The noise in the gallery goes up another decibel.

“Look,” he says to Judge Long, “Michelle Forrester and I had an affair.”

Pandemonium erupts behind us.

“I broke it off,” the Senator continues, “four months ago. But last Thursday…” He turns to Honey and grimaces. “I lapsed.”

“Senator Kendrick,” Judge Long says, almost shouting to be heard above the ruckus, “I strongly advise you to sit down now, sir. Your attorney is here to speak for you.”

It’s pretty clear the Senator isn’t going to take the judge’s advice. He’s talking to everybody now. Everybody but the Kydd and me, that is. The spectators. The reporters. The District Attorney. “Michelle and I spent last Thursday night together,” he says. “It was a terrible mistake.”

“Senator!” The judge is on his feet now. He bangs his gavel once more, hard. “Please, sir, be seated.”

Not a chance. “Michelle read more into that night than I ever intended,” the Senator says. “She thought we’d reestablished our prior relationship. She thought we’d go forward as—well—as a couple.” He pauses and stares at his wife for a few seconds. “Michelle wanted more from me than I was free to give.”

Honey buries her face in her hands, sobbing. Abby wraps her arms around her mother, then she breaks down too.

“When I explained that to her,” the Senator continues, “she got angry. She threatened to go to my wife, to tell her everything. And then…”

He pauses for a breath, and I realize for the first time that he’s trembling.

“And then I lost my temper.” He shrugs, exactly the way he did in my office when he described Michelle’s impromptu visit to Old Harbor Road. The rest was inevitable, he’s telling us.

I don’t buy it.

“Your Honor,” I shout above the ruckus, “we ask the court to enter a not guilty plea at this time.”

“That’s out of the question.” Geraldine is shouting now too. It’s the only way to be heard in here. “The man already entered a plea. He can’t change it now.”

Judge Gould bangs his gavel repeatedly until the crowd quiets. He doesn’t speak until the silence is complete. “You forget, Ms. Schilling, that this man’s plea is not entered until I accept it.” His words are quiet, measured. “And I don’t.” He looks from Geraldine to me to the Senator. “I don’t accept any plea at this time.”

“But Your Honor—” Geraldine says.

He silences her with one hand, packs up his file, and stands. The confused bailiff tells the spectators to rise. “We’ll reconvene on Monday morning,” the judge says as he leaves the bench, “first thing. The defendant will enter his plea at that time.”

Geraldine shakes her head; she’s frustrated. A guilty plea today would have been far more tidy.

Judge Long pauses at the chambers door and turns to the defense table. The Senator is still on his feet, in front of it, the Kydd now at his side. “Senator Kendrick,” the judge says, “I suspect your lawyer plans to spend some time with you this weekend.”

I sure as hell do. They both look at me and I nod to confirm it.

Judge Long turns his attention back to the still-trembling Senator. “I strongly suggest you listen to her, sir, take her advice.” He takes another quick glance at me, then heads for chambers.

The room erupts again as soon as the judge exits. The guards head for their prisoner at once, but I step in front of them. “Give us a minute?” I ask. They nod and resume their posts against the side wall.

“What the hell was that?” I bark at my client.

“It was a confession,” he says.

“It was not. It was an act. You were lying.”

He shakes his head, his eyes angry. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says. “I was owning up to my crime.”

“You were owning up to someone else’s crime.”

He takes a deep breath before he answers. “That’s ridiculous,” he says, his voice even. “But I understand. You’re a criminal defense attorney. You’re not used to people coming clean.”

I get as close to him as I can without stepping on his feet. “What I’m not used to,” I tell him, “is standing by while my client pleads guilty to a crime he didn’t commit. And I don’t intend to get used to it anytime soon.”

He looks into the distance, grits his teeth, and says nothing.

“Listen to me,” I tell him, “we’re talking about first-degree murder here, life behind bars. Life. Whatever it is you’re hiding can’t be worse.”

His gaze returns to me; it’s steady. “You don’t know that, Counselor,” he says.

And he’s right. I don’t.

Chapter 26

Harry doesn’t pull into our office driveway when we reach it; he cruises on by. We’re eastbound on Main Street, destination undisclosed. “What?” I ask. “The day hasn’t been long enough? We’re taking a joyride now?”

“Just a short one,” he says.

He’s out of his mind. It’s seven-thirty. He hung around the Superior Courthouse until six, when the Holliston jurors retired to their hotel for the evening, then he crossed the parking lot and caught the final moments of chaos in the District Court. It was pushing seven by the time we extricated ourselves from the reporters and spectators and made our way through the snowdrifts to his Jeep.

The Kydd pulled out of the county complex just moments before we did, late for a hot date. The story of my life, he always says. If he’s going to keep this job, he’s fond of telling Harry and me, he may as well enter a Roman Catholic seminary. Harry always tells him to forget it. Rectors don’t cotton to Southern Baptists, he says.

“Are stores open?” Harry asks now.

He really isn’t of this planet. “It’s eight days before Christmas,” I tell him. “Of course they are.”

“How about flower stores?” he asks.

I stare at him.

“Florists?” he says.

“I know what they’re called, Harry. I’m trying to figure out why the hell you want to go flower shopping at this particular moment.” My feet hurt, my head aches, and my stomach’s growling. I want to sit someplace warm and quiet and eat dinner, not go shopping—for flowers or anything else.

He narrows his eyes, the way he always does when he’s about to hand me a line. “Thought I’d pick up a little something for my special someone,” he says.

That’s a bald-faced lie; he thought nothing of the sort. He knows me well enough to know that at this point in the workweek, I’d rather have a back rub than a bouquet of roses. “Who is she?” I ask.

He laughs, then reaches for my hand and kisses it, a habit of his that always melts my heart. “You know who she is,” he says.

“Well, she’s out of luck,” I tell him. “I don’t think you’ll find any florists open at this hour.” I lean over and kiss his cheek. “But I bet she’d settle for a filet mignon and a good Cabernet.”

“You read my mind,” he says. “How about Pete’s?”

Pete’s is a celebrated steak house on Main Street in Chatham. The entire menu is top-notch, but it’s the baked stuffed potatoes that bring Harry to his knees. “Sounds good,” I tell him. “There’s just one problem.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ve already passed it.”

“I know,” he says, nodding. “We’ll come back. I want to make a couple of stops first. Quick ones.” He pulls into the parking lot of the Chatham Village Market, a first-class, employee-owned grocery store, and stops in front of the Christmas trees.

I’m surprised. Harry and I normally decorate a tree together, in my Windmill Lane cottage, on Christmas Eve. We’ve never bought one this early before. “What are you doing?” I ask.