Jack briefly glanced over at Miguel. "What's the date?"

"June ninth at one thirty. What do you think?"

Jack chuckled. "What am I supposed to think? It seems a long time off now that we have finally decided to go through with it. I was kind of thinking about next Tuesday."

Laurie laughed. The sound was muffled by her plastic face screen, which briefly fogged up. "That's a sweet thing to say. But the reality is that my mother has always anticipated a June wedding. I personally think June is a great month because the weather should be good, not only for the wedding but also for a honeymoon."

"Then it's okay with me," Jack said, casting a second quick look in Miguel's direction. It was bothering him that Miguel was just standing there, not moving and obviously listening.

"There is only one problem. June is so popular for weddings that the Riverside Church is already booked for all the Saturdays in the month. Can you imagine, eight months in advance. Anyway, June ninth is a Friday. Does that bother you?"

"Friday, Saturday – it doesn't matter to me. I'm easy."

"Fabulous. Actually, I'd prefer Saturday because it's traditional and easier for guests, but the reality is that the option's not available."

"Hey, Miguel!" Jack called. "How about finishing with those intestines. Let's not make it your life's work."

"I'm all done, Dr. Stapleton. I'm just waiting for you to come on over and take a peek."

"Oh!" Jack said simply, mildly embarrassed for assuming the tech was eavesdropping. Then to Laurie he said, "Sorry, but I have to keep this show on the road."

"No problem," Laurie said. She trailed after him over to the sink.

Miguel handed over the intestines, which had been opened throughout their length and then thoroughly rinsed to expose the mucosal surface.

"There's something else I found out today," Laurie said. "And I wanted to share it with you."

"Go ahead," Jack said as he methodically began to examine the digestive system, starting from the esophagus and working southward.

"You know, I've never felt particularly comfortable in your apartment, mainly because the building is a pigsty." Jack lived in a fourth-floor walk-up unit in a dilapidated building on 106th Street just opposite the neighborhood playground he had paid to have completely reconditioned. Stemming from a persistent belief that he didn't deserve to be comfortable, he lived significantly below his means. Laurie's presence, however, had altered the equation.

"I don't mean to hurt your feelings about this," Laurie continued. "But with the wedding coming up, we have to give some thought to our living situation. So I took the liberty of looking into who actually owns the property, which the supposed management company where you send your checks was reluctant to divulge. Anyway, I found out who owns it and contacted them to see if they would be interested in selling. Guess what? They are, as long as it's purchased in its 'as is' condition. I think that raises some interesting possibilities. What do you think?"

Jack had stopped examining the guts in his hands as Laurie spoke, and he now turned to her. "Wedding plans over the autopsy table, and now hearth-and-home issues over the intestinal sink. Don't you think this might not be the best place for this discussion?"

"I just learned about this minutes ago, and I was excited to tell you so you could start mulling it over."

"Terrific," Jack said, suppressing an almost irresistible urge to be more sarcastic. " Mission accomplished. But what do you say to the idea we discuss buying and, I assume, renovating a house over a glass of wine and an arugula salad in a slightly more appropriate setting?"

"That's a marvelous idea," Laurie said happily. "See you back at the apartment."

With that said, Laurie turned on her heels and was gone.

Jack continued to stare at the door to the hall for several beats after it had closed behind her.

"It's great you guys are getting married," Miguel said to break the silence.

"Thank you. It's not a secret, but it's not common knowledge, either. I hope you can respect that."

"No problem, Dr. Stapleton. But I have to tell you from experience that getting married changes everything."

"How right you are," Jack said. He knew that from experience as well.

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"All rise," the uniformed court officer called out as he emerged from the judge's chambers. He was holding a white staff. Directly behind the bailiff appeared the judge, swathed in flowing black robes. He was a heavyset African American with pendulous jowls, graying, kinky hair, and a mustache. His dark, intense eyes cast a quick glance around his fiefdom as he mounted the two steps up to the bench with a forceful, deliberate gait. Reaching his chair, he turned to face the room, framed by the American flag to his right and the Massachusetts state flag to his left, both capped by eagles. With a reputation of fairness and sound knowledge of the law, but a quick temper, he was the embodiment of steadfast authority. Enhancing his stature, a concentrated band of bright morning sunlight penetrated the edge of the shades that were pulled down over the metal mullioned windows and cascaded over his head and shoulders, giving his outline a golden glow like that of a pagan god in a classical painting.

"Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye," the court officer continued in his baritone, Boston-accented voice. "All persons having anything to do before the honorable justices of the Superior Court now sitting at Boston and in the County of Suffolk draw near, give your attendance, and you shall be heard. God save the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. Be seated!"

Reminiscent of the effect of the conclusion of the national anthem at a sporting event, the bailiff's final command initiated a murmur of voices as everyone in Courtroom 314 took their seats. While the judge rearranged the papers and water pitcher before him, the clerk sitting at a desk directly below the bench called out, "The estate of Patience Stanhope et al. versus Dr. Craig Bowman. The Honorable Justice Marvin Davidson presiding."

With a studied motion, the judge snapped open an eyeglasses case and slipped on his rimless reading spectacles, positioning them low on his nose. He then looked over the tops at the plaintiff's table and said, "Will counsels identify themselves for the record." In contrast to the bailiff, he had no accent, and his voice was in the bass range.

"Anthony Fasano, Your Honor," the plaintiff's attorney said quickly with an accent not too dissimilar to the bailiff's as he rose from his chair to a half-standing position as if supporting a heavy weight on his shoulders. "But most people call me Tony." He gestured first to his right. "I'm here on behalf of the plaintiff, Mr. Jordan Stanhope." He then gestured to his left. "Next to me is my able colleague, Ms. Renee Relf." He then quickly regained his seat as if he was too shy to be in the spotlight.

Judge Davidson's eyes moved laterally to the defense table.

"Randolph Bingham, Your Honor," the defense attorney said. In contrast to the plaintiff's attorney, he spoke slowly, emphasizing each syllable in a mellifluous voice. "I'm representing Dr. Craig Bowman, and I'm accompanied by Mr. Mark Cavendish."

"And I can assume you people are ready to get under way," Judge Davidson said.

Tony merely nodded in assent, whereas Randolph again rose to his feet. "There are some housekeeping motions before the court," he said.