“Mary! Mary!” someone called out, over the din.

“Order, order, I said!” Judge Gemmill was shouting. “Who is that, standing up in the gallery? Sit down, you! Sit down this very minute!” The judge gestured swiftly to the courtroom deputy, who rushed past the bar of court. Mary turned around to see what was going on. The gallery was talking, and every member was seated.

Except one.

Forty-Seven

It was Mrs. Nyquist, standing up from the middle of the gallery and raising her hand. Her blue eyes shone, her crow’s-feet deepened, and her mouth curved into that sweet smile. She stood barely unbended in the courtroom. Mary couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

“Mary!” Mrs. Nyquist called out, loudly enough to be heard. “May I speak to you for a minute, please?”

“Pardon me?” Judge Gemmill said, astounded. “What is going on here?” The courtroom burst into new chatter, everybody craning their necks to see the action, and Mary went out the bar of court and hurried down the aisle toward Mrs. Nyquist.

“What are you doing here?” Mary asked, mystified, and Mrs. Nyquist made her way out of the packed pew as if she were at a Saturday matinee. When she got to the end of the aisle, she handed Mary some papers.

“Take a look at this, dear,” she said, and Mary did.

“Ms. DiNunzio! Order! Deputy!” Judge Gemmill shouted, but Mary was armed with the papers and grabbed the deputy before he laid a hand on Mrs. Nyquist.

“Your Honor, I call Mrs. Helen Nyquist to the stand!”

“Objection! Objection!” Rovitch said, and the reporters scribbled away while the gallery kept talking.

Mary took the lectern. “Your Honor, Mrs. Nyquist has evidently come all the way from Butte, Montana to give testimony in this matter.”

“This witness wasn’t on the witness list,” Rovitch argued. “She shouldn’t be heard. Defendant wasn’t given proper notice.”

Mary appealed to the judge. “Your Honor, I had no idea Mrs. Nyquist would be appearing today. I listed all my known witnesses in my papers and even served defendant with a copy of the papers personally.”

“Served me?” Justin Saracone jumped to his feet again. “You hit me!”

“Mr. Rovitch, silence your client!” Judge Gemmill banged the gavel. “I will not have further outbursts in my courtroom! Order! Order!” Crak! “I will not have this disruption! Order! Everybody! Now!”

In the meantime, Mrs. Nyquist strode toward the witness box, and by the time the gallery had calmed down, she had seated herself quite comfortably, crossing her legs in her long denim skirt, which she wore with a light blue cotton sweater. Her short gray hair was shaped in the same cut Mary had seen that night in the farmhouse kitchen, with no concession to vanity.

Mary looked up at Judge Gemmill. “Your Honor, may I proceed? It’s well-established that Mrs. Nyquist didn’t have to be announced on my witness list, in this sort of expedited proceeding. It isn’t a trial, Your Honor, where those rules apply.”

Judge Gemmill looked from Mary to Mrs. Nyquist, then leaned toward the witness box. “You say Butte?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“I have a home in Bigfork.”

“Flathead Lake’s mighty pretty.”

“I’ll say.” Judge Gemmill banged the gavel and smiled. “Swear her in. Proceed, Ms. DiNunzio.”

“Thank you, Your Honor. Your Honor, may I get some copies of these documents for defendant and the Court?” Mary handed a law clerk the documents as Judge Gemmill nodded, and he disappeared out the pocket door while Mrs. Nyquist was sworn in. “Now Mrs. Nyquist, please tell the court where you were, from 1941 to 1943.”

“I was living in Missoula, Montana, with my late husband, who was camp adjutant at Fort Missoula during the war.” Mrs. Nyquist’s face softened, and Mary knew she had to tread carefully.

“Mrs. Nyquist -”

“Please, call me Helen.”

Mary smiled. “Thank you, Helen. Now, from 1941 to 1943, did you and your husband live on the internment camp grounds?”

“We did.”

“Helen, I would like to show you Movant’s Exhibit A, which is a photo taken at Fort Missoula during that time.” Mary leaned over to counsel table, retrieved her exhibit, and took it to the witness stand, where she gave it to Mrs. Nyquist. “May I ask you to identify the men in this photo?”

“I know only the two. The tall man in the cap, that’s Giovanni Saracone, and the shorter man in front, that’s Amadeo Brandolini.”

Mary felt her throat catch. Had Mrs. Nyquist lied before? “Helen, how did you come to know these men?”

“I used to work at the camp office during the week, filling in. My husband asked me to, so I did it for free, and I met them both.” Mrs. Nyquist blushed slightly, and Mary tried to read her. She had called Saracone a wolf. Had he gotten to her?

“Helen, please tell the Court why, if Mr. Saracone and Mr. Brandolini were internees of the camp, would they be in the camp office and not under guard?”

Mrs. Nyquist turned to the judge. “It wasn’t like that, they used to come and go freely, the Italians did. Giovanni – his nickname was Gio – was in our office all the time, flirting.” Mrs. Nyquist didn’t smile, but there was muffled laughter in the gallery, which she ignored. “Gio spoke very good English, so he was always dropping in, talking with the other girls, flashing his smile. Girls loved Gio.”

There was laughter again, and Justin was grinning as if he’d won something. But Mary was putting it together. It wasn’t Gio who had gotten to Mrs. Nyquist. If it had been, she wouldn’t be here today. “Helen, did Amadeo Brandolini come into the office, too?”

“Objection, relevance!” Rovitch barked, and Judge Gemmill didn’t bother to rule, but dismissed him with a wave.

“You were saying,” she said, and Mrs. Nyquist swallowed visibly.

“Amadeo came in sometimes.”

Amadeo.

“Gio would bring him in, and he would sort of tag along. He was very quiet, isolated from us, because his English wasn’t good. Still, he was a very smart man. He could fix most anything.” Mrs. Nyquist paused. “We tried to talk to him. He was the quiet type, and he got quieter after his wife died.”

“Back in Philadelphia, right?” Mary was starting to suspect that Theresa’s death wasn’t accidental either, but she couldn’t deal with that now. The law clerk returned with copies of the documents and handed them to Mary.

“Yes, we heard that.” Mrs. Nyquist looked down, her gray hair glinting in the overhead lights, and Mary sensed she didn’t need to go any further along this line.

“Helen, I show you the first of three documents you brought here today, which I am marking as Exhibit N-1, and I ask you to look it over while we all do.” Mary took Mrs. Nyquist the top page, then distributed one to Judge Gemmill, one to defense counsel, and an extra one to Justin himself. “Here, as a courtesy, Mr. Saracone.” Then Mary took the lectern without looking back.

Mrs. Nyquist finished reading the document, and looked up.

“Helen, what is the date on this document, Exhibit N-1?”

“It is dated July 1, 1942.”

“Thank you. Could you please read Exhibit N-1 to the court?”

“Certainly.” Mrs. Nyquist cleared her throat, and Mary looked down at the document. The paper felt soft under her fingerpads, yellowed and crinkly, and the typeface was the Smith Corona Courier she’d grown to love at the National Archives. The History Channel indeed; this case had a beating heart. As Mrs. Nyquist read the document into the record, Mary read it to herself.