Today the Greek is full of bluster and vinegar, a cock on the walk in a thousand-dollar gray pinstripe. He doesn’t do well in court, but Tony could always dress the part. He swaggers down the center aisle and to the stand, where he is sworn. Skarpellos doesn’t fix me with a stare until he’s in the box, seated. Then he nods to Nelson, a little greeting, like he’s ready to bury us.

Tony’s broad features seem magnified in this setting, a bearing and demeanor to match his ego.

Nelson waltzes him through his early days with the firm, how he came to meet Ben, and how they formed a fast friendship and prospering partnership. To listen to Tony, it was all amity and good cheer, two legal giants taking the high road to success. He mentions Potter’s imminent appointment to the high court. The Greek is working up a little fame-by-association before the jury, the theme being that Ben couldn’t have done it without him.

Against this background Nelson is laying the silver lining of his pitch with the Greek, that here is a man immanently trusted by the victim, a man to whom Benjamin Potter confided his most private thoughts and actions.

He wastes no time getting to the heart of it.

“You were interviewed by the police twice during this investigation, is that correct?”

“Right,” says Tony.

“Once about a week after the murder and the second time more recently, when you called the police and told them some things you had forgotten about?”

“That’s correct.”

Nelson unfortunately has benefited from Tony’s statement in my office, a necessary price I pay for the big dividend, the fact that Skarpellos can’t testify with certainty that Talia was aware of the stated plans for divorce by Ben. A hole in their motive.

Nelson is shoring up some of the weak spots. Tony’s convenient memory until just before trial, when he called the police to lay on them this revelation, Ben’s impending divorce, is now just an innocent oversight.

“During that second interview by the police …” Nelson looks for the date and pins it down. “You told them that the victim, Benjamin Potter, had a private conversation with you. Could you tell the court the substance of that conversation?”

“Objection, Your Honor, hearsay.” Harry is on his feet. We’ve decided that Harry will do Skarpellos here and on cross. The Greek is less likely to ignite with Harry. I will take him later, when we recall him in our own case for Talia.

“Exception,” says Nelson, “state of mind.”

Harry’s shaking his head at this. “Under the circumstances, Your Honor, they are one and the same.”

Acosta waves them on to approach the bench, off to the side, away from the witness. There’s a lot of verbal dueling here, Harry and Nelson.

Talia leans over toward me. “This is a total lie,” she says. “Ben never said anything about divorce.” This is loud enough for the jury to hear, but the judge is occupied with Nelson and Harry. Meeks is giving us dirty looks from the other table. It is as close to testifying as Talia will get in this case.

They are still going at it at the bench. The issue is whether this testimony, the Greek’s recollections of what Ben told him outside the courtroom, is indeed hearsay, or whether it is subject to one of the myriad exceptions to the hearsay rule. In fact Nelson’s argument is that it doesn’t fall within the rule. Under the law, if an out-of-court statement is being offered to prove the truth of the matter stated, it is hearsay, the policy being that the party making the statement is not in court and therefore not available to be cross-examined.

Nelson insists that Ben’s statements about divorce are not being offered to prove that he in fact was seeking a divorce, but to show his state of mind, that he was thinking about it. This is a difference without a distinction, and Harry is telling the court this.

It’s a fine point, and one that is lost on Acosta. He gestures them back away from the bench.

“Objection overruled. I’ll allow it.”

“Mr. Skarpellos, tell us about your conversation with Mr. Potter,” says Nelson.

“We were talking about business, in my office, Ben and I, and out of the blue he says, ‘Tony, I want you to know I’m makin’ plans to divorce Talia.’ Of course, I was shocked to hear this,” he says. “I mean, I don’t know what to say to the guy.” The Greek is all animation and hand gestures, open palms faceup. Like he’s no Dr. Ruth.

“When did this occur, this conversation?”

Skarpellos pegs it about four months before Ben was killed.

“When he told you this, what did you say to him?”

“I can’t remember,” he says. “I think I was too shocked to say anything.”

It gets more elaborate from here. Skarpellos tells the jury that he and Ben talked openly about a good divorce lawyer. It seems there was no one in the firm who could do this work, so Potter relied on Tony to come up with a few good names. At least this is Tony’s version of the story.

“He’s lying.” Talia’s at my ear again.

“Did you ever give him any names?”

“Checked around, and the next day,” he says, “I gave him three of the best in town.”

“Why was it so important to get a good lawyer?” asks Nelson.

“The prenuptial thing,” says Skarpellos. “They had a prenuptial agreement, Ben and Talia, and Ben was sure that she, that Talia would try to knock it over. To get around it so that she wouldn’t be cut out completely.”

Talia’s looking at me like this is some fantasy.

“Do you know why Mr. Potter wanted a divorce?”

“There was talk in the office …”

“Objection, hearsay.” Harry’s cut him off.

“Sustained.”

“Do you have any personal knowledge as to why he wanted a divorce, Mr. Skarpellos?”

Tony looks directly at me, mean little slits. “Yeah,” he says. “Ben told me he wanted to marry someone else.”

There’s a stir in the courtroom.

“Who?” says Nelson.

“I don’t know. He didn’t say. Just that he wanted to keep it under wraps until after the nomination was confirmed.”

“His appointment to the court?”

“That’s right.”

There’s a rumble through the courtroom. Two reporters have crushed five others in the aisle making for the door and the minicams outside.

I’m sitting in my chair looking at the Greek, stunned that even he could come up with this.

Talia’s in a daze. “This is not true,” she says. “I would have known.” This is directed to me, but her voice carries, and Acosta is on us with his gavel.

“Mr. Madriani, tell your client to be quiet.”

He looks out and by this time there is bedlam in the seats behind us. The two rows of chairs reserved for the press are empty. If someone were to shoot the judge now, no one would notice. Such is the initiative of pack journalism. In the audience, those who heard the Greek’s words are repeating them to others who did not. Like a cheap recorder with ghost sounds, this message comes back a hundred times.

“Nothing more of this witness, Your Honor.” Nelson has all he could ask for, a looming motive for murder.

“A short recess, Your Honor?” Harry’s on his feet.

“Order, or I’ll clear the courtroom,” says Acosta. He slaps the gavel twice and the clamor of voices comes down a few decibels. “Those reporters who left,” he says. “They get at the end of the spectators’ line when they want to come back in.” The ultimate penalty. Longer than probation in most criminal cases is the wait in line outside this courtroom. Acosta’s pointing with his hammer at the bailiff near the back door to make sure that he understands this latest wrinkle in house rules. The cop nods. Reporters are not used to queuing up behind other mere mortals for access to the news. Acosta’s sending them a message. Disrupt his courtroom, and you join the line from hell. Three journalists, halfway to the door when they hear this edict, return to their seats.

The judge is now looking at Harry almost as an aside. “No recess,” he says. “We’re going to get this over with now. Cross-examination, Mr. Hinds.”