Fair enough. We’re all entitled to that much. “Ask it,” I tell her.

She’s quiet a moment, takes a deep breath, and then looks up. “Do you two believe me?” She looks first at the Kydd, and then at me, as if there were someone else in the room who might field her query.

When I first moved to the defense bar, I was surprised by the number of clients who did not ask this question. It’s one I would ask, I’ve always thought, if the tables were turned. Now that I’m faced with a client who wants to know, though, I’d rather not answer. “Louisa,” I tell her, “what we think doesn’t matter.”

She steps backward abruptly, as if I’ve slapped her. “Yes, it does,” she says, her voice down to a whisper. “It matters to me.”

“I believe you,” the Kydd volunteers. And he means it. There’s not a trace of hesitation in his voice, not a glimmer of doubt on his face.

It occurs to me that the Kydd’s certainty might be ever so slightly influenced by matters outside the evidence, but I don’t say so.

Louisa nods at him, then turns back to me. She wants my answer too. “It doesn’t matter” isn’t good enough. She presses a hand against her throat, tapered fingers flat under the collar of her orange jumpsuit, and waits.

For a moment, no one says anything. And in the sea of silence that engulfs us, I realize I have to give her two answers. I do believe her. But I shouldn’t.

“I don’t think you’re lying to us.” I’m careful to meet her gaze while I respond. “My gut says you’re telling us the truth.”

She nods, only partially satisfied. She senses there’s more.

“But the evidence points in the other direction,” I continue. “All of it.”

She reexamines the floor.

“We’d be doing you a disservice if we didn’t tell you the truth.”

When she looks up, her eyes are brimming again. “Then tell me,” she says, almost laughing as her tears spill over. “By all means, darlin’, do tell me the truth.”

I decide to leave my chair first. She’s too tall for me to stand eye to eye with her, but I get as close as I can. “If you are convicted of murder one, Louisa, you will waste away in the women’s penitentiary until you’ve drawn your last breath. The Barnstable County House of Correction will become a distant, and fond, memory.”

Her eyes stay locked with mine. She doesn’t flinch.

“And twelve jurors faced with this evidence won’t have a choice, Louisa. They will convict you. That is the truth.”

CHAPTER 23

This morning’s crowd has thinned by the time the Kydd and I return to the main courtroom, a testament to the fact that at least a fraction of today’s early birds hold down day jobs. The front benches are still crowded, but there are a few seats unoccupied in the back. No one’s standing in the aisles anymore except the photographers, who are there by choice. And the chairs at the bar, where attorneys wait for their cases to be called, are empty. The Kydd moves Harry’s old schoolbag to one of them so we can set up at the defense table.

Mrs. DeMateo’s arraignment has just ended. She’s here alone today, sans the mister, and she doesn’t seem to miss him much. She’s beaming at Harry, who’s still at the bench. Harry doesn’t notice, though. He’s busy beaming at Geraldine. He must’ve persuaded Judge Long to set a reasonable bail.

Geraldine gives Harry her best “it ain’t over ’til the Fat Lady sings” look, but he keeps beaming at her anyway. In this business, he always tells the Kydd and me, we have to savor the minor victories. Most days, that’s all we get.

Judge Long tells Mrs. DeMateo she’s done for today and she dutifully heads toward the courtroom’s side door. Halfway there, she turns and waves to Harry, calling out an effusive thank-you. Her not-quite-ready-for-Hollywood smile grows enormous when he waves back, and she keeps her eyes on him until the door slams shut between them. She seems to have gotten over her initial dissatisfaction with her court-selected lawyer.

“Ain’t she a peach?” Harry asks as he approaches our table. He doesn’t realize Geraldine is inches behind him. She stops in front of us just as he does and they face each other for a moment. Geraldine scowls. Harry grins. “Well,” he says to her, “ain’t she?”

Geraldine doesn’t deign to respond. Instead, she turns away from him and looks down at me. Harry is dismissed, though he doesn’t seem to realize it. Geraldine folds her thin arms, silently awaiting word on Louisa Rawlings’s willingness to sing.

“She’s wrongly accused, you know,” Harry interjects. It takes a moment for me to realize he’s still arguing the DeMateo case. “It’s that no-good scoundrel husband of hers who’s dealing. Not his blushing bride.”

Geraldine makes no effort to hide how annoyed she is. She’s done with the mom-and-pop shop for now. And she’s sure as hell done with Harry. She pivots slightly and points an index finger at him, her tapered nail not quite poking his lapel. “Mr. Madigan,” she says, “do the county a significant favor. Get lost.”

Harry looks genuinely wounded. “Now you’ve done it,” he mumbles pitifully. “You’ve gone and hurt my feelings.”

Geraldine reverses her pivot, flicking both hands to shoo Harry away, and then looks down at me again. Harry doesn’t go anywhere; he looks at me too.

“No deal,” I tell Geraldine.

She tosses her head back and laughs out loud.

I feel a little bit sick.

“And people wonder why I stay in this line of work,” she says, wiping her eyes as if her laughter had induced tears. “No federal judge has more job security than I do.”

Geraldine must be referring to people I haven’t met. No one I know has any doubt about why Geraldine Schilling stays in this line of work. She prosecutes criminals for the same reasons spotted leopards eat raw meat: it sustains her.

I consider offering the explanation for Louisa’s refusal to talk, but when I look up, it’s obvious Geraldine is distracted. Her attention is focused on something over my shoulder, in the gallery. Harry stares in the same direction, his eyes as wide as they get. “Sweet Jesus,” he whispers. “Morticia on steroids.”

The Kydd swivels his chair around and then does his best to swallow his reaction. He leans toward me, hiding his lips from the spectators with one hand, and mouths, “Anastasia.”

I force myself to sit still. We don’t all need to gape at the deceased’s daughter. She’s agitated enough already. And besides, my mental picture of Anastasia Rawlings is alive and well. As usual, Harry hit the proverbial nail on the head.

“Daddy’s little girl?” Harry asks.

“Right as always, Kimosabe,” the Kydd answers.

An abrupt barrage of flashes tells me Louisa has arrived. Geraldine turns and abandons our table without another word. She’ll be on in a few minutes, after all. She needs to polish her script.

Once again, Louisa stands tall, dignified, as she crosses the courtroom. Bursting flashbulbs dog her as she approaches, but her somber expression brightens as she nears our table. By the time she reaches us, she looks downright delighted.

“Harold,” she says, extending her hand.

Harold?

Harry laughs, takes Louisa’s hand in both of his, and drinks her in.

“You look marvelous,” she says finally.

He laughs again, still clasping her hand, as if she might leave the room otherwise. “So do you,” he says, “considering.”

She giggles.

I’ve watched at least a half dozen men fawn over Louisa Rawlings in the past few days. Not one of them earned a giggle. Harry managed with four words.

“All rise,” Joey Kelsey intones. Joey always does his best to sound as if he’d sing bass if he were in a church choir. He should give it up. He’s a natural tenor and his efforts to prove otherwise make him sound like he’s thirteen.