Harry leans closer. “Ix-nay on dear Saint Paddy,” he says, his brogue even worse when he mixes it with pig Latin. “It pains me to say it, Colleen, but I’m thinking marshmallow peeps.”

“Colleen” takes his pen away before he can draw them.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Judge Gould intones, “you will disregard Mr. Holliston’s last comment.”

They nod in unison.

“Mr. Holliston,” the judge sighs, “you may proceed.”

Holliston moves closer to the box.

“As we discussed,” the judge adds.

“Okay, now,” Holliston says, his tone suggesting he’s about had it with these silly interruptions, “like I was sayin’, the top cop is gonna tell you what I told him. And I told him the truth.”

“Your Honor!” Geraldine doesn’t even bother to stand this time.

“Mr. Holliston!” Judge Gould sounds like he’s at the end of his rope. “If I hear the word I once more, sir, you will take your seat.”

“Okay, okay.” Holliston is annoyed. He shakes his head at the jurors. “The cop’s gonna tell you five things.”

He raises his hand and holds up one finger, à la Geraldine. “First,” he says, “that priest hit on me. And I mean big-time.”

“There he goes again,” Geraldine announces.

“Mr. Holliston,” the judge warns.

Gregory Harmon folds his arms across his chest. Cora Rowlands knits her brow. The others don’t move.

“So I say to him, I say, you know, I ain’t that way.” Holliston holds up his other hand and flutters it, just in case any of the jurors don’t know what that way means.

Geraldine drops her head back against her chair and stares at the ceiling.

“Mr. Holliston,” Judge Gould repeats, his tone menacing now.

Maria Marzetti plants her elbow on an armrest, cups her chin in her palm. Her back-row admirer stares again, making no effort to mask his interest.

“But the priest don’t like that,” Holliston says. “He ain’t takin’ no for an answer. He starts gettin’ rough. And I mean real rough, serious rough.”

Judge Gould looks skyward, praying for patience, maybe, and takes his glasses off.

Holliston stares at his solitary raised finger as if he’d forgotten it was there. “Okay,” he says, adding two more, “so that’s three. He hits on me; I say no way; he goes wacko.”

Geraldine gets to her feet. “Your Honor. Please.”

“Mr. Holliston, remember the litany.” Judge Gould massages the bridge of his nose, then puts his glasses back on.

Holliston wheels around and gapes at the bench, looking like he can’t figure out why the judge is still sitting there. “Oh,” he says, “that.” He stares out at the crowded gallery for a moment and shakes his head sadly, his expression saying this judge is being unnecessarily difficult—and everyone in the room surely knows it. “Okay,” he says, turning back to the jurors, “so the cop is gonna tell you all these things is what I told him.”

He pauses and turns to look up at the bench again, his raised eyebrows asking: Satisfied now?

“Move on, sir,” the judge says.

He resumes his finger count. “So then,” he says, adding the fourth, “I defend myself. I mean, what guy in his right mind ain’t gonna defend himself against that, right?”

I can think of dozens of adjectives to describe Derrick Holliston. Right-minded isn’t one of them.

Geraldine doesn’t bother getting up; she flings both arms in the air. “Mr. Holliston,” the judge says yet again.

“Wish we’d brought popcorn,” Harry whispers. “This is Oscar material.”

“Only if Hollywood creates a Most Painful Performance category,” I tell him.

Holliston doesn’t even turn around for the judge’s latest admonition. “Okay,” he says to the jurors, “the cop is gonna tell you I told him I was defendin’ myself.” He adds his thumb to his finger lineup and stares at it for a moment before he continues. “And he’s gonna tell you I grabbed for somethin’—dint matter what—to fight the guy off with. There was some kinda toolbox there—on the counter—and I grabbed the first thing I could out of it. Turns out it was some kinda pick, a long, pointy thing. I dint even see it till everything was over.”

“Your Honor.” Geraldine’s up again.

“What?” Holliston asks her. “I told the cop that. He had his tape recorder goin’. Plus he wrote it down. I watched him.”

Judge Gould bangs his gavel. “You’ll direct your comments to the court, sir. No one else.”

Holliston looks up at the bench and shrugs. Doesn’t matter to him, it seems.

The judge takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. “Move on, sir,” he says yet again.

Geraldine turns and stares at Harry and me before she sits. She wants the jurors to do likewise, wants to remind them we’re here, wants them to be fully aware that all of this is unnecessary. It works. Most of them look our way before they return their attention to Holliston.

“So listen to that cop,” he tells them. “You don’t need to listen to nobody else, as far as I’m concerned. Nobody else got anything to say that matters.”

I expect Geraldine to jump up again—Holliston’s way out of line—but she doesn’t. Instead, she leans back in her chair and crosses her lean legs, one spiked heel dangling above the thick carpet. She’s relaxed. I’m confused.

“Uh-oh,” Harry says, and my confusion evaporates. He’s right. Geraldine is happy with these particular inappropriate comments. We’ll probably hear them again—next time from her.

“That cop,” Holliston says as he backs up to his table, “he’s the only guy you need to listen to. He’s gonna tell you the truth.”

Judge Gould stares down at Geraldine, obviously waiting for her to explode.

She doesn’t.

Chapter 15

“I figure this guy can take it from here,” Holliston says, jerking his neatly groomed head back toward Harry.

We’re in chambers, once again listening to the defendant dictate the procedural details of his murder trial. He’s reversed his position, decided he wants representation after all. He announced his change of heart to the entire courtroom as soon as Geraldine called her first witness. Judge Gould immediately declared a recess, excused the jurors, and ordered the attorneys—even the faux attorney—into chambers.

The judge isn’t happy. “Mr. Holliston,” he says, “this isn’t a game.”

“You got that right.” Once again, Derrick Holliston is the only person in the room who’s seated. He’s slouched in one of the two chairs facing the judge’s desk, a slight smile on his face, his fingers drumming the armrests. He looks around at each of us—even his armed chaperones—pleased that we showed up on time for his staff meeting.

Geraldine’s been pacing since we came in here, as usual, but she stops short in front of Holliston now and glares down at him, her green eyes aglow. “You’re not going to take the stand, are you?”

Harry’s between the two of them before I realize he’s moved from his spot against the wall beside me. “Whoa, sister,” he says, his open palm almost touching Holliston’s face. “You don’t get that information now.”

Massachusetts attorneys adhere to an archaic tradition of referring to each other as “Brother Counsel” or “Sister Counsel.” Even so, Harry makes Geraldine crazy when he calls her plain old “sister.” He also makes her crazy when he’s right. And he’s right now. She’s doesn’t get that information yet. A criminal defendant can decide to testify—or not—at any time before the defense rests. If the decision is made sooner rather than later—and it almost always is—the prosecutor isn’t privy to it. Far better to keep her in the dark until the last moment.