A Barnstable police officer materializes at Stanley’s side. Sergeant D. B. Briggs, his badge says. Geraldine joins the pair, her pale green eyes fixed first on Stanley, then on Nicky Patterson.

Nicky turns and looks at the faces in the second row, as if he’s certain Stanley is speaking to someone else.

“Officer,” Stanley calls out to the cops in general, “arrest this man.”

Nicky stands but he can’t go anywhere. A half dozen uniforms surround him, all looking at Sergeant Briggs for direction.

The Kydd snaps out of his trance next. He rushes toward the gallery, glaring at Stanley. “Arrest him? For what?”

“For murder.”

Stanley’s arm is still outstretched. And his index finger is closer to Nicky than it should be. If Nicky’s a murderer, that is. Stanley doesn’t seem to realize.

“For the murder of a Superior Court judge who was about to put him behind bars.”

“Judge Long isn’t dead,” I say, still frozen to my spot outside the chambers doorway. No one pays attention.

Men and women in the first few rows-newly informed of a murderer in their midst-scramble from the benches into the aisle and head for the back of the room. No one leaves, though. Instead, they huddle in small groups against the back wall to watch. They’re not sure what’s going to happen next, but they are sure they don’t want to miss it.

The Kydd grabs Stanley by one elbow and spins him around. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“He was the only one here.” Stanley’s answer isn’t directed toward the Kydd. He’s speaking to Geraldine and Sergeant Briggs, no one else.

The Kydd doesn’t take kindly to being ignored. He inserts himself in the center of the law enforcement trio. “What do you mean?” He gestures to the crowd. “There are a hundred people in this room.”

Stanley shakes his big head, his forehead vein working overtime again. “Early this morning,” he says, still addressing Geraldine and Sergeant Briggs, “I found him sitting on this bench in the darkness when I arrived. Alone. He was alone with the judge-the same judge who told him to bring his toothbrush, I might add-and now the judge has been murdered.”

I’m surprised to hear Stanley mention the toothbrush. He was paying more attention yesterday than I thought. “Judge Long isn’t dead,” I repeat. Still, no one seems to hear.

Stanley wheels back toward Nicky, pointing again. “You don’t have it, do you? You don’t have the twenty-two thousand dollars. Judge Long was going to put you away and you knew it.”

Nicky shakes his head and parts his lips, but no sound comes out.

The Kydd raises both hands to cut him off. “Shut up,” the Kydd orders. “Don’t say a word.”

Nicky’s face says there’s no danger of that.

The Kydd towers over Stanley. “That’s ridiculous,” he says, looking down at Stanley’s comb-over. “Even you can’t believe that.” The Kydd’s drawl is more pronounced than usual. “If he’d murdered the judge, he’d have gotten the hell out of here. He wouldn’t have sat on the front bench waiting for the rest of us to find the body.”

I consider announcing again that Judge Long isn’t dead, but it seems futile.

Stanley doesn’t look at the Kydd. He faces the uniforms surrounding Nicky, his eyes darting from one cop to the next. “What are you waiting for? Didn’t you hear me?”

Stanley points at Nicky yet again, as if he thinks the officers don’t know who he’s talking about. “I just told you people that this man attacked a Superior Court judge. Arrest him. Now.”

Nicky gapes at the cops. The cops stare at Sergeant Briggs. The sergeant turns a questioning eye toward Geraldine. No one’s taking orders from Stanley.

“You people,” Stanley says to no one in particular, folding his thick arms across his chest.

Geraldine remains silent for a moment, staring at Nicky. She presses two fingers against her lips, no doubt wishing there were a cigarette between them. Finally, she takes a deep breath and returns Sergeant Briggs’s stare. “Take him in,” she says.

“You can’t be serious.” The Kydd faces Geraldine, his eyes wide. This is his first battle with our former boss, but he and I have both seen Geraldine at war. It’d be easier to take on the armed forces of a medium-sized country.

Geraldine stares up at him and almost smiles before she narrows her green eyes. “Your client had motive, Mr. Kydd.”

The Kydd’s eyes open even wider. Geraldine never called him “mister” when he worked for her.

“He had opportunity. And his opportunity was exclusive.” Geraldine turns to Nicky, who’s now cuffed, then looks back at the Kydd. “I’m quite serious, Mr. Kydd. Quite.”

Judge Beatrice Nolan was appointed to the Superior Court bench fifteen years ago. She brought along a fiery temper. And it’s not just lawyers and litigants who bear the brunt of her outbursts. She abuses her courtroom staff as well.

Beatrice Nolan is a narrow woman-truly. Her shoulder-length, dark gray hair is the texture of steel wool. Severe features-pinched eyes and anemic lips-punctuate her long face. Her complexion, though, is uncommonly smooth for a woman her age. Not a laugh line in sight.

The chief judge called upon Beatrice this morning to preside over the remainder of Commonwealth versus Hammond. He postponed a civil suit that was scheduled to begin in her courtroom today. I’m certain she didn’t appreciate his meddling with her schedule. There’s one thing every lawyer in the county knows about Beatrice Nolan. She doesn’t like criminal cases. They’re messy.

The chief judge gave Beatrice our trial briefs and the list of exhibits already admitted into evidence. He asked her to spend the balance of the morning reviewing them. Then he directed the court reporter to begin printing the transcript of the testimony received so far. And he told the rest of us to stay put. I didn’t, though.

Harry stayed behind to oversee the transition while I ran through the parking lot in the snow to the House of Correction. I wanted to check on Sonia Baker, find out how her meeting went with Prudence Nelson. One look at Sonia answered the question. It didn’t go well.

“What a bitch!” Sonia shouted into the telephone.

“She can help you,” I countered.

“I don’t care.” Sonia was as worked up as I’d ever seen her. “I don’t want her help. I don’t want to answer any more of her nosy questions. I don’t want to listen to any more of her arrogant lectures. I don’t want to see her again-not ever. She’s a condescending bitch.”

I stayed with Sonia for almost an hour, trying to calm her, trying to convince her to meet with the doctor again, to give it another shot. She refused. I wasn’t entirely surprised. Prudence Nelson isn’t known for her bedside manner.

I returned to the Superior Courthouse, searching my brain for an alternate expert on battered woman’s syndrome, but I came up empty. Then I began searching my brain for a way to convince Sonia to change her mind. Prudence isn’t the only Massachusetts psychiatrist well versed in battered woman’s syndrome, and I don’t particularly like her myself. But as expert witnesses go, she’s the best.

When I got back to the courthouse, Harry assured me I hadn’t missed a thing. He’d spent the time pacing the hallway, he said, phoning Cape Cod Hospital more often than he should have. The exasperated unit secretary gave him the same message each time: The judge is in surgery and won’t be out anytime soon; no word yet on his condition.

When he wasn’t busy bothering hospital personnel, Harry was lamenting the appointment of Judge Leon Long’s replacement. Judge Beatrice Nolan is bad news. She’s especially bad news for Harry.

After lunch the chief judge moved our entourage, TV cameras and all, into Judge Nolan’s cramped courtroom. It’s a former storage area, windowless and dank, at the back of the first floor. The only real courtroom in the building-the main one upstairs-is off-limits because it’s a crime scene.