Hardy noticed that the court reporter was indeed taking this down.

'Yes, your honor.'

'Please don't say another word. This is a one-way communication. I wanted to make it explicitly clear to you that any outburst such as your display at the arraignment on this matter won't be tolerated in my courtroom. Any such outburst will get you fined, and if it's serious enough I'll put you in jail for contempt. If you think I'm kidding, we can find out real quick. I have not invited the prosecutor here since I did not think it necessary to admonish you in front of him. This is the very last latitude I will give you.'

'Yes, sir,' Hardy said.

Hill nodded, an expectation confirmed. 'Here's a word about precision, Mr Hardy. I told you not to speak to me again and you just did. Further, I don't know how long you've been practicing law, but a judge is "your honor", not "sir". I'll see you in the courtroom.'

Hardy, his blood running hot, started to say 'Yes, your honor' but caught himself in time. The bailiff nudged him out of his shock, and he turned and left the judge's chambers.

'You look like you just saw a ghost,' Freeman said.

Hardy's legs would not hold him as he got to the defense table, so he sank into his chair and reached for the beaded pitcher to pour himself a glass of water. His hands were shaking in a palsy of rage.

Freeman reached over and covered one of Hardy's hands with his own gnarled one. 'Diz?' With his other hand, he poured a glassful and slid it over. 'Talk to me. What happened?'

Still unable to speak, Hardy's breath was ragged and came in deep through his nose. A muscle worked in his jaw. His eyes rested on a fixed point somewhere in front of him. Eventually, he saw the glass of water and drew it nearer, but did not pick it up.

'Hear ye, hear ye! The Superior Court, State of California, in and for the County of San Francisco, is now in session, Judge Timothy Hill presiding. All rise.'

Pratt had come in and joined Torrey and his young assistant at the prosecution table. Hardy glanced across at her – an elegant, statuesque carriage in a dark blue business suit – and thought he detected an almost gloating confidence. For an instant he wondered if she'd fixed things with Hill somehow, put the bug in his ear to reprimand him so humiliatingly. No more than ten minutes had passed since he'd re-entered the courtroom, and he still felt physically sick with spent adrenaline. And certainly he felt totally inadequate to muster any kind of rational argument.

In normal circumstances, he might have called for an immediate recess citing the call of nature, but here he knew he didn't dare. His relationship with the judge was bad enough already. If Hardy did anything to antagonize Hill any further, he risked being charged with contempt, and any hope of making headway would be dashed before he'd begun.

Watching the Cadaver take the bench, he wondered anew about his benighted, misguided strategy, marveling at how badly he'd misjudged the situation: reasoning that Hill's anger would be a 'little hump' to get over in the first minutes of the trial. Now it loomed as an impenetrable, unscalable escarpment. And he had based all on this 'reasonable man', this fair-minded jurist. Now where would be all the judicial leeway he'd expected on so many critical issues? What were the odds of even getting past the videotape of the confession?

But there was nothing to be done at this point. They were here, committed.

At his side, Cole nudged him and whispered, 'Patton.' His client was obviously reading his thoughts, which meant that he was telegraphing them. A bad sign to go with his bad feeling, but the advice was well taken. He forced himself to summon some of the general's fortitude or control, to direct his anger and despair into something constructive.

Hill got himself settled, rearranging his robes. He greeted his clerk with a familiar if stilted geniality, then asked him to call the case. Hardy listened with half an ear as the Cadaver arranged some paper in front of him, swept his eyes around his courtroom. When they got to Hardy, there was not the slightest sign of animus – no momentary squint or pursing of his lips. It was as though their exchange had never taken place. And then the clerk had finished and the judge was talking. 'Mr Hardy, Mr Freeman. Good morning. Ms Pratt, Mr Torrey. Are the people ready to proceed?'

Torrey stood up. 'We are, your honor, but if it please the court, sidebar?'

Hill frowned deeply, shook his head in apparent disgust, and sighed. 'All right,' he said at last. He motioned with one hand. 'Counsel will approach.'

Hardy's legs held him as he stood – a blessing. He and Torrey got to the bench at the same time and looked up at the judge, who was still scowling. 'What is it, Mr Torrey?'

'Your honor, with all respect, you just had a private meeting with Mr Hardy.'

Hill's face held a terrible blandness. He waited and waited a little more. 'Was that a question?'

'Yes, your honor.'

'I'm afraid I didn't hear one. Maybe you could try again.'

Torrey, aware that he'd already committed a tactical error, cleared his throat. 'Well, your honor, as you know, in a capital case such as this one, all communication between the parties has to be on the record.'

'You don't say, counselor.' Hill was breathing fire, a controlled burn. 'As a matter of fact, I was aware of that.' Another wait. 'I'm still waiting for a question.'

Hardy suddenly became aware of unrest in the gallery behind him. Hill looked out, then back down to Hardy and Torrey. As he'd shown at the arraignment, this judge seemed comfortable allowing some limited reaction among the spectators. In Hardy's experience, this was unique. At very little volume, the low, white-noise hum added a kind of subliminal tension to the tone in the room. He wondered if Hill had some reason for allowing it.

Torrey finally found his question. 'Very well, your honor. The people would like to inquire. What was the purpose of your meeting with defense counsel?'

'It was a personal issue, Mr Torrey. This case had not yet been called. We did not discuss it in any manner.' Hill shifted his eyes. 'Is that completely accurate, Mr Hardy?'

'Yes, your honor.'

The judge wanted unassailable clarity on this point. 'Mr Hardy, did you say even one word about this case in my chambers?'

'No, your honor.'

'Did I?'

Again, Hardy said that he did not.

'Does this satisfy you, Mr Torrey?'

The prosecutor swallowed, clearly feeling that if he could get out of this without any further damage, it would be a victory. 'Perfectly, your honor.'

Hill nodded brusquely. 'Then if you'd be so good as to call your first witness.'

Another of the many ways that a preliminary hearing differed from a trial was that there were no opening statements from either side. The prosecution simply began by calling witnesses, whom the defense could cross-examine, and introducing evidence, as they would at trial. When the DA was finished, the defense could then present its own witnesses and evidence.

Torrey took his chastised self back to the prosecution table. Hardy returned to his chair, thinking that at least the judge was equally intolerant of both sides. All things considered, this was terrific news.

Earlier in the week, Freeman had bet two hundred dollars that he could predict every witness in the order that Torrey would call them throughout the day and – perhaps foolishly, given it was David – Hardy had taken the bet. Now the old man leaned across Cole and whispered, 'Strout.'

Two seconds later, Torrey stood on the other side of the room. 'The People call John Strout.'

The coroner rose from one of the wooden theatre seats on the prosecution side of the room and made his long-boned way up the now frankly talkative center aisle, through the bar rail, to the witness chair. Strout appeared as a witness in a courtroom no less than once a fortnight and as he took the oath, he projected his usual relaxed confidence.