“Did Mr. Potter give you any instructions regarding this second letter?”

“He told me to postdate it.”

“Could you explain for the jury?”

“He wanted me to date the letter two days later than the actual date that I typed it and then to give it to him.”

“Did Mr. Potter tell you why he wanted you to do this, to postdate the letter?”

“Objection, hearsay.” Nelson’s back up. “And don’t tell me this is state of mind.”

I shrug a little concession his way. “You caught me, what can I say.”

A little lighthearted laughter from the box. It won’t take a mental giant or a Ouija board to figure out why Ben would do this, other than to give the Greek time to gather the money and meet the forty-eight-hour deadline imposed in the first letter. It is the picture of a partner doing all he could to save a friend from his own demons.

“Did you ever see this letter, the one to the bar, again?”

“No. I typed it and gave it to Mr. Potter.”

“So you don’t know whether he had a chance to mail it”-I pause for a little effect-“before he was murdered?”

“No,” she says.

I look to the box. The jury has gotten the point.

Before I leave her, I have Jo Ann identify Ben’s will, her signature as a witness at the bottom. Strangely Nelson makes not even an effort at any objection on this. I suppose that since the Greek has admitted in open court that he was aware of the terms of this document, and his interest in Ben’s estate, there is little to be gained in Nelson’s mind by keeping the document itself out of evidence. It goes in without a hitch. One of the foibles of trial law. Problems never develop where you expect them.

“Your witness,” I say.

There are no surprises here. In his approach to Jo Ann, Nelson is entirely predictable.

“Mrs. Campelli,” he butchers her name.

“Campanelli,” she says.

“Excuse me. Mrs. Campanelli. Isn’t it true that you were fired by the Potter, Skarpellos firm for acts of insubordination?”

“No,” she says, “that is not true.”

“Isn’t it a fact that you were making inquiries into confidential client matters in the firm that you knew you had no business knowing about, that you had been instructed not to involve yourself in these, and that you were fired for that reason?”

“No,” she says, “I was fired after I asked questions about the client trust account. After Mr. Potter was killed, I went to one of the partners about this. I was never told why I was fired. You can draw your own conclusions.”

Nelson is not having his way with her.

“Isn’t it true that after you were fired, you harbored a deep hatred for Anthony Skarpellos?”

“I wouldn’t call it hatred,” she says. “It was more like contempt.”

There’s some snickering in the jury box.

“Fine, you harbored contempt for Mr. Skarpellos. Tell me,” he says, “didn’t this contempt play just a little role in your testimony here today?”

“I testified truthfully,” she says, “to every question.” There is a perfect look of righteous indignation about her, the kind that only older women can project well.

“Come now,” he says, “you’re not going to sit there and tell us that you didn’t enjoy saying some of the things you did today about Mr. Skarpellos?”

“I enjoy telling the truth,” she says.

“Tell me, Mrs. Campanelli, if this information, your testimony, was so important, why didn’t you go to the police with it immediately after Mr. Potter was killed?”

“I,” she stumbles here a little, “didn’t think I had enough evidence.”

“I see. You didn’t think this testimony was worth anything until Mr. Madriani approached you and told you he needed it for his defense, is that it?”

“No,” she says.

“But he did come to you, didn’t he?”

“Yes.” The indignation is gone now. Nelson is beginning to burrow in.

“Let’s talk about these letters,” he says. “There were two of them, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have copies of them?”

“No.”

“Well, you’re a secretary, don’t you usually keep copies of correspondence you prepare? Don’t you usually file it somewhere?”

“These were confidential letters,” she says. “They were highly personal. They were not filed in the usual manner.”

“I see, so Mr. Potter trusted you to type these letters, but he didn’t trust you enough to keep copies of them?”

He’s pummeling her now. Jo Ann is looking at him, meanness in her eyes. There is no way she can answer the question-like asking whether she still beats her husband.

“Isn’t it a fact,” he says, “that you never heard any argument between Mr. Potter and Mr. Skarpellos, about trust accounts or anything else?”

“That’s not true …”

“Isn’t it a fact that you concocted this entire story to provide Mr. Madriani with a defense and to get back at Mr. Skarpellos, who fired you?”

“Was he the one?” she says.

Nelson looks at her, taken aback for a moment.

“They never told me who did it,” she says. “They didn’t have the guts.”

Nelson has left himself open for this one. I don’t know whether the jury is buying it, but Jo is playing it for all it is worth.

“If I’d known, I would have been here sooner,” she says. “But my testimony would have been the same.” Her neck is bowed, like a rooster in a cock fight. She looks him dead in the eye. And after several seconds it is Nelson who blinks, then finally looks away.

No, I think, this will not come off as sour grapes.

After the morning break, Acosta asks me if the defense has any more witnesses. I have left them in the dark about Talia’s intentions, whether she will take the stand or not.

“Your Honor.” I rise from behind the counsel table, and I look down at my client with a purposeful gaze, as if pondering at this last moment what to do, whether to put Talia up or not.

“Considering the evidence, Your Honor, I see little purpose in subjecting Mrs. Potter to any more trauma. She’s been through a great deal. We have decided that in light of the state’s case we see no purpose whatever to be served in putting her on the stand.”

I make this look like some last-minute decision, something that I have landed on on the spur of the moment, grounded on the weakness of the state’s case.

Nelson is looking at me dumbfounded. These comments are highly improper, except that in a death case everything is fair game.

“Your Honor,” he says. “I object.”

“To what? My client not taking the stand? That is her privilege. The burden is on you to prove your case,” I say, “and you have failed.”

At this his eyes nearly bulge from his head.

“No,” he says, “I object to these gratuitous comments. The justifications for why he won’t put his client on the stand.” He’s imploring Acosta.

“The state is not permitted to comment in this area,” I tell Acosta. “Mr. Nelson is asking for a mistrial.” Having goaded him, I now complain about Nelson’s response.

Acosta is banging his gavel, telling us both to be quiet.

“That will be enough,” he says. “The defendant has chosen not to testify. That is her right. I instruct the jury to disregard all of the comments of both counsel. These are not evidence and are not to be considered by you in arriving at your verdict.”

Some trial lawyers call this cautionary instruction “the green-striped zebra rule.” A jury told that it may think of anything, anything in the world, except a green zebra, will of course envision, to the exclusion of all other objects in the universe, a green-striped zebra. It is not so easy for Acosta to kill this seed I have planted. Jurors now at least have a plausible explanation for Talia’s silence, one they have been told not to consider, so of course they will, not collectively, but in the dark recesses of their individual consciousnesses. It is at least an explanation, something to counter the natural inclination that only the guilty remain silent.

“Mr. Madriani, do you have any further witnesses?”