As if she heard him, Wanda Morgan opens the side door and pokes her head into the courtroom. “You ready, Mr. Madigan?”

“You betcha,” he says, thrusting a fist in the air. “Ready, set, Rinky.”

Wanda shakes her head at him and then looks at me and laughs. I take a seat at the bar as she steps inside the courtroom, allowing Rinky and a couple of guards to enter after her. Rinky must be rambunctious today; it took two uniforms to get him in here. One removes his cuffs and the other delivers him to the defense table.

“There you are,” Rinky says to Harry as he approaches. “I’ve been looking for you.”

The side door opens and Geraldine rushes in, Clarence on her heels carrying two briefcases. Rinky’s shoulders droop when he looks over at the prosecutors and he drops his head sadly. “Oh, man,” he says. “Her again.”

Harry laughs out loud and slaps him on the back, sending skinny Rinky stumbling forward a few steps. Joey Kelsey tells us to stand.

Judge Long emerges from chambers, takes the file from Wanda as he passes her, and slaps it down on the bench. He sits, signals with both hands for the rest of us to do likewise, and retrieves his half-glasses from the pocket of his robe. “Mr. Snow,” he says, donning his spectacles and then peering over them, “you’re back.”

Rinky gives the judge a little wave. “Here I am again,” he says.

Judge Long sighs and skims the police report, then looks back up, his eyes wide under raised eyebrows. “Another tourist?” he asks Geraldine.

“Indeed,” she says, “I told you so” written plainly on her face. “Another one. A Mr. Palmer. A businessman from Pittsburgh.”

“Mr. Snow,” the judge says, “the members of our Chamber of Commerce work extremely hard to attract visitors to this peninsula during the shoulder seasons. You are single-handedly thwarting their efforts.”

Rinky hangs his head and assumes an “aw, shucks” look, as if he’s a little embarrassed by the judge’s flattery.

A firm grip on my shoulder makes me look up. It’s Steven Collier. “I need to see Louisa,” he says in an authoritative tone.

“Then make an appointment,” I tell him, maneuvering my shoulder out of his grasp. I toss my head in the general direction of the jail. “The women’s ward has set visiting hours. Call and get your name on the list.”

He frowns and bends down, bringing his face too close to mine. “Today,” he says. “I need to speak with her while she’s here in the courtroom.”

“Can’t happen,” I tell him. “Louisa isn’t allowed to have contact with anyone in this room except her lawyers. If you want to communicate with her today, you’ll have to do it through one of us.”

He stares at the floor and shakes his head emphatically. It seems my response is unsatisfactory. Again. He walks away and takes a seat on the front bench next to Anastasia and Lance. He fires an icy stare my way and then fixes his gaze on the judge. He’s through with me.

Harry has joined Geraldine in front of the bench. “The guy came at him from behind,” he says.

“Nobody came at him,” Geraldine replies. “Mr. Palmer tapped him on the shoulder to ask for directions.”

Rinky Snow would fare much better, it seems, if people would just stop asking him for directions. “No knives,” he calls out from his chair. The judge looks up and Rinky wags a finger at him. “No knives,” he repeats, as if he’s been having a hell of a time keeping this judge in line.

“Rinky didn’t know that,” Harry says. “All he knew was that Palmer came at him from behind.”

Judge Long’s eyes move from Rinky to Harry, his expression unchanged. “So he belted the guy,” the judge says.

“One punch,” Harry answers, shrugging, as if we’re all entitled to dole out that much in the course of a day. “In self-defense.”

“No knives,” Rinky announces again, his finger still wagging.

“Oh, please.” Geraldine looks at Harry as if he’s loonier than his client. “It was not self-defense.”

“Knocked him out cold,” Judge Long notes, reading from the report again.

“For a minute or two.” Harry waves one hand in the air to emphasize the insignificance of it all. “The guy was awake and oriented by the time the rescue squad got there.”

Judge Long looks like he isn’t buying Harry’s argument this time. He leans on his elbows, folds his hands together, and rests his chin on top of them. “Mr. Madigan,” he says after taking a deep breath, “I’m sorry. I appreciate what you’re trying to do here. And I realize there are extenuating circumstances. But I think we need to spell the people of Chatham, take Mr. Snow off their hands for a little while.” He looks down at the police report again and sighs. “Particularly the tourists,” he adds, “if any are still standing.”

“But, Judge,” Harry tries again, “it was nothing more than an honest mistake. You or I might have made the same mistake if someone came at one of us from behind.”

The judge removes his glasses and closes his eyes. He almost smiles when he opens them again and looks at Harry. “I don’t think so, Mr. Madigan.”

Harry doesn’t think so either, of course. Too often in this business we have to swallow our pride and advocate the absurd.

“Mr. Snow,” the judge says, turning his attention back to Rinky.

“No knives,” Rinky, standing up, warns the judge yet again with a wagging finger.

“I can’t let you go with a slap on the wrist this time, sir. No knives is right. But no fists either. You’re going to spend a little time up on the hill”—Judge Long nods in the direction of the House of Correction—“so you can think about it.” He faces Geraldine and Harry again and sighs. “Come back tomorrow,” he says, looking at each of them in turn, “and tell me you’ve worked this out.”

Geraldine exhales loudly, her expression suggesting she’d rather work out a business plan with the mob. Harry smiles and winks at her, as if he’s reveling in their earlier intimacy.

“We have the necessary paperwork, Your Honor.” Clarence Wexler pops up from his table and scurries to the bench, delivering photocopies to Harry, the originals to the judge.

“Hey, who’s the whippersnapper?” Rinky puts his question to the room at large. “Where’d that little fella come from?” It seems Rinky hadn’t noticed Clarence until now.

Judge Long all but swallows his lips in his attempt to avoid laughing, but his eyes give him away. He reads through Clarence’s documents, fills in a few blanks, and signs off. He’s still struggling for composure when he looks back up at Harry. “If it makes you feel any better,” the judge says, “the forecast calls for a cold snap.”

The matron delivers Louisa to the defense table and I join her, though technically we don’t belong here. We’re not parties to this particular proceeding. Geraldine was right: the issues raised in the petition are between Anastasia Rawlings and the Commonwealth. We have no standing to address them. But we do want to be heard on a related matter.

The gallery is noisy again, the benches full. Anyone who checked the schedule probably assumed that the Rawlings case docketed for one o’clock is Louisa’s. And apparently the press thinks so too. They’re back in force, hurling scores of questions at Louisa in anything-but-subdued voices. She doesn’t answer, but she does smile and flashbulbs bombard her.

Harry and Geraldine are at one side of the bench, finishing up Rinky Snow’s paperwork. Rinky’s prison escorts lean against the wall by the side door, their charge centered between them. The Kydd is in a seat at the bar, so there’s a chair available at the table for Anastasia Rawlings if she wants it. She doesn’t.

She marches past, shielding her profile with a stiff, flattened hand, a dramatic blinder against the sight of her father’s widow. Steven Collier follows and pauses to give Louisa a solemn nod before he passes. Anastasia steps to the side when they reach the bench and Collier plants himself squarely in front of the judge. He intends to do the talking, it seems. I might enjoy this.