'Excuse me?'

'A man named Harlan Perioux was indicted in Oklahoma for procuring and corrupting teenage boys for that website – tell us please, under oath – is there something you know about it?'

'I don't have to answer that.'

Brian smiles a lazy smile. He lifts some documents off his table, and hoists them into the air. 'I have exhibits showing that you, Oliver Goosens, previously went by the name of Harlan Perioux.' A sharp murmur breaks through the court. 'I put it to you, Doctor, that five years ago you were indicted under that name, on four charges relating to the corruption of boys for your pornographic website.'

'Charges were never proven.'

'And I further suggest to you, Doctor, that you own and operate that site still, under the name Serenade of Sodom.'

Somebody in the back stifles a snort of laughter. The judge scowls.

'Am I right, Doctor?' Brian says it slow and clear. 'Yes – or – no?'

Goosens's eyes jackrabbit to the judge. He nods for him to answer.

'No. Not entirely, no.'

'My last question: is it true you also treated Jesus Navarro Rosario, around the time of the school tragedy, in May this year?'

Goosens's eyes fall to the floor.

'And that you presented him with these ladies' undergarments, a charge for the purchase of which has been traced to your credit-card?'

Brian holds up a plastic bag. Inside are the panties Jesus wore on his last day alive.

twenty

I sit on a jail toilet feeling a little hopeful, to be frank, just letting my worldly pressures crackle through my lower tract. I know I shouldn't say it, but exercising your tract is one of the greatest hits, boy. It's another thing you're never taught about life. In fact, it not only doesn't get taught, but they teach you the opposite, like it's the Devil's Work or something. It's like my mom invented all the damn rules of the world, when you think about it.

But I don't think about it at all. It's morning, and the air in the shade has that hazy, wet crispness you get in winter. I have some time before they load me into the wagon for the trip back to court, so I hang here in the bathrooms nearest to the prison yard. I even have a Camel to smoke, a brand-spanking-new Camel Filter, from Detiveaux, who's on trial for grand theft. He's feeling generous on account of his girlfriend brought their new baby to visit. I told him the kid looks just like him, which it kind of does, even though it's a girl. Now here's me sucking wads of blue smoke, and trying to ash between my legs without burning my reproductive apparatus. All my troubles jump out of my tract like rats from an airplane, and I just get lighter and clearer every second. Making plans like crazy. Tracts, boy, damn.

The journey into court is gray and regular. From the make-up room, I hear helicopters thumping over the courthouse, in case I escape, or something. Ha. Like: yeah, right. They wish I'd escape, just so's they can avoid the hard core of regret they have coming when my innocence struts out. They're going to have to eat that ole dish cold. I sit stiff with this kind of righteous optimism during make-up today, eating fries. They must whiff that ole truth around the corner, to suddenly feed me fries. Only problem is they cuff me extra-tight for the walk to my cage, and I have to hunch my shoulder up to my cheek, where I smeared ketchup. As I try to clean the ketchup, I watch a shaft of sunlight swivel slowly over the courtroom floor, until the witness stand is lit up like Mount Sinai. The sound of tattered leather scuffles up the stairs towards the back. Without even looking, you know it's Mom, leaving. She gets her picture took arriving each morning, but she can't handle the guts of the day. Pam'll be outside in the Mercury, both feet on the pedals.

The judge arrives, nods to everybody, and I sit back to watch my Fate played out before me.

'The State calls Taylor Figueroa.'

Taylor steps through the crowd in a gray business suit with short skirt. She throws back her hair, fixes the cameras with a girl-next-door smile, then stands tall like a majorette to take her oath. Goodness but she's pretty. A taste crawls through me of how things could have been. I kill it.

'Ms Figueroa,' says the prosecutor, 'please state your age and occupation.'

Taylor bites her lip, like she's thinking about it. When she speaks, her inflection rises, then dips, then rises again at the end, like a car changing gear. The school smell effect.

'I just turned nineteen, and like, I was a student, but now I'm kind of, trying out for a career in media.'

The prosecutor nods sympathetically, then frowns. 'I don't want to cause undue distress, but you'll appreciate these proceedings demand that some delicate questions be asked – please, hold up a hand if this becomes too uncomfortable.'

Taylor scrapes a tooth over her lip. 'It's okay, whatever.'

'You're very brave.' The prosecutor hangs his head. 'Ms Figueroa – have you ever been – stalked?'

'Stalked?'

'That is, has a disproportionate interest ever been shown toward you by a stranger, or a casual acquiantance?'

'I guess so, yeah, one guy.'

'What made you think this person's interest was unusual?'

'Well like, he just turned up out of the blue, and started confessing to all these crimes and whatever.'

'Had you known him previously?'

'Uh-huh, kind of, I mean – I think I saw him outside a party once.'

'Outside a party?'

'Yeah, like, he wasn't invited or anything.'

'Was anyone else outside this – party?'

'No.'

The prosecutor nods at the floor. 'So – this person was alone, outside a party he couldn't attend. And he talked to you?'

'Uh-huh. He helped me into the back of this car.'

'He helped you into the back of a car? What happened next?'

'Like, my best friend turned up, from inside the party or whatever, and this guy went away.'

My eyes move over the jury members, revising their age up to where they all have daughters like Taylor. Their eyebrows show a new slant.

The prosecutor waits for it all to sink in. Then he asks, 'So where did you next see this person?'

'In Houston.'

'Did he reside in Houston, or in Harris County somewhere?'

'No. He was on his way to, like – Mexico.'

'From where?'

'Martirio.'

The prosecutor shoots a meaningful glare at the jury. 'Martirio to Mexico via Houston is quite a detour.'

'Yeah, like, I couldn't believe it, he just came to see me, and he confessed to all this stuff and whatever…'

'And then what happened?'

'My cousin turned up, and he ran away.'

Taylor drops her head now, and everybody holds their breath, in case she cries or something. She doesn't though. The prosecutor waits till he's sure she ain't, then he lets go the cannonball. 'Do you see that person in the courtroom?'

Taylor doesn't lift her head, she just points at my cage. I lower my face to try and snag her gaze, but it's glued to her shoes. The prosecutor tightens his lips, and launches himself, business-like, into nailing the rest of my cross.

'Let the record show that the witness has identified the defendant, Vernon Gregory Little. Ms Figueroa, you will have heard the defense claim that Vernon Little was in Mexico at the time of the most recent murders. They say you knew he was there. Did you know he was there?'

'Well, like – he was there when I arrived.'

'How long can you definitely say the defendant was in Mexico?'

'Three hours maybe, tops.'

'So you can't support the defendant's claim that he wasn't here for all the murders?'

'I guess not.'

The prosecutor moves to the witness box, rests one arm on the railing, and smiles caringly at Taylor. 'It's nearly over,' he says softly. 'Just tell us, in your own time – what transpired during those hours in Mexico?'