“What do you propose?”

“We will stipulate,” Nelson says, looking at notes now, “ … that during the two years immediately preceding the death of Benjamin Potter, Tony Skarpellos withdrew approximately two hundred and twenty thousand dollars from the client trust account of Potter, Skarpellos, Edwards, and Hazeltine. That these withdrawals appear to have been unauthorized, and that the funds appear to have been diverted to personal use. I think this would cover the point as well as any evidence you could introduce,” he says. “Of course, you understand that these stipulations would be binding only in this case. They would have no effect on Mr. Skarpellos.”

“Of course,” I say.

Acosta’s looking at me and nodding, licking his chops, like this could save him a whole half-day. But we all know what this is about. It is about convicting Talia. Tony Skarpellos is looming larger in the minds of the jury with each passing witness, the motive for murder more compelling.

Harry’s scrambling, looking through our notes to see if there are any other bombshells that Nelson’s stipulation doesn’t cover.

“Your Honor, we’d like a fair shot at putting this before the jury,” I say.

“Mr. Nelson’s stipulation would appear to do that.” The Coconut is all mellow, like melted Brie. He speaks in tones that drip reason and goodwill.

“In all deference to opposing counsel,” I say, “this is not fair. We must be allowed to develop our case for the defense.”

“I am persuaded,” says Acosta, “that this is cumulative evidence.” This brings it within his broad discretion, to rule that our accountant can be hobbled, blocked at every turn by objections from Nelson. To this we would have no appeal. It is either play ball or they will cut us up in little pieces.

So I bargain with them. “Our other witness,” I say, “Mrs. Campanelli, must be allowed to testify fully as to her knowledge of the dealings between Mr. Skarpellos and the victim.”

Nelson looks at Acosta. He is not happy. But there is no way that they can bar this testimony. It is in no way cumulative, but new evidence of heated argument and confrontation between Tony and Ben. Under our theory, this argument is the spark that ignited murder.

“Agreed,” says Nelson.

“Good.” Acosta is happy. Another decision he will not have to make.

The Coconut reads in a monotone, like some bovine in heat. Nelson’s stipulation is put into the record, for the jury to hear. There are a lot of question marks, puzzled faces beyond the jury railing. But Robert Rath, my alpha factor, is taking notes. I think this little escapade by Nelson may backfire. With Rath to explain the significance behind closed doors, this stipulation leaves little to the imagination. It is now carved in stone that for our purposes here, Tony Skarpellos has shamelessly raided the client trust account-a major cog in our case.

“I don’t care what you say. I am going to testify. I have to,” says Talia.

Talia is insisting that I allow her to take the stand. She is chain-smoking again, against my advice. But this is something that, I sense, is now beyond her control. There are paroxysms of anxiety here, manic episodes, elevated and expansive moods followed shortly by irritability and depression. These swings seem to be associated with no particular success or crisis in the case. Instead, I think, they are attributable to the fact that as a verdict draws near, Talia is increasingly an emotional basket case.

“You can’t testify,” I say. “Nelson would eat you for lunch.”

What is difficult is that this is her call. As her attorney, I hold the strings. I can decide what witnesses we call, what evidence we submit. But the defendant’s right to testify or not is hers and hers alone. I counsel her against it. I tell her I will not participate in perjury.

There are cases in point in this jurisdiction. A lawyer who knows his client is about to lie on the stand does not withdraw, but by leave of the court may sit idle at the counsel table and watch as his client weaves a narrative. In refusing to participate, the lawyer upholds his duty as an officer of the court. Inquisitive jurors of course wonder what is happening, and in due course form their own opinions. It is usually a disaster. I tell her this.

I try to steady Talia. Calm her. I tell her that she is suffering a major case of judgment jitters.

Except for those so strung out on drugs that their brains are fried, every defendant gets these jitters as a verdict draws close. With Talia, this tension manifests itself in a need for control. She is desperate to help her own cause, paralyzed by the lack of mastery over her life.

We argue. I insist. I cannot put her on the stand. She has lied to the police about her alibi. I tell her that this would mark her as something less than trustworthy with the jury on every aspect of her testimony. With this revelation as a club, and three nails, I tell her, Nelson would nail her to the cross. He would break her back on cross-examination, inquiring into every aspect of her evening with Tod. Did they sleep together? Did they make love? It would not be a quantum leap in logic for Nelson to lead the jury to question whether Tod and Talia had not in fact teamed up to murder Ben.

“I don’t care,” she says. “I will tell them the truth. It was a mistake to lie to the police. Everybody’s entitled to one mistake.” There’s another cigarette between her fingers; the first, only half smoked, was crushed out less than a minute ago in the ashtray on my desk.

“If you testify,” I tell her, “they will convict you.” I muster all the authority possible in my eyes as I deliver this prediction. I don’t often engage in clairvoyance, but in this case I make an exception. Such is the certainty in my own mind on this point.

“What will they think if I don’t get up and testify on my own behalf? Friends have told them that I am trustworthy. What kind of person allows others to speak for her and refuses to say anything herself?”

“They will be instructed not to consider this,” I tell her, “told by the court that they may draw no inferences whatever from your silence.”

“And you expect them to accept this?” she says.

I won’t tarry with her on this point. She has the better side of the argument, and we both know it. So I play devil’s advocate.

“We have already talked about your alibi in the trial,” I say, “during Canard’s testimony.” I remind her how I pushed the detective on the details of her car, the capacity of its fuel tank, the fact that she may not have been sufficiently hungry to stop for a meal on her return from Vacaville. These were explanations as to why the cops couldn’t verify her trip that day.

“If we backtrack now,” I tell her, “there will be a clear trail, an unbridled implication of deceit.” My questions to Canard were sufficiently abstract not to be considered perjurious. But jurors might consider this beyond the bounds of good advocacy. They might see this line of inquiry for what it was, an exercise in misdirection. Jurors don’t like to be lied to or misled. They have been known, on more than one occasion, to punish defendants for such license taken by their lawyers.

“We have crossed this river of fire,” I tell her. “We cannot go back.”

Resignation is written in her eyes. She knows I am right. But for the first time I sense something more in her expression, something which has not been there before, a lack of confidence, not in herself, but in me. She is wondering if, in causing her to make this decision, I may have consigned her to prison for the balance of her life, or worse, she is wondering if perhaps I am condemning her to death.

Jo Ann Campanelli sparkles this morning. Decked out in a suit she’s probably not worn since leaving the firm, she is our last witness, here to provide the coup de grace, to turn the last screws in our case against Skarpellos.