Talia’s accountant. It would be a neat trick for the prosecution to link Blackborn and Talia romantically. He is fifty-eight going on ninety, slight of build, with thin pursed lips, a face like Don Knotts’s.

Talia tells me that Blackborn was in fact business, that they used the motel to finish some final schedules for income tax returns a year ago, because his office was being painted, and it proved a more convenient location than her own. I believe her.

It seems Raul and I were the only two getting in our licks back before Tod, and we were each ancient history long before Ben was murdered.

The jury seems to treat Preston’s testimony as a serious yawn. All during his brief time on the stand he is giving me the evil eye from the witness box. It seems Mr. Preston doesn’t appreciate the fact that his moment of fame has been preempted by the judge. He glances up at Acosta, an expression of misgiving. I think he believes the Coconut and I are engaged in some iniquitous conspiracy to cheat justice, the lawyers’ guild protecting its own. And he resents this. Apparently no one has explained to him why he is not being allowed to finger me, or perhaps he doesn’t accept this rationale, a fair trial for Talia. Either way, Preston has the composure and equanimity of a stick of sweating dynamite on the stand.