“They didn’t believe her. She’s got her picture in the newspaper all the time. They thought maybe she just wanted to get back in the paper and wanted to make you look bad. Anyhow, that’s how I got fired.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Lindy.

“The place is a mess without you and Mike running things, anyway. Maybe it was time for me to move on. But I should tell you… people’ve been saying things. You know how they are. They don’t mean you any harm.”

Lindy felt touched. You could never buy George’s kind of loyalty.

“But I did hear one guy swearing he saw you in the parking lot by the plant,” George went on, “just sitting there like you was waiting for someone to come out. So I fixed that.”

“You didn’t hurt him?”

“Lindy, I don’t do that anymore since you got me into that program,” he said, pained. “I just talk to people, like the counselor taught us to do. I told him he must be dreaming and made sure he believed me. You got better things to do than come round here harassing somebody.”

“George… thank you. I’m so sorry about your job.”

“Oh, I’m working with my brother at his cabinet shop, learning a few things, having a pretty good time.”

“I’m glad.”

“Say, maybe you and I could… I don’t know. Hit the slots one night? Go ice-skating? Would you like that?”

“You’re so nice, trying to buck me up. But, no, George.”

“I thought it might be that way,” he said. “Well, I hope somehow things work out with you and Mike. Meanwhile, you just let me know if you need anything, ’cause I’m your man.”

“Promise me you won’t follow me anymore, not even for my own good. I don’t need a protector.”

“If you say so.”

She could tell from the tone of his voice he didn’t believe her. What a sweetheart.

A mechanical voice came on the line, demanding more coins. Lindy searched her pockets, but before she could insert another quarter, she heard George hanging up.

As she climbed into the saddle and steered Comanche up the slushy road, she recalled meeting George. One windy day after he’d first been hired, he’d thrown a punch at the foreman, Bill Henderson. Henderson wanted him fired, and the resulting in-house investigation turned up a record on George. He had served two years for assaulting his sister’s husband.

When confronted, he admitted the conviction, but said that his sister’s husband had been beating her. “I tried talking to him,” George had said when she asked him about it. “He’s just not the type who listens so good.”

Lindy had involved him in a transition group for ex-offenders, calmed Henderson down with a little money under the table, and won George’s allegiance forever.

Easing off her horse, she walked Comanche to his quarters next to the trailer, breathing in the dry air and feeling invigorated from the exercise she was getting. Casting a pleased glance toward the palette of brown and purple in the distant mountains, she began brushing Comanche, starting with the front of his head and working her way across his velvety shoulders, wondering, who had attacked Rachel? That had been no publicity stunt.

At least the cops weren’t going to show up at the trailer. But George’s comments about the business had worried her, and that got her thinking about the trial.

As she brushed, she had a wild idea. Alice. That gave her a good laugh. Alice the avenger, dressed in black, minus the high heels. Hard to believe, she thought.

But if not Alice-who?

On a solid gray day in February, almost three months before their trial date, Nina convened the shadow jury of six women and six men in the extra-large conference room down the hall from the offices that she had rented especially for the event. This cross-section of the community would help them to determine who to look for in the jury selection for the real trial.

First went Winston, who launched into the opening statement that he and Nina had spent the past week drafting. This process alone had been valuable for Nina as they honed the enormous collection of facts and legal points in order to make the opening statement work. They wanted pith, or the jury would lose sight of the forest. They wanted to anticipate Riesner’s opening statement. They wanted to awaken sympathy and respect for Lindy.

They had finally decided that Winston would make two points and two points only: that Lindy had an equal part in building and running the business, and that the separate property agreement was invalid because Lindy had given property on the basis or assumption that a marriage would take place.

The witness parade for the shadow jury, which proceeded much more quickly than in a real trial, began midmorning. The mock Lindy and mock Mike performed admirably, trying to give the dry words on paper in front of them some kind of truth without hamming it up.

“It’s goin’ great, isn’t it Nina?” Genevieve asked during the lunch break, as they walked across the street to the deli.

“Mmm,” said Nina, who had watched the morning’s proceeding with a growing mixture of confusion, fascination, and abhorrence. Rehearsals and theater had never been her thing. Why couldn’t they just go for a conscientious jury and let the strength of the facts carry the day? Why all this showbiz?

Because she wanted to win.

Still, in her view, the name “shadow jury” was the closest thing to accurate so far this morning. These witnesses had no substance. The shadow trial bore only a remote resemblance to a real trial. Where was Lindy’s forlorn disappointment? Where was Mike’s anger? Where was the place where all their plans went awry because someone lied or changed his story and the lawyers scrambled madly to regain control of the uncontrollable?

“You’re not buying this yet,” Genevieve observed. “Fine. Just wait until you see my recommendations.”

“Maybe I’m just a little nervous about my performance in the summation this afternoon. I’m going through my usual freak-out at the thought of a trial, even a fake one.”

They found a place at the counter and Genevieve insisted on ordering strangely named rye sandwiches. While Nina looked over her script, Genevieve chatted with the waitress, who agreed to put on a fresh pot of coffee, and the two reminisced about growing up in New Orleans and eating beignet, with Genevieve sounding relaxed and happy.

“Eat.” Genevieve intruded suddenly on Nina’s thoughts, pushing a ruffled-lettuce-rimmed sandwich toward Nina. “You’re going to love this.”

Smoked turkey with pickles and mustard. Nina ate it anyway.

“I almost forgot,” Nina said as they paid and stepped across the street through a frigid breeze. “Lindy Markov wants to meet with you again.”

“Yes, I already heard. She’s been pesterin’ me. Wants to know all about the jury selection process. We’re meeting tonight for dinner. You come, too.”

“Sorry. She’s not an easy client. She gets too involved,” Nina said. “But I can’t make it. I’ve got plans. It’d be better if you don’t talk about specifics, okay, Genevieve?” Meanwhile Nina would be slipping into a bath, a meditation, a moment with Bob, and then over to a meeting with someone she hadn’t seen for far too long.

“You don’t want me to talk about the case with her?”

“I realize it’s probably protected by the attorney-client privilege even if I’m not there. But I don’t want to take a chance. I’ve had trouble with that kind of thing before.”

“You’re in charge.” Genevieve sounded slightly exasperated. It had to be hard for her, Nina thought, with her personality, to consult instead of lead. She had the same confidence in her abilities, the same close involvement in the case as Nina herself, but she wasn’t a lawyer. Genevieve drifted in and out of one of those tangential quasi-legal consultant positions that hadn’t existed a few years ago. Cutting-edge, yes, but not anchored by tradition or much experience, either.