Holliston stands, wheels the two chairs Harry and I had been using away from the defense table, and parks them against the side wall. He centers his own chair and then settles into it, neither a pen nor a shred of paper in front of him. He’s sculpting a scene for the jurors, one with a message: The world is against him. And he’s all alone.

“Crazy like a fox,” Harry whispers.

Big Red returns, the jurors single file behind him. Most look surprised as they enter the courtroom, their eyes wide as they take in the sea of spectators. I twist in my chair to absorb the scene with them, and I spot dozens of familiar faces. The front benches are peppered with press. The whole room is sprinkled with Chatham residents, many of them undoubtedly St. Veronica’s parishioners. And dead center in the front row, directly behind Harry and me, sits Bobby “the Butcher” Frazier.

The Butcher’s straight black hair is slicked back, and the top half of his white dress shirt is unbuttoned, the collar spread wide. He wears no undershirt, despite the December cold. And there’s a reason, I realize after a moment. A few inches of his scar are visible, below the right shoulder, bisected by a solitary gold chain. The scar is raised and uneven, lighter in color than the rest of his swarthy skin. My eyes move to his and he meets them with a steady gaze. The Butcher would like to be a part of this trial. He’d like to be Exhibit A.

Judge Gould bids the jurors good morning and they all return the greeting. Most look more relaxed today than they did yesterday, their surroundings not quite so foreign now. Robert Eastman and Alex Doane, the investment banker and nursing home administrator, have traded their suits for more casual attire. Eastman sports a front-zip gray sweatshirt, Doane a black turtleneck. Neither of them has any delusions about making it into work today.

Cora Rowlands seems more at ease too, her coatdress replaced by navy blue slacks and a cream-colored tunic. Her silver bouffant is freshly teased and the large satchel she carted around yesterday is nowhere in sight. Big Red probably found a secure cubby for it, putting Cora’s concerns about the close contours of the jury box to rest.

Maria Marzetti looks downright sultry in a low-cut maroon sweater and black skirt, a fact not lost on the thirty-something general contractor in the back row. He stares at her profile while she and the others give their undivided attention to the judge. They’re ready to get to work. Thirteen of them, anyway.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Judge Gould says, leaning forward on the bench, “there’s been a change in plans.”

Gregory Harmon is the only juror who seems to have noticed already. He’s dressed as he was yesterday—jeans, flannel shirt, and work boots—and he looks comfortable in the number-one seat. He glances at our ex-client alone at the defense table, then back at Harry and me, and then at Cora Rowlands beside him. Harmon’s expression is curious, nothing more.

“The defendant has chosen to represent himself,” the judge continues, “and he’s entitled to do so. You’re to draw no inference from his decision, entertain no speculation about it.”

All of them look at Holliston now, then at us. No doubt they’re wondering why Harry and I are still in the courtroom. The judge won’t tell them—he won’t say anything to draw attention to the safety net he’s provided—but they’ll figure it out. And Geraldine will remind them of our presence every time Holliston gives her an opening. My gut tells me he’ll give her more than a few.

“At this time, ladies and gentlemen,” Judge Gould takes his glasses off and leans back in his tall, leather chair, “the defendant will deliver his opening statement.”

Holliston stands and runs both hands down the front of his suit coat, then starts toward the jury box. I can’t see his face from where we’re sitting—he’s walking away from us—but the jurors’ expressions tell me he’s making eye contact with them, one by one, as he crosses the room. He’s given his performance some thought, it seems. He stops a couple of feet from the box, squares his shoulders and clasps his hands behind his back. “I was lookin’ for work,” he says.

“Here we go.” Geraldine’s up and headed for the bench.

The judge pounds his gavel. “Mr. Holliston,” he says, beckoning with one hand, “approach.”

Judge Gould frowns at Geraldine while they wait for Holliston to join them. An objection was in order. “Here we go” wasn’t.

The room grows noisy while the three of them huddle at the side of the bench farthest from the jury. Sidebars always ratchet up the volume in the courtroom. Jurors don’t like to be left out; spectators don’t either. They’re not missing much this time, though. No doubt the judge is instructing Derrick Holliston on the ABCs of opening statement; teaching him that the word I doesn’t belong in the room right now; informing him that the only way he gets to tell the jurors he was looking for work is by taking the witness stand. They’ve already heard that particular tidbit, though. It can’t be taken back.

Harry clears his throat and leans close to me, his eyes on the trio at the bench, his expression almost amused. “This little development is going to wreak havoc with the game plan,” he says.

He’s right, of course. The game plan calls for two days of witness testimony, less if the defendant doesn’t testify. At that point, the jurors will be sequestered until they return their verdict. And though no one can predict how long deliberations will take in any case, Judge Gould fully anticipated sending them all home in plenty of time to decorate for Christmas. That’s open to question now.

“What do you think?” I ask Harry. “New Year’s Eve?”

He shakes his head, his hazel eyes on Holliston’s back. “Nope. I’m thinking little pink hearts.”

The judge wraps up his instructions and directs the defendant back toward the jury box. Holliston looks smug when he turns; he seems certain he just digested three years of law school in six minutes. He’ll probably expect his sheepskin by the end of the day.

Geraldine shakes her blond bangs as she returns to her table and takes her seat next to Clarence. She’s disgusted.

Harry pulls a yellow legal pad from his schoolbag and draws three hearts on it, an elaborate arrow piercing each one.

“It’s like the boss lady said,” Holliston tells the panel, pointing back at Geraldine. “You’ll hear it from the cop.”

Geraldine turns and looks at Harry and me, then rolls her green eyes to the ceiling. She’s flattered to be incorporated into our ex-client’s opening, she telegraphs. And she’s downright delighted to be known as “the boss lady.”

“Not just any cop,” Holliston continues. “The top dawg. He’ll tell you what went down that night. He’ll tell you all about it.”

Geraldine stands, anticipating the pretend lawyer’s next transgression. Judge Gould fires a silent warning at her. We’re getting nowhere fast here, and Holliston hasn’t crossed the line this time. Not yet, anyhow.

“He’ll tell you that priest hit on me.”

So much for not crossing the line.

“He’ll tell them no such thing!” Geraldine’s chair topples backward and Clarence catches it. She’s halfway to the bench, both hands in the air.

The gavel descends.

Harry draws a line through his artwork. “Faith and begorra,” he says. His brogue is atrocious. “We’d best push our finish date back a wee bit.” He moves his legal pad closer to me as he replaces each heart with a shamrock.

“Move for an instruction, Your Honor.” Geraldine is in front of the bench now and she’s livid. She’ll get her instruction, but Judge Gould waves Holliston over for another sidebar tutorial first.

The judge stands, moves to the far side of his bench again, and delivers another lecture. He’s far more animated this time, though. He points his index finger at Holliston’s chest repeatedly as he reiterates the ground rules. He listens to a comment from Geraldine, nodding, and then shoos both of them away. It’s obvious he’s every bit as frustrated as Geraldine is. Holliston is entirely unruffled; he seems to think his opening statement is proceeding quite smoothly.