'You have a witness for us, counselor?' Judge Weisman asked Michael.

'Yes, your Honor,' Michael said.

'Let's get to it then,' Judge Weisman said.

'Your Honor,' Michael said. 'The prosecution would like to call Ralph Ferguson to the stand.'

I took a deep breath and turned to my right, looking at Ferguson as he walked down the center aisle of the court room. Twelve years had passed, but I still recognized the sound of his walk and the slight, feminine manner in which he moved his shoulders. He had gained some weight and lost some hair and appeared uncomfortable in his baggy blue blazer.

The last time I saw Ralph Ferguson I was tied up in my cell, my mouth taped shut, Sean Nokes holding me down, watching him rape and beat one of my friends. It was a night of terror that Ferguson probably dismissed soon after it happened. It is a night that, for me, has never ended.

Michael kept his head down as Ferguson walked past, heading for the stand to be sworn in by the bailiff. Michael and Ferguson had not yet met. He had another attorney in his office handle Ferguson's deposition and the initial Q & A, not wanting to tip his hand before he and O'Connor were to question the former guard in open court.

Ralph Ferguson and Sean Nokes had remained friends beyond their years at Wilkinson. They spent vacations together hunting deer in upstate woods and long weekends in a rented cabin by a lake fishing for bass. They drank beer and whiskey, talked about old times and made plans for the future. They hoped one day to go in as partners on a bait and tackle shop in central New Hampshire.

The unhappily married Nokes often visited the happily married Ferguson and his wife, Sally, staying in the spare room in the small tract house they owned in the Long Island town of Freeport. Ferguson had been best man at Nokes' first wedding, a union that had lasted less than a year. Nokes was godfather to Ferguson's only child, his four-year-old daughter, Shelley Marie.

On the surface, Ralph Ferguson was a model citizen. Pee-Wee soccer coach. A dedicated employee who never missed a day and helped organize company parties. He even handled the Sunday collections at his church.

A perfect character witness.

Ferguson fidgeted on the stand, too nervous to focus his attention on Michael, gazing instead at the faces of the jury and the spectators.

John and Tommy sat quietly, staring at him with open contempt.

'Doesn't look so tough up there, does he?' I whispered to Carol.

'Nobody does,' she said.

'He looks like anybody,' I said. 'No one would ever know he did the things he did.'

'Sit tight, sweetheart,' Carol said, slowly rubbing my arm. 'They're gonna know today. Everybody's gonna know. Saint Ferguson is about to fall on his ass.'

'Good morning, Mr. Ferguson,' Michael said, buttoning his jacket and standing on the far side of the witness stand. 'I'd like to thank you for coming. I realize it's a long trip for you.'

'I'm sorry I had to do it,' Ferguson said. 'I'm sorry it had to be for something like this.'

'I understand,' Michael said, his voice coated with sympathy. 'You and the victim, Sean Nokes, were good friends. Is that right?'

'We were great friends, yeah,' Ferguson said. 'The best. You'd have to look hard to find a better friend.'

'How long did you two know each other?'

'About fourteen years,' Ferguson said.

'How often did you see each other?'

'We got together as much as we could,' Ferguson said. 'I'd say about ten, maybe twelve times a year. On weekends, holidays, vacations. Things like that.'

'Would you say you were his best friend?'

'His closest, that's for sure,' Ferguson said. 'We could talk to each other, you know. Talk about things that only good friends talk about.'

'What sort of things?' Michael asked, walking past the defense table, his head down.

'Normal stuff,' Ferguson said, shrugging. 'Women sometimes, sports during football season, our jobs all the time. Nothin' you would call deep. Just talk. Plain talk between friends.'

'What kind of man was Sean Nokes?' Michael asked.

'He was a good man,' Ferguson said. 'Too good to be shot dead by a couple of street punks.'

'Objection, your Honor,' O'Connor said, standing. 'Statement is one of opinion, not fact.'

'He was asked his opinion,' Michael said.

'Overruled,' Judge Weisman said. 'Please continue.'

'When you say Sean Nokes was a good man, how do you mean that?' Michael asked, moving closer to the witness stand. 'Did he give money to charities, adopt stray pets, shelter the homeless? Tell us, please, Mr. Ferguson, how Sean Nokes was a good man.'

'Nothing like that,' Ferguson said, a smile creasing his nervous exterior. 'Sean just cared about you. If you were his friend, there's nothing he wouldn't do for you. I really mean that. There was nothing.'

'Did he have any enemies you were aware of?'

'You mean, other than the two who killed him?' Ferguson asked.

'Yes,' Michael said with a smile. 'Any enemies other than the two who killed him?'

'No,' Ralph Ferguson said. 'Sean Nokes had no enemies.'

'Thank you, Mr. Ferguson,' Michael said, turning his back to the stand. 'I have no further questions, your Honor.'

'Mr. O'Connor,' Judge Weisman said. 'He's your witness.'

'Can you tell us how you and Sean Nokes first met, Mr. Ferguson?' O'Connor asked, sitting in his chair, elbows on the defense table.

'We worked on a job together upstate,' Ferguson said.

'As what?'

'We were guards at the Wilkinson Home for Boys,' Ferguson said.

'What is that?' O'Connor asked. 'A prison?'

'No,' Ferguson said. 'It's a juvenile facility for young boys.'

'Young boys who have broken the law,' O'Connor said. 'Is that correct?'

'Yes, that's correct,' Ferguson said.

'And your function was what?'

'Standard stuff,' Ferguson said. 'Keep the boys in line, see they got to their classes on time, keep an eye out for trouble, put them down for the night. Nothing exciting.'

'As guards, were you and Mr. Nokes allowed to use force to, as you say, keep the boys in line?' O'Connor asked, pushing his chair back and standing by the side of his desk.

'What do you mean, force?' Ferguson asked, looking over at Michael.

'I mean, were you allowed to hit them?'

'No, of course not,' Ferguson said.

'Were any of the boys hit by any of the guards?'

O'Connor asked, walking around his desk, arms folded at his chest. 'At any time?'

'I'm sure something like that may have happened,' Ferguson said, sweat starting to form around his neck. 'It was a big place. But it wasn't a common practice.'

'Let's narrow the place down, then,' Ferguson said. 'Did you or Mr. Nokes ever hit any of the boys under your care at the Wilkinson Home?'

Both Judge Weisman and Ferguson stared at Michael, waiting for the obvious objection to the question.

Michael sat at his desk and kept his eyes on Ferguson, not moving.

John and Tommy turned and gave Michael a quick glance, one filled with curiosity and confusion.

'Would you like me to repeat the question, Mr. Ferguson?' O'Connor asked, walking toward the witness stand.

'No,' Ferguson said.

'Then answer it,' O'Connor said. 'And remember you're under oath.'

'Yes,' Ferguson said. 'A few of the boys we considered to be discipline problems were hit. On occasion.'

'And these discipline problems, how were they hit?' O'Connor asked.

'What do you mean how?' Ferguson asked.

'Fist, open hand, a kick,' O'Connor said. 'A baton, maybe. What was the best way, Mr. Ferguson, to calm a discipline problem?'

'It depended on what the situation called for,' Ferguson said.