“Sergeant Givens, remove the defendant.”

“It’s a case of police brutality!” Rollo yelled as the bailiff hauled him to his feet. “Hey, you people in the jury, are you stupid? Can’t you see this is all made-up shit? These two cops kicked me down the fucking stairwell!”

The gavel slammed down. “Let’s take a recess. Please escort the jurors out.”

“Oh yeah! Let’s take a recess!” Rollo laughed and shoved away the bailiff. “Just when they’re finally hearing the truth!”

“Get him out of here, Sergeant Givens.”

Givens grabbed Rollo’s arm. Enraged, Rollo twisted around and charged, his head thudding into the bailiff’s belly. They both slammed to the floor and began to grapple. Victoria Quinlan stared, openmouthed, as her client and the bailiff flopped around just inches from her high-heeled Manolo Blahniks.

Ah, Jesus. Someone’s gotta take control of this mess.

Jane heaved herself out of the chair. Shoving aside the stunned Quinlan, Jane snatched up the bailiff’s handcuffs, which he’d dropped on the floor in the confusion.

“Assistance!” yelled the judge, banging on his gavel. “We need another bailiff in here!”

Sergeant Givens was lying on his back now, pinned beneath Rollo, who was just raising his right fist to deliver a blow. Jane grabbed Rollo’s raised wrist and snapped on one of the cuffs.

“What the fuck?” Rollo said.

Jane rammed her foot into his back, twisted his arm behind him, and shoved him down against the bailiff. Another click, and the second cuff closed around Rollo’s left wrist.

“Get off me, you fucking cow!” Rollo screamed. “You’re breaking my back!”

Sergeant Givens, trapped at the bottom of the pileup, looked like he was about to suffocate beneath the weight.

Jane took her foot off Rollo’s back. Suddenly a gush of hot liquid flooded from between her legs, splashing down onto Rollo, onto Givens. She stumbled backward and looked down in shock at her soaked maternity dress. At the fluid dripping from her thighs onto the courtroom floor.

Rollo twisted onto his side and stared up at her. Suddenly he laughed. He couldn’t stop laughing as he rolled onto his back. “Hey,” he said. “Look at that! The bitch just peed in her dress!”

Maura was stopped at a traffic light in Brookline Village when Abe Bristol rang her on her cell phone. “Did you watch TV this morning?” he asked.

“Don’t tell me the story’s already made the news.”

“Channel six. Reporter’s name is Zoe Fossey. Did you speak to her?”

“Only briefly last night. What did she say?”

“In a nutshell? ‘Woman found alive in body bag. Medical examiner blames the Weymouth Fire Department and state police for misdiagnosing death.”

“Oh Jesus. I never said that.”

“I know you didn’t. But now we’ve got a pissed-off fire chief down in Weymouth, and the state police aren’t too happy either. Louise is already fielding calls from them.”

The traffic light turned green. As she drove through the intersection, she suddenly wished she could turn around and go home. Wished she could avoid the ordeal to come.

“Are you at the office?” she asked.

“I got in at seven. Thought you’d be here by now.”

“I’m in my car. I needed a few extra hours this morning to prepare that statement.”

“Well, I’ve gotta warn you, when you get here, you’re going to get ambushed in the parking lot.”

“They’re hanging around out there?”

“Reporters, TV vans. They’re parked on Albany Street. Running back and forth between our building and the hospital.”

“How convenient for them. One-stop shopping for the press.”

“Have you heard anything more about the patient?”

“I called Dr. Cutler this morning. He said the patient’s tox screen came back positive for barbiturates and alcohol. She must’ve been pretty loaded.”

“That probably explains why she took a tumble into the water. And with barbs on board, no wonder they had trouble finding her vital signs.”

“Why is this turning into such a feeding frenzy?”

“Because it’s prime National Enquirer stuff. The dead rising from the grave. Plus, she’s a young woman, isn’t she?”

“I’d say she’s in her twenties.”

“And attractive?”

“What difference does it make?”

“Come on.” Abe laughed. “You know it makes a difference.”

Maura sighed. “Yes,” she admitted. “She’s very attractive.”

“Yeah, well, there you go. Young, sexy, and almost sliced open alive.”

“She wasn’t.”

“I’m just warning you, that’s how the public’s going to see it.”

“Can’t I just call in sick today? Maybe catch the next flight to Bermuda?”

“And leave me with this mess? Don’t you dare.”

When she turned onto Albany Street twenty minutes later, she spotted two TV vans parked near the front entrance of the ME’s building. As Abe had warned her, reporters were poised to pounce. She stepped out of her air-conditioned Lexus, into a morning already thick with humidity, and half a dozen reporters scurried toward her.

“Dr. Isles!” a man called out. “I’m from the BostonTribune. Could I have a few words with you about Jane Doe?”

In response, Maura reached into her briefcase and pulled out copies of what she had composed that morning. It was a matter-of-fact summary of the night’s events, and how she had responded. Briskly she handed out copies. “This is my statement,” she said. “I have nothing else to add.”

It did not stop the flood of questions.

“How can anyone make a mistake like this?”

“Do we know the woman’s name yet?”

“We’re told that Weymouth Fire Department made the determination of death. Can you name names?”

Maura said, “You’ll have to talk to their spokesperson. I can’t answer for them.”

Now a woman spoke up. “You have to admit, Dr. Isles, that this is a clear case of incompetence on someone’s part.”

Maura recognized that voice. She turned and saw a blond woman who’d pushed her way to the front of the pack. “You’re that reporter from channel six.”

“Zoe Fossey.” The woman started to smile, gratified to be recognized, but the look Maura gave her instantly froze that smile to stone.

“You misquoted me,” said Maura. “I never said I blamed the fire department or the state police.”

“Someone must be at fault. If not them, then who? Are you responsible, Dr. Isles?”

“Absolutely not.”

“A woman was zipped into a body bag, still alive. She was trapped in the morgue refrigerator for eight hours. And it’s nobody’s fault?” Fossey paused. “Don’t you think someone should lose their job over this? Say, that state police investigator?”

“You’re certainly quick to assign blame.”

“That mistake could have killed a woman.”

“But it didn’t.”

“Isn’t this a pretty basic error?” Fossey laughed. “I mean, how hard can it be to tell that someone’s not dead?”

“Harder than you’d think,” Maura shot back.

“So you’re defending them.”

“I gave you my statement. I can’t comment on the actions of anyone else.”

“Dr. Isles?” It was the man from the Boston Tribune again. “You said that determining death isn’t necessarily easy. I know there’ve been similar mistakes made in other morgues around the country. Could you educate us as to why it’s sometimes difficult?” He spoke with quiet respect. Not a challenge, but a thoughtful question that deserved an answer.

She regarded the man for a moment. Saw intelligent eyes and windblown hair and a trim beard that made her think of a youthful college professor. Those dark good looks would surely inspire countless coed crushes. “What’s your name?” she said.

“Peter Lukas. I write a weekly column for the Tribune.”

“I’ll talk to you, Mr. Lukas. And only you. Come inside.”

“Wait,” Fossey protested. “Some of us have been waiting around out here a lot longer.”