I said, "That's not what I'm after."

Flair smiled at me. "Then please ask this witness questions that concern this alleged assault. Don't ask him to recite every misbehavior he's ever seen a friend commit."

The judge said, "Let's move on, Mr. Copeland."

Friggin' Flair.

"Did you ask Ms. Johnson for her phone number?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I thought I might call her."

"You liked her?"

"I was attracted to her, yes."

"Because she was a seven, maybe an eight?" I waved before Pubin could move. "Withdrawn. Did there come a time when you called Ms.

Johnson?"

"Yes."

"Can you tell us when, and as best as you can, please tell us what was said in that conversation?"

"Ten days later I called and asked her if she wanted to come to a party at the fraternity." "Did you want her to dance exotically again?" "No," Flynn said. I saw him swallow and his eyes were a little wet now. "I asked her as a guest."

I let that sit. I looked at Jerry Flynn. I let the jury look at him. There was something in his face. Had he liked Chamique Johnson? I let the moment linger. Because I was confused. I had thought that Jerry Flynn was part of it-that he had called Chamique and set her up. I tried to work it through in my head.

The judge said, "Mr. Copeland."

"Did Ms. Johnson accept your invitation?"

"Yes."

"When you say you invited her as your"-I made quote marks with my fingers-" 'guest,' do you really mean 'date'?"

"Yes."

I followed him through meeting her and getting her punch.

"Did you tell her it was spiked with alcohol?" I asked.

"Yes."

It was a lie. And it looked like a lie, but I wanted to emphasize the ridiculousness of that claim.

"Tell me how that conversation went," I said.

"I don't understand the question."

"Did you ask Ms. Johnson if she wanted something to drink?"

"Yes."

"And did she say yes?”

"Yes."

"And then what did you say?"

"I asked her if she wanted some punch."

"And what did she say?"

"She said yes."

"And then what?"

He shifted in his chair. "I said it was spiked."

I arched the eyebrow. "Just like that?"

"Objection!" Pubin rose. "Just like what? He said it was spiked.

Asked and answered."

He was right. Leave them with the obvious lie. I waved to the judge that I would let it go. I started walking him through the night. Flynn stuck to the story he'd already told, about how Chamique got drunk, how she started flirting with Edward Jenrette.

"How did you react when that happened?"

He shrugged. "Edward is a senior, I'm a freshman. It happens."

"So you think Chamique was impressed because Mr. Jenrette was older?"

Again Pubin decided to not object.

"I don't know," Flynn said. "Maybe."

"Oh, by the way, have you ever been in Mr. Marantz's and Mr. Jenrette's room?"

"Sure."

"How many times?"

"I don't know. A lot."

"Really? But you're just a freshman."

"They're still my friends."

I made my skeptical face. "Have you been in there more than once?"

"Yes."

"More than ten times?"

Yes. I made my face even more skeptical. "Okay then, tell me: What sort of stereo or music system do they have in the room?" Flynn answered it immediately. "They have a Bose speakers iPod system."

I knew that already. We had searched the room. We had pictures.

"How about the television in their room? How big is it?"

He smiled as if he’d seen my trap. "They don't have one."

"No television at all?"

"None."

"Okay then, back to the night in question…"

Flynn continued to weave his tale. He started partying with his friends. He saw Chamique start up the stairs holding hands with Jenrette. He didn't know what happened after that, of course. Then later that night, he met up with Chamique again and walked her to the bus stop.

"Did she seem upset?" I asked. Flynn said no, just the opposite. Chamique was "smiling" and "happy" and light as air. His Pollyanna description was overkill.

"So when Chamique Johnson talked about going out to the keg with you and then walking upstairs and being grabbed in the corridor," I said, "that was all a lie?"

Flynn was smart enough not to bite. "I'm telling you what I saw."

"Do you know anyone named Cal or Jim?"

He thought about it. "I know a couple of guys named Jim. I don't think I know any Cals."

"Are you aware that Ms. Johnson claimed the men who raped her were named"-I didn't want Flair objecting with his semantics game but I did roll my eyes a little when I said the word named-"Cal and Jim?"

He was wondering how to handle that one. He went with the truth.

"I heard that."

"Was there anyone named Cal or Jim at the party?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"I see. And would you know any reason why Mr. Jenrette and Mr. Marantz would call themselves that?"

No. "Ever heard those two names together? I mean, before the alleged rape:

"Not that I can recall." "So you cant shine a light on why Ms. Johnson would testify that her attackers were named Cal and Jim?" Pubin shouted his objection. "How could he possibly know why this deranged, intoxicated woman would lie?" I kept my eyes on the witness. "Nothing comes to mind, Mr. Flynn?"

"Nothing," he said firmly.

I looked back at Loren Muse. Her head was down, fiddling with her Blackberry. She glanced up, met my eye, nodded once. "Your Honor," I said, "I have more questions for this witness but this might make a good place to break for lunch."

Judge Pierce agreed.

I tried not to sprint over to Loren Muse.

"We got it," she said with a grin. "The fax is in your office."

Lucy was lucky that she had no morning class. Between the amount she drank and the late night with Sylvia Potter, she had stayed in bed until noon. When she rose she placed a call to one of the school counselors, Katherine Lucas, a therapist Lucy had always thought was really good. She explained the situation with Sylvia. Lucas would have a better idea what to do.

She thought about the journal entry that had started this all. The woods. The screams. The blood. Sylvia Potter hadn't sent it. So who had?

No clue.

Last night, she had decided to call Paul. He needed to know about this, she'd concluded. But had that been the booze talking? Now that it was sobering daylight, did that still seem to be a good idea?

An hour later, she found Paul's work number on the computer. He was the Essex County prosecutor-and, alas, a widower. Jane had died of cancer. Paul had set up a charity in her name. Lucy wondered how she felt about all that, but there was no way she could sort through that right now.

With a shaking hand she dialed the number. When she reached the switchboard operator, she asked to speak to Paul Copeland. It hurt when she said that. She realized that she hadn't said his name out loud in twenty years.

Paul Copeland.

A woman answered and said, "County prosecutor."

"I would like to speak to Paul Copeland, please."

"May I ask who's calling?"

"I'm an old friend," she said.

Nothing.

"My name is Lucy. Tell him it's Lucy. From twenty years ago."

"Do you have a last name, Lucy?"

"Just tell him that, okay?"

"Prosecutor Copeland isn't in the office at the moment. Would you like to leave a number so he can return your call?" Lucy gave her the numbers for her home, her office, her mobile. "May I tell him what this is in reference to?" "Just tell him that it's Lucy. And that it's important."

Muse and I were in my office. The door was closed. We had ordered in deli sandwiches for lunch. I was having chicken salad on whole wheat. Muse was downing a meatball sub that was the approximate size of a surfboard.