At midnight, Luke set up the sofa bed for Maggie and dug two heavy quilts out of our old cedar chest. I came out to the living room to say good night, then, and Luke headed upstairs with Danny Boy, our elderly Irish setter, on his heels. Maggie Baker had stars in her eyes.

I dropped them at the high school at seven-fifteen, both of them griping about these last two days of school-full days, no less-before the Christmas break. Three times during the five-minute ride, Maggie mentioned that she’ll turn fifteen in just a few weeks. Each time, Luke wished her a happy birthday. My son doesn’t get it.

The roads are plowed and sanded, but the radio weatherman says we’ll see another foot of snow by day’s end. Traffic is thin-it’s too early in the day for holiday shoppers-and I reach the County Complex in just half an hour. The parking lot is almost full, even though most county offices don’t open-and most courthouse proceedings don’t begin-until nine. The combination of Sonia Baker’s arraignment and Buck Hammond’s trial has drawn a crowd, winter storm warning or not.

The District Courtroom is packed. All of the dark brown benches are filled. Those members of the public who were too late to get seats lean against the walls. A dozen court officers stand guard in the back of the room, guns on their hips, prepared to eject any onlooker who might disrupt the proceedings. The building’s ancient steam radiators hiss persistently, and the air is heavy with the smell of damp winter clothes.

A half dozen benches in front are roped off and reserved for the press. It’s not nearly enough space to accommodate their numbers. Photographers and reporters roam the vast room, their bright lights and microphones in search of targets. Sonia Baker’s defense lawyer seems to be just what they had in mind; I’m blinded as I approach the bar.

My vision clears when I turn my back on the gallery and, for the first time in my career, take a seat at the defense table. Geraldine is oblivious to the occasion. She’s focused on paperwork on the opposite side of the room, the details of Howard Davis’s demise, no doubt. Once again, she’s covering for Stanley. He’s not a multitask employee, it seems.

Stanley, I’m certain, is already stationed in Superior Court, the first to arrive for Buck Hammond’s trial. Positioned, no doubt, to greet all witnesses. Prepared to assign seats, if possible.

I’m tired already.

Just before eight, Sonia Baker enters the courtroom through its side door, her ankles shackled, her good wrist cuffed to one of the two armed matrons escorting her. Her purple eye is still swollen shut. She keeps the other one focused on the floor, even as reporters hurl questions at her. They jockey for position and call her by name, but she doesn’t look at any of them, doesn’t let on that she hears.

The orange jumpsuit is far too big for her; I didn’t realize that last night when she was seated. The blouse billows around her thin frame. The tired elastic waistband hangs down on her narrow hips. The frayed hems of the pants drag on the old wooden floor.

A matron removes Sonia’s solitary cuff but leaves the shackles in place. Sonia drops into the seat next to mine. It’s obvious she hasn’t slept much, if at all. Her open eye is bloodshot. Except for the bruises, her face is a ghastly white. She doesn’t look at me.

The bailiff shouts “Court!” and we all rise. Judge Richard Gould emerges from chambers and strides to the bench, ignoring the bright lights and flashbulbs trained on him. When the judge sits, the rest of us do too, all but Dottie Bearse, District Court’s veteran clerk.

Dottie stays on her feet, holding a copy of the criminal complaint, and waits for quiet like a patient grandmother. Only when the room falls silent does she recite the docket number and announce: “The Commonwealth of Massachusetts versus Sonia Louise Baker.” Geraldine is on.

“Your Honor, the defendant is charged with the first-degree murder of one Howard Andrew Davis.”

Geraldine hands me a thick document with multiple tabbed attachments-the medical examiner’s preliminary report, no doubt-before delivering the identical package to Judge Gould. She remains close to the bench, facing the judge.

“The deceased was found yesterday on his living-room couch, Your Honor…”

Geraldine pauses and turns a cold stare on Sonia.

“…in what can only be described as a bloodbath.”

I’m on my feet. This is arraignment, for God’s sake. Geraldine is acting as if we’re in trial. She’s performing for the press, of course. The next election is just four years away. Never too early to kick off the campaign.

Judge Gould is way ahead of me. He bangs his gavel just once, hard. “Attorney Schilling, please. No need for drama. Stick to the facts.”

I sink back to my chair.

Geraldine gives me the slightest of smiles before facing the judge again. “Of course, Your Honor. I’ll be happy to.”

The packed courtroom grows still and silent. The facts are what everyone came to hear, after all. The gory details of Howard Davis’s death are what drew this crowd to the courthouse. And I don’t need the medical examiner’s report to tell me they aren’t pretty.

“Howard Andrew Davis was stabbed eleven times.”

Sonia’s gasp is the only sound in the room. She raises her head for the first time today and gapes at Geraldine, horrified. The photographers are busy behind us; they can’t see her expression. But I can.

I don’t know much about criminal defense work. But I’ve met more than a few criminal defendants over the years. I’ve seen more than a few emotions-real and contrived-displayed on their faces. And I know one thing for sure at this moment. Sonia Baker didn’t kill Howard Davis.

“Five of the lacerations were to major organs, Your Honor,” Geraldine continues, “not to mention a fatal puncture wound that reached the aorta.”

She crosses the room to our table. “There’s no question there was a physical altercation between the deceased and the defendant, Your Honor.”

Geraldine gestures toward Sonia as if she’s Exhibit A. “Howard Davis lost the fight.”

Once again I get to my feet, but I hold my tongue. Judge Gould isn’t looking at Geraldine. He’s not looking at me, either. He’s reading the medical examiner’s report, his expression troubled.

The room grows quiet once more, the only sounds Sonia Baker’s small sobs, until the judge looks up. “I remember Mr. Davis, Ms. Schilling. He was an unusually large man.” Judge Gould removes his glasses and taps them on the medical examiner’s report. “Six feet four; two hundred sixty pounds.” The judge looks over at Sonia and shakes his head. “It doesn’t seem physically possible.”

I sink to my chair again. Never argue with opposing counsel if the judge will do it for you: one of the earliest lessons I learned from Geraldine Schilling.

Geraldine nods at Judge Gould, apparently having expected his reaction. “Your Honor, if you’ll turn to page four of the report, you’ll see that the victim’s blood alcohol content at the time of death was point three-three. The medical examiner tells us this level indicates he’d had twelve to fourteen drinks during the four hours immediately prior to his demise.”

Geraldine pauses to stare at Sonia again. “He would have been just about comatose when he was stabbed, Your Honor.”

Judge Gould’s gaze falls on me while he absorbs this information in silence. “Attorney Nickerson,” he says at last, “how does your client plead?”

I’m up again. “Not guilty, Your Honor.”

I hand my written request first to Geraldine, then to the judge. Neither one of them is surprised. “The defense moves for a psychiatric workup pursuant to Massachusetts General Laws chapter 123, section 15(a).”

Judge Gould puts his glasses back on and peers first at my motion, then at me, through thick lenses. “Battered woman’s syndrome,” he says.