Judge Long doesn’t respond to the Kydd’s request, doesn’t even look at his proposed plan. “Thank you, Mr. Kydd,” he says softly, his eyes still focused on Nicky. “You may be seated now.”

The Kydd crosses the room, drops into his chair, and rests his head in his hands. He knows this isn’t good.

“Stand up, Mr. Patterson.” The judge’s voice is uncharacteristically quiet.

Nicky gets to his feet, looking like he’s about to make excuses. That would be a mistake. Lucky for him the judge speaks first. It’s almost a whisper. “What did you have for dinner last night, Mr. Patterson?”

“Huh?” Nicky is thrown by the question. He stares at the judge, then looks down at the Kydd for help. The Kydd shrugs at him.

Judge Long leans forward on the bench, his half glasses perched on the end of his nose. “What did you have for dinner last night, sir? What did you eat?”

“What did I eat?”

“That’s right. What did you eat?”

Nicky stares at the Kydd, desperate for advice now.

“Mr. Patterson, did you have dinner with Mr. Kydd last night?”

Harry laughs out loud beside me, then covers his mouth and fires an apologetic glance toward the judge. I don’t dare look at either one of them.

Nicky bites his lower lip and shakes his head. “Naw, I didn’t have dinner with him. I don’t even know him.”

“Well, then, he can’t help you with my question, can he?”

Nicky stares at the judge, blank.

“Dinner, Mr. Patterson. What was it?”

Nicky gives up on the Kydd. His eyes dart around the room for a few moments, as if he might find someone else to come to his aid. Finally, he faces front and looks up at Judge Long. “You want me to, like, name the foods?”

The judge sits back in his chair, smiling at Nicky. But anyone who knows Judge Leon Long can see it’s an ominous smile. His voice is still barely more than a whisper. “That’s right, sir. Name the foods.”

“Well…I…uh…I ate at Zeke’s.”

Laughter erupts in the gallery. Harry leans forward and lowers his head to his knees, his shoulders shaking. I turn away from him and cover my mouth with both hands; I might have to leave the room.

The Kydd buries his face in his arms on the defense table. He’s digesting one of the many cruel realities of practicing law: No matter how bleak a case may look, it can always get worse.

Zeke’s is a strip joint in Hyannis.

Judge Long sits perfectly straight in his leather chair and bangs his gavel again. The laughter stops. But Harry’s shoulders keep shaking.

“The food, Mr. Patterson. I don’t want to hear about anything but the food.”

The hissing steam radiators have barely begun to heat this room, but Nicky is sweating. “I…uh…I got the special.”

Judge Long leans forward again. “And what was the special, Mr. Patterson? Remember, just the food.”

“Meat loaf,” Nicky says, “with mashed potatoes.”

The judge nods. “Vegetable?”

Nicky swallows. “Green beans.”

“Beverage?”

Nicky swallows again. “I had a beer.”

The judge glares at him.

“Two.”

Judge Long stands and paces behind the bench, his arms folded across his pleated robe, his eyes on the floor. Minutes pass. The room is silent. Nicky, it seems, isn’t breathing. Finally, the judge stops pacing, removes his glasses, and glares at Nicky again. “What did your children have for dinner last night, Mr. Patterson?”

Nicky freezes. “I dunno.”

“You dunno?” The judge isn’t whispering anymore. “You dunno?”

“No.”

“You ate your meat loaf and your mashed potatoes and your green beans-all the while not knowing what your little girls had to eat, Mr. Patterson?”

Nicky opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“You drank your beer and then ordered another-not knowing what they had to drink?”

Nicky stares at his shoes.

“Do they have milk in the house, Mr. Patterson? Do they have orange juice?”

“Prob’ly.”

“Prob’ly? Prob’ly’s not good enough, Mr. Patterson. Not good enough for those two little girls.”

The judge sits down again and picks up the Kydd’s proposed payment plan. He puts his glasses back on, skims the proposal for less than a minute, then sets it on the bench and leans toward Nicky.

“I’ll tell you what we’re going to do, Mr. Patterson.” Judge Long’s voice is low again-and threatening. “We’re going to send you home.”

Nicky is stunned.

“We’re going to send you home with a new payment plan.”

Nicky wears the smile of a man who can’t quite believe his good fortune.

“Here’s the plan.”

Nicky leans forward, eager to please.

“You’re going to be back here tomorrow morning at nine o’clock, Mr. Patterson, with a bank check for twenty-two thousand dollars.”

Nicky swallows his smile. “I ain’t got it, Judge. I ain’t got that kind of money. Honest.”

“Then get it, Mr. Patterson. After you deliver the bank check, I’ll enter an order that allows you to pay off the interest over time.” The judge takes his glasses off again and points them at Nicky. “Provided, of course, that you make your future payments on schedule.”

The Kydd is on his feet, trying to bring an end to this session. They’ve got twenty-four hours. They may as well take it. But Nicky won’t budge. He’s shaking his head at Judge Long. “Get it where?”

“You drive, Mr. Patterson?”

“Yeah, I drive. Course I drive.”

“What do you drive?”

“Chevy pickup. Two-fifty diesel.”

“Old?”

Nicky hesitates. “Not really. A year.”

“Sell it.”

The Kydd elbows Nicky Patterson out from behind the table and shepherds him toward the center aisle.

“Nine o’clock sharp,” the judge says to Nicky’s back. “Oh, and one more thing, Mr. Patterson.”

The Kydd and Nicky are almost at the back doors, but they turn and face Judge Long.

“You show up without that check,” the judge says, “you’d better bring your toothbrush.”

Sequestered jurors seem to meld. Fourteen strangers, with nothing in common but the case before them, somehow take on a single personality as soon as they are quarantined. It happens almost every time. Some panels are reserved and distant. Some are angry. Others are warm, sympathetic.

Ours is worried. Worried about convicting a man who has already suffered so much. Equally worried about not convicting a man who shot another in cold blood. It’s all written on their faces.

They file through the side door, wrapping up whispered conversations, their expressions tense, sober. Judge Long greets each of them, his radiant smile back where it belongs. He invites them to take their seats, and the crowd in the gallery sits as well. Every bench in the courtroom is full. Even the aisles are jammed.

Chief Tommy Fitzpatrick reclaims the witness box, hat in his lap. The judge reminds him that he is still under oath and the Chief nods his understanding. He’s been in the witness box a few times before. He knows the rules.

The jurors have had all night to reflect on the damning testimony Stanley elicited yesterday. No doubt Buck’s words-I wish he’d get up, so I could kill him again-echoed in their minds throughout the night. Now it’s my job to make the jurors understand those words. It’s my job to make them feel what Buck felt that morning. None of us can, of course. Not completely. But we’re sure as hell going to give it a shot. And the Chief of Police is going to help.

“Chief Fitzpatrick, tell us about Billy Hammond. What happened to him?”

I just broke the cardinal rule of cross-examination. Questions posed during cross should never be open-ended, should always call for yes or no answers. But that rule doesn’t apply here. Not in this case. Adverse witness or not, Chief Tommy Fitzpatrick can talk all day as far as I’m concerned. As long as he’s talking about Billy Hammond.