As Nelson finishes with him, I am leaning across Talia and whispering into Harry’s ear. We choose not to tempt fate and therefore waive any cross-examination. There is nothing to be gained, and if I should provoke Preston’s ire, a great deal to lose.

Nelson calls Talia’s neighbor next.

Mildred Foster is nearing eighty, with little else to do but watch the saga of life on parade from the windows of her house. She has lived on the two-acre estate next to Ben and Talia since they moved in five years ago, and to Talia she is a mystery.

“What a strange woman,” she says. “Five years and I’ve never seen her, even outside in the yard.”

“But she’s seen you,” I say, “and more importantly, Ben’s car on the evening he was killed.”

Foster is the kind of person who lives with a spyglass at the window. I would bet that her drapes are frayed and tattered from her fingering them every time a car door is slammed on the street.

Nelson has her up for one reason only. She testifies that Ben’s car was at the Potter house early in the evening on the day he was murdered. She saw it in the driveway, but didn’t see Ben. It is unclear whether arthritis has slowed her sprint to the windows, or whether she was simply distracted.

“Mrs. Foster, can you tell us what time it was that you looked out your window and saw Mr. Potter’s car?”

“About eight,” she says.

“Did you hear it pull up?”

“No,” she says. “My hearing’s not so good anymore.”

“I see, but you looked out your window and the car was parked there?”

She nods.

“Let the record reflect that the witness has answered affirmatively.” Acosta is doing the honors, helping the court reporter.

“So you have no idea what time the car might have arrived there?”

“It wasn’t there at five when I looked out.”

“So sometime between five o’clock, when you looked out your window, and eight o’clock, when you looked again, Mr. Potter drove up and parked his car in the driveway?”

“Objection. The question assumes facts not in evidence, that Mr. Potter was driving the car.”

“Sustained.”

“Correction, Mrs. Foster, is it true that sometime between five o’clock and eight o’clock, someone drove Mr. Potter’s car into the driveway and parked it?”

“That’s true.”

“And that person was not in the car when you looked out the window and saw it?”

“That’s right.”

This is all very neat. Nelson is working on broad inferences, that Talia and a lover were lying in wait at the house, that Ben came home, that they did him with the little handgun and took the body to the office. All circumstantial, but the sort of stuff a jury might use to reach mind-bending conclusions.

“Your witness.”

“Mrs. Foster, do you know for a fact that the vehicle you saw parked in the driveway of the Potter residence was Mr. Potter’s car?”

“Oh yes, it was his car. I know that car very well. I’ve seen it many times.”

She is wrinkled and age-spotted, but a pleasant soul. She smiles occasionally at Talia, so one would think that to Mrs. Foster, her appearance here is some good, neighborly deed. This is the kind of witness who can hurt you with a jury, the kind with no obvious or even remote personal agenda.

“Your Honor, may I approach the witness?”

Acosta waves me on.

I drop an envelope on Nelson’s table and carry another to the witness box, where I pull out three photographs.

“Mrs. Foster, I have three pictures here of vehicles, all the same color, late-model cars. Can you look at these and tell me if any of them is Mr. Potter’s car, the car you saw that evening parked in his driveway?”

She looks at them, studying them top to bottom, adjusting her glasses that hang from a gold chain around her neck. She works at these photos like it is some multiple-choice examination, putting first one aside, then another, picking up the first one again, trying to exclude at least one of the distractors to give herself a fair guess between the other two.

“Your Honor, I object to this.” Nelson can see she is having trouble. “Mrs. Foster is not an expert on car design. She says she saw Mr. Potter’s car in the driveway that night. This is a vehicle she has seen many times and would clearly recognize. Now defense counsel is trying to confuse her.”

“Your Honor, I just want to know if she can identify the car.”

Acosta is looking at me over the top of his glasses.

“Get on with it,” he says.

“Mrs. Foster, can you tell me if any of the cars in these pictures looks like the car you saw at the Potter residence that night?”

“This one looks a little familiar,” she says.

“Is that the car?” I ask her.

She’s looking at me, searchingly, pleading as if for some hint.

“They all look so much alike,” she says.

“Cars can do that,” I tell her. “Both in pictures and in driveways.”

“I think this is it,” she says.

I turn it over and read the number on the back.

“Your Honor, let the record reflect that the witness has identified a late-model Toyota Cressida owned by my secretary.” I then turn back to the witness. “She will be happy, Mrs. Foster.”

The old lady looks at me.

“My secretary, to know that she drives a car that looks like a Rolls. It may keep her from putting the touch on me for a raise.”

There are smiles, a little laughter in the jury box.

Mrs. Foster shrugs her shoulders, a good-natured gesture, like she did the best that she could.

Harry has been less than forthright on this, shooting all of the pictures to avoid the give-away grill on Ben’s car.

“Picture number three, Mrs. Foster. That was Mr. Potter’s car.”

“Oh,” she says.

“Even trained police officers have a hard time telling some cars apart,” I say, a little balm for a bruised ego. Nelson doesn’t object. She seems to accept this with good grace.

I’m back at the counsel table now. “Mrs. Foster, I think you testified that the night that you saw this vehicle, whatever it was, in the driveway, you never actually saw Mr. Potter, in the vehicle or around it, is that correct?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Did you see him around the outside of the house or in the house, through any of the windows?”

“No.”

“So you don’t know whether Mr. Potter was actually at home that night or not?”

“His car was there,” she says.

“A car that looked like his was there.” I correct her.

“If you say so.” She makes a face. The path to old age, I think, must be like Mrs. Foster, obdurate and unbending.

“But you never actually saw Mr. Potter?”

“No.”

“Did you see Mrs. Potter that evening about the time that you saw this car in the driveway?”

“No,” she says. “Her car wasn’t there.” To the witness, it seems, possession of a vehicle is more than a sign of status, it is the sole evidence of existence.

“So you never actually saw either Mr. or Mrs. Potter at or around the Potter residence on the night in question?”

“No.”

“Did you hear anything unusual that night, any noises coming from the Potter residence?”

“No.” She shakes her head.

“No sharp sounds like firecrackers, or a car backfiring?”

“I didn’t hear a shot if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s what I mean, Mrs. Foster.” This lady is not as far gone as she looks.

“This car that was parked in the driveway of the Potter residence, did you notice what time it left?”

“I looked out about nine. It was gone,” she says.

“But you didn’t see who drove it away?”

“No.”

“Nothing further, Your Honor.”

“Redirect?”

“Just a couple, Your Honor.” Nelson is on his feet approaching the witness.

“Mrs. Foster, how far is it between your house and the Potter residence, approximately?”

She looks at him like this is the same as trying to tell cars apart.

“Let me see if I can make this easier on you.” Nelson thinks for a moment. “You’ve seen a tennis court, from one end to the other?”