Judge Long has given her this admonition before—many times in many cases. Pointing is part of the drama prosecutors put on for jurors; it has no place in an arraignment. Geraldine won’t stop, though. She can’t help herself. She looks up at the judge now, her expression suggesting he just paid her a hefty compliment. “The facts,” he reminds her.

“Of course, Your Honor,” she says. “Charles Kendrick was one of the first witnesses we interviewed. I spoke with him personally, Monday morning and again Monday afternoon. On both occasions, he claimed he had no contact with the deceased after the Four Cs press conference.”

Geraldine looks over at us and almost smiles before she continues. “The deceased’s automobile, a BMW roadster, was found on Tuesday, parked deep in the woods near the intersection of Old Queen Anne and Training Field roads in Chatham.”

I turn to check in with the Kydd, then with the Senator. They’re as surprised as I am. The area Geraldine is referring to is known as the Golden Triangle, eighteen acres of pristine wooded conservation land. This is the first any of us has heard of Michelle’s car being found there.

“That’s right,” Geraldine says, speaking in our direction now. “We withheld that fact from the public, pending the results of forensic testing.”

Geraldine returns to her table and Clarence hands her three documents, no doubt the results to which she just referred. She delivers one copy to us, passes another up to the judge, and holds on to the third. “Hair follicles and skin fragments,” she says, tapping the top page. “Multiple samples. All match those of the deceased.”

I pass our copy of the lab report to the Kydd so he can check her facts. I’m virtually certain she’s calling it like it is, though. Geraldine Schilling usually does.

The judge studies his copy of the report, then peers over the rims of his half-glasses. “That’s to be expected,” he says to Geraldine. “It was her car.”

“True,” she says. “That is to be expected.” She turns and walks slowly toward us, her eyes holding the Senator’s. “But not in the trunk.”

A single sob fills the room, then ends abruptly. Catherine Forrester sits in the front row behind the prosecutors’ table, across the aisle from Monsignor Davis and the Kendricks, with both hands pressed over her mouth. Her eyes are squeezed shut and two rivers course down her cheeks. She’s flanked by Warren and Meredith, both trying in vain to comfort her, both fighting losing battles with their own floodgates.

Geraldine waits, longer than necessary, still staring at the Senator. “Counselor,” Judge Long says quietly, “continue.”

“Blood,” she says, looking up at him. “We also found a solitary—but sizable—patch of blood on the upholstery in the trunk. It, too, matches that of the deceased.”

The judge nods and looks down at the lab report again. Geraldine goes back to her table, retrieves an evidence bag, and hands it up to him. “And this,” she says. “A rope, approximately eighteen inches in length.”

Judge Long scrutinizes the bag, then looks back at Geraldine. “Ordinary clothesline,” he says.

“Exactly,” she agrees as she pivots and walks toward us again. “What we didn’t find,” she says, “is the spare. The BMW roadster’s spare tire is ordinarily stored in the trunk. Michelle Forrester’s was missing.” She slaps a hand on our table and the Senator jumps a little beside me. “Until this morning,” she says, glaring at him.

Senator Kendrick stares back at her, then at me, and shakes his head. He doesn’t know what she’s talking about.

“As we all know,” she says, turning away from him and facing the bench again, “Chatham’s harbormaster found Ms. Forrester’s body yesterday, floating in the shallows of Pleasant Bay.”

Catherine breaks down again. Geraldine pauses, allowing the mother’s sobs to take center stage. There’s no other sound in the crowded courtroom.

“Our Medical Examiner performed the autopsy yesterday,” she says at last. She retrieves another set of documents from Clarence and again delivers copies to us and to the judge. “This is his report.”

I check the signature line, then pass it over to the Kydd. Calvin Ramsey had a long day yesterday.

“Cause of death,” she says, holding up her copy of the autopsy report, “cerebral hemorrhage.”

Catherine’s sobs had softened, but they escalate again. Geraldine turns to look at her. “Induced by blunt trauma to the cranium,” she says quietly, “a single heavy blow to the skull. The absence of water in the lungs indicates she was dead before her body was dumped into the ocean.”

All three Forresters are audibly crying now. Everyone else in the room is silent. The Senator is rigid beside me; he doesn’t seem to be breathing.

“My office secured a search warrant this morning,” Geraldine continues as she marches toward us yet again, “for the Kendrick property on Old Harbor Road in North Chatham.” She pounds our table this time, her fist landing squarely in front of our now paralyzed client. “Lo and behold,” she says, “we found Michelle Forrester’s spare. In this man’s garage.”

A surge of commentary erupts in the gallery. The judge pounds his gavel, hard. Geraldine is on the move; she’s got more.

“We also found a coil of clothesline hanging on a nail,” she says, pointing at the evidence bag on the bench. “That clothesline.”

Judge Long looks down at the rope, but doesn’t react.

“We found blood on the garage floor,” she says. “Traces, but enough.”

The judge picks up the lab report again.

“That’s right,” Geraldine says as she watches him read. “It’s a match.”

She returns to her table. Clarence kneels beside it, retrieves a long, narrow, plastic-wrapped package, and hands it to her. It’s almost as long as she is.

“And finally,” she says, “we found this.”

She lays it on the bench and returns to our table. “A shovel,” she says, addressing the gallery. “The shovel that was used to murder Michelle Andrea Forrester.”

The onlookers grow noisy again but Judge Long doesn’t bother to hush them. Instead, he goes back to the lab report and the Kydd pushes a page from our copy across the table to me. He’s highlighted the portion that details the evidence found on the underside of the shovel’s heavy metal base: hair, blood, skin fragments. All Michelle’s, along with a small slice of her scalp.

I lean toward my client, hoping he’ll have something to say, some theory about what the hell happened here. He doesn’t, though. He doesn’t even seem to know I’m looking at him. He’s turned completely around in his chair, his eyes locked with Honey’s. She’s staring back at him, dry-eyed, open-mouthed. She looks horrified. So does he. I’m willing to bet everyone else in the courtroom does too.

Judge Long sets the lab report on the bench, removes his glasses, and leans on his forearms. He’s quiet for a moment—as is everyone else in the room now—staring down at the damning report. When he turns his attention our way, his somber expression says it all. Geraldine Schilling has done her job; she’s assembled a case against the Senator, a real one. She’s convinced the judge of that much, to say the least. “Counsel,” he says to me, “how does your client plead?”

“Guilty.” The voice is loud, definite, and it takes a split second for me to realize it came from the seat next to mine. The Senator is on his feet in a flash. I jump up and grab his arm. “Shut up,” I tell him. “Now.”

He shakes my hand away. “I’m ready for sentencing,” he says to the startled judge. “I’m guilty.”

The room goes nuts. Judge Long bangs his gavel a half dozen times. “Senator Kendrick,” he says, “you’re represented by counsel, sir. Your attorney will enter your plea. Please be seated.”

It’s obvious the Senator has no intention of doing any such thing. He moves out from behind our table, shaking his head at the judge. “My attorney doesn’t know anything about it,” he says. “I lied to her.”