"Leave her alone," Macklin finally spoke from his seat. "They got to her. They threatened her. Hell, can't you see that?"

Lillian pounded his gavel and yelled for quiet, and when that had no effect, he announced a one-hour recess.

In the near riot, Jane Davis had already left the stand. I ran after Jane, but her car was tearing out of the rear lot.

MACK AND I STAGGERED out of the gym for the recess. At the side parking lot we took refuge on a small bench. I felt as if I'd just taken another beating, only this was worse than the others.

"You've probably learned more in the last two hours than in two years at your Ivy League law school," said Mack. "Unless they're offering tutorials on witness tampering, bribery, and physical intimidation. Maybe they should."

Mack looked out at the lovely August morning and spat between his shapeless black brogans. In a lot of ways this was an idyllic scene. A nice, well-maintained little school, green playing fields up the wazoo. It was the kind of spot TV stations like to send camera crews to on election mornings. Capture the picturesque machinery of democracy at work. Film the local people filing into their small-town gymnasium in their heavy work boots, stepping behind the curtain to cast their votes.

When you come to the same gym on a morning like this, you realize something is going on that isn't pretty, isn't idyllic, and certainly isn't democratic. It's the Big Lie, the White Noise, the Matrix.

Marci spotted us on the bench and came over for a smoke. "Those New York City folks don't take any prisoners, do they?" she said, holding out her pack. I shook my head. "Sure? It's a great day for a life-shortening habit," said Marci.

When I was a student looking out at this same parking lot, it was usually empty except for a modest row of cars belonging to the teachers. As I looked now, a Mercedes sedan slowly circled the blacktop. Long and silver with blacked-out windows, it finally stopped twenty yards from us.

Burly, dark-suited men hopped out of the front. They hustled to open the rear doors.

In a flash of long white legs and blond hair, Dana stepped out. She was tugging on her dark dress, and I have to admit, she looked as good as ever. Around the other side of the car came her father. He looked great, too. All-powerful and all-knowing. He took her hand, and with the bodyguards deployed front and back, the two walked toward the gym.

"Why, it's your old girlfriend," said Mack. "I must have pegged her wrong, because here she is to show her support for you and your brother."

MARCI STUBBED OUT HER CIGARETTE, and we followed the Neubauers and their bodyguards back into the gym. Judge Lillian was attempting to call the room to order. He banged his gavel several times, and the Montauketeers cut off their bitter discussions and trudged back to their metal chairs.

They were just settling in when Montrose called Dana Neubauer to the stand. My stomach sank.

"God in heaven," mumbled Mack. "What could she have to say?"

Dana walked solemnly to the stand. As I said, she looked particularly stunning that morning. In retrospect, I realize she also looked substantial, serious, and totally credible.

"Did you know the deceased, Peter Mullen?" Montrose asked.

"Yes, I knew Peter very well," she said.

"For how long?"

"I've been coming here every summer for twenty-one years. I met Peter and the rest of his family early on."

"I'm sorry to have to ask this, Dana, but were you ever intimately involved with Peter Mullen?"

Dana nodded.

"Yes."

There was some murmuring, but, overall, the room was still reeling from all the other testimony. I knew about Dana and Peter by then, but I hated to hear it in open court.

"How long did the relationship last?" he asked.

"About six months," said Dana, shifting uncomfortably in her witness chair.

Montrose sighed, as if this was as hard for him as it was for Dana. "Were you involved at the time of his death?"

Oh, Jesus, I was thinking, this just keeps getting worse.

"We had just broken up," said Dana, looking in my direction. I knew it was a lie. At least, I thought it was. But when I tried to catch her eye, she looked back at Montrose.

"How recently?" he asked. "I know this is hard for you."

"That night," said Dana in a stage whisper, "the night of the party."

"What a wonderful girl you got there, Jack," said Mack without bothering to look over at me.

Dana flashed me another fearful look and started to cry softly. I stared back in awe. Who was this woman on the stand? Was any of this true?

"Peter took it really badly," she resumed. "He started acting crazy. He broke a lamp in the house, knocked over a chair, and stormed out. He called an hour later and told me I was making a big mistake, that the two of us had to be together. I knew he was upset, but I never thought that he'd do anything rash. If you knew Peter, you wouldn't have believed it, either. He acted like nothing ever really got to him. Obviously, I was wrong. I'm so sorry about what happened."

Then Dana put her head down and sobbed into her hands.

"Brava!" Gidley called from a few rows behind. "Bravissima!" Then he jumped up and began clapping wildly for Dana's breathtaking performance.

A GOOD FRIEND OF MINE once spent a summer interning at a New York TV news station. The anchorman liked him and over a beer offered the secret to on-air success. "The whole thing in this business," said the anchor, "is sincerity. Once you learn how to fake that, the rest is easy."

Barry Neubauer followed Dana to the stand. Neubauer's specialty wasn't feigning empathy but projecting CEO-ness. Every detail of his presentation, from the cut of his charcoal suit to the tilt of his jaw to his full head of gray hair, reinforced the message that here was a man who was your superior.

"Mr. Neubauer," Nadia Alper began, "according to a bartender who was setting up at your place the afternoon before the party, you and Mrs. Neubauer engaged in a lengthy and nasty argument. Could you tell us what the argument was about?"

"I do recall a spat," said Neubauer with a shrug, "but I don't remember it as being particularly serious. In fact, I have no clear recollection of what it was about. Probably just pre-party anxiety. I suspect that bartender hasn't been married for twenty-seven years."

"Would it jog your memory, Mr. Neubauer, if I told you that the same bartender heard you say the name Peter Mullen several times in the course of the argument, often with an expletive attached?"

Neubauer frowned as he strained to recall the incident.

"No, I'm sorry, it wouldn't. I can't imagine any circumstances in which his name would come up in an argument between Campion and myself. Peter Mullen has been a friend of the family for as long as I can remember. We consider his death, whatever the exact circumstances, extremely tragic. I've extended my condolences to the Mullen family. I visited his older brother, Jack, at the law firm where he worked and spoke to him at length."

As a witness, Neubauer had what might be described as perfect pitch. His erect posture, steady gaze, deep voice, and slow, thoughtful delivery all combined to create an impression of absolute credibility. To judge his responses as anything less than the truth seemed cynical and conspiratorial.

Alper persisted. To her credit, she didn't seem afraid of him. "Could you recall your activities on the day Mr. Mullen died?"

"I screened some dailies in the morning and played eighteen holes rather badly at Maidstone in the afternoon. Then Campion and I got ourselves ready for the party."