The day of Lester's trial arrived with all of the fanfare that befitted a small-town murder trial.

My phone chimed at six and I was at once fully awake, frenzied thoughts spilling out of my subconscious and into the forefront of my mind like children out of the door for recess. I knew caffeine would only encourage them, but I made my way to the kitchen to start a cup of coffee anyway. It was definitely not the day to mess with routine.

I found the newspaper propped against the front door in its transparent blue bag. Rachel bet me twenty dollars there'd be a front-page article today and she'd been right. Murder trial begins for alleged child killer. Top of the page, front and center. There was even a picture of Lester in all his drifter glory. The readers would eat it up.

I was up most of the night before going over the potential jury list and memorizing my opening statement. May it please the Court, pause, Honorable Judge Stone, opposing counsel...again and again. One technique I found helpful was to assign a point in space to whatever it was I was trying to memorize. As I practiced in the living room, I would begin my opening near the entrance to the kitchen, then start the next part at the edge of the sofa, and the next by the patio doors, always moving the same direction around the room (in this case, it was counter-clockwise). If I got lost during the real thing, I could imagine the next spot in the living room and use that to jog my memory. I'd write some bullet points on three-by-five notecards and place them on the podium in front of me, but I'd only use those as a last resort.

I was finally satisfied with everything around 4:00 a.m. and decided to try and get a couple hours of sleep. My nerves were always on edge the night before trial and I was lucky to get any sleep at all. I'd heard that no matter how many cases I tried, it would always be that way. Or should be, at least. "Once you get comfortable," an experienced trial attorney told me when I first started, "it's time to find another profession. If you're not worried, your heart's not in it."

The weather forecast for the day was eighty degrees and cloudy, but at 6:20 a.m. it felt closer to forty. The horizon was beginning to lighten, but the sun wouldn't rise for another thirty minutes. Even so, I could just make out the blanket of clouds that lay across the sky in wavelike striations. Not thunderclouds, thankfully. We didn't need rain. It would just be one more reason for a potential juror to "not be able to find" the courthouse and I wanted to be sure we had a large enough panel to pick a jury. The trial was going to happen today if I had to go door to door and drag each and every potential juror out of their beds myself.

I was the first one to my office building. The outer door was always left unlocked, so coming in early or late was never a problem. I made my way up the stairs and jiggled my key in the lock until the old door finally creaked open.

There was a white envelope lying on the floor just inside the door. Price was written on the front, barely legible.

Inside was a folded piece of paper upon which two words were written in the same broken script as the envelope: we're watching. I turned the envelope over and a small photo flitted out, twirling in the air before landing face up on the carpet. It was a small yearbook photo of Sarah. She couldn't have been more than seven or eight in it. The date was scribbled on the back, but I recognized the handwriting this time: Rachel's. I froze, my ears searching the silence for anything out of place in the office, but all I could hear was the blood thumping in my ears. I peered into the dark hallway—empty—then shut the door and locked it. There was no one hiding in my office closet, either.

Rachel kept Sarah's school stuff—art, poems, projects, and random pictures—in our bedroom closet, in a manila envelope stuffed between a small safe and a bag with a blow-up air mattress. Whoever had left the note had been in our house. In our bedroom. They'd gone through our things.

For once, I hoped it was the broken men, although this type of threat didn't seem like Lester's style. He was more of an apparition-in-the-water type of tormentor. The thought of some unknown person rummaging through my closet in order to leave me a threatening note at my office was somehow infinitely more terrifying than the thought of Lester's minions having done it. At least I knew what they were after. Before I left for the courthouse, I dropped the note and the picture in my desk drawer. If I turned up dead after the trial, maybe the investigators could use it to find my killer. A mere three months ago, that thought would have terrified me. I chuckled at it now.

The Hernando County Courthouse, first built in 1821 and further expanded in 1925, sat in the center of downtown and encompassed almost half a city block. Built in the Federal style, which had become popular along the eastern coast of North America during the early years of the Federal Republic, it featured enormous, white columns which rose two stories to meet intricate roof extensions on three of its four sides. The largest pair, which overlooked Wall Street (and the Justice Court where Lester's case was initially dismissed), presided over a set of marble steps which led from the main door down to the sidewalk below. Two oaks sporting branches the size of Volkswagens flanked the front promenade.

I heard the rowdy crowd of people before I saw them. There had to be fifty of them this time congregated on those marble steps, holding signs and chanting. One of the signs depicted a poorly drawn Lester Crowe bent over in a prison cell while a large grizzly bear stood on two hind feet behind him. I'll remember the eloquently written text of the sign until the day they lay me in my grave: your gonna get bear fucked. Poor grammar and all. Still, to this day, I'm not sure exactly what it meant.

I didn't have the heart to tell them they weren't going to see Lester. Not outside the courtroom, anyway. The jail was on the West side of the courthouse, which meant Lester would be brought in through a side door.

Inside, four deputies stood behind a large walk-through metal detector, waiting to check people for cell phones and guns. They never made the attorneys go through, so I went around.

"That wand isn't gonna cut it today," I mentioned to one of the deputies. "These aren't Coles Creek's finest. Y'all are going to have to pat them down, too. Someone hit Lester with a rock in Justice Court at his prelim."

"Sheriff told us," he replied. "We have it covered."

"Thanks." I made my way up the stairs to the second floor, which was full of people. Some were witnesses, some were court staff, and some had just come to watch the show. I ducked my head and pushed through the throng, nodding or shaking a hand whenever I felt obliged to.

Inside the courtroom, I grabbed one of the leather chairs from the defense table and moved it to the other side, facing the audience. Most of the seats were full—even in the balcony above the regular seats—with potential jurors. Young and old, black and white, they represented a random cross-section of the people of Coles Creek. Lester's peers.

The jurors' questionnaires were stacked front of me. Pamela Herbert, pronounced "Ey-bear", sat in seat #1 and was married to a sheriff's deputy. Seat #2 was Jake Bishop, who worked for Hernando County as a maintenance man. The man in Seat #3 was a familiar face; I'd represented his wife in their divorce. I quickly put an "X" by all three.

Just then, the door opened and Marcus came rushing through, Paul Maxwell and his assistant on his heels. I glanced down at my watch. 8:53 a.m.

"Sorry I'm late," Marcus said, propping his briefcase beside the table. "Parking issues."

"No problem," I replied, pulling his chair out for him. "You ready to help me pick this jury?"

Picking a jury was a two-man job: one person to ask the questions, another to jot down the answers and match them to jurors. I slid the questionnaires his way as the judge's clerk walked over to the table.

"Jack, we're going to do pre-trial in chambers." I nodded. She turned toward the prosecution table. "You ready, Paul?" We followed her through the door on the side of the courtroom and down the adjoining hall, which ended at Judge Stone's chambers.

The senior judge's chambers were always well-appointed. Judge Stone's desk, a custom build with a three-panel leather top, fronted several ceiling-height, ebony-wood bookcases filled to capacity with law books. The room smelled like fine wine tastes: expensive and alluring, with hints of mahogany and cherry blossom. The desk was immaculately clean save for a conspicuous manila envelope which sat directly in the center.

"Gentlemen," Judge Stone boomed, leaning back in his chair. "Before me sits the golden goose." He spread his arms wide at the envelope. "Who wants the honor of opening it?" Before I could say anything he grabbed the small envelope and slid it across the desk in my direction. The question was only for effect. "It's not often we get to open such allegedly crucial evidence on the dies irae."

I grabbed the envelope and peeled back the brads which held the flap down as everyone looked on. Two single pages lay inside.

"Well?" Judge Stone urged. The room was deathly silent.

"Connor White. 454 Orange Circle, Coles Creek," I read.

I heard a squeak from the corner, where the judge's clerk stood with her hand over her mouth.

"Erica?" The judge said, spinning his chair her way.

"I'm sorry," she said, her cheeks flushing. "It's just that ...I know that address. Connor and his wife go to my church. He's...uh...he's a deacon."

Paul Maxwell spoke up. "Judge, I don't see how this information is relevant to –"

"It's coming in, Mr. Maxwell," the judge interrupted. "I've already ruled on that. Mr. Price can do with it as he pleases."

"That's fine, Judge. If he wants to run a man's name into the mud with no evidence that –"

"Oh, so you're the moral police now? That's rich!" I laughed.

" – with no evidence to support his accusations, go right ahead."

"Judge –" I started.

"Counselors! That's enough," Judge Stone shouted, silencing the room. "These are the victim's phone records. Seems to me the sheriff's department should have had these from the beginning." He spread his hands as if the ruling was beyond his control. "Is there anything else Mr. Price?

"No, your Honor, thank you." I handed the document to Erica as Paul stood up and walked out of the room. "Do you mind making a couple copies of this for me?"

"Sure," she agreed. I followed her to the copy machine, then leaned down and whispered, "Does Amanda Dunbar's family go to your church?" She hesitated for a moment, then mouthed No toward the beeping of the copy machine.

Of course they didn't. It wasn't salvation Amanda Dunbar was seeking from deacon White.

Back in the courtroom, I took my seat beside Marcus, then slid the document in front of him.

"Is that it?" he asked, shocked. "I'm amazed that actually worked out for you."

"That's it. Right there in black and white. That's reasonable doubt if I've ever seen it."

He leaned in close. "Is there anything else tying this Connor White to the crime scene?"

"Not that I know of. But I subpoenaed Amanda's dad, Eric, to testify. When I question him, I'll suggest he knew about the relationship." And Lester will make him confirm it. "At the very least suspected it." Marcus's face said he believed it would work. "Maybe there really was a relationship, Marcus. Hell, maybe he was her drug dealer too, who knows. All I know is –"

The courtroom doors opened and a man in a tailored black suit walked through followed by three deputies. A hush fell across the crowd as every eye turned to watch him. He was cleanly shaven, bearing his smooth chin for the first time since I'd met him laughing on the cold concrete of his cell floor. Someone had cut his hair, too; it was cropped close to his head and slicked to the side, accentuating his widow's peak. He strode across the courtroom with the air of a feudal lord visiting his serfs. It was not the Lester Crowe I'd come to know over the last four months.

It was the Lester Crowe from my dreams.

I'd bought him a black off-the-rack suit from our local department store along with a cheap white dress shirt, a red tie, and some black shoes. On him, the suit appeared to be made from the finest Italian wool, his tie expensive silk. Even the shoes—cheap, with rubber soles—echoed across the courtroom as if they'd had leather heels.

"Why, Jack Price," he said, sitting. "You look like somebody just walked over your grave." He gave me a moment to process the reference before quietly laughing to himself.

It was a couple minutes after nine when the bailiff walked in and announced the judge. Everyone in the packed courtroom stood at once, causing a rumble that echoed around the room.

"Welcome, everyone. Please be seated," Judge Stone began. "I believe Evelyn, our deputy clerk, has already called everyone's name to see who's here and who's not. It looks like almost everyone showed up, which I thank you for. I'm going to explain a couple things about how the selection process will work, and then I'll turn things over to Mr. Maxwell for the State."

As the Judge spoke, Marcus leaned in again. "This is the same client you told me looked like the hobo version of Hannibal Lecter? Where'd the hobo go?"

I glanced over at Lester, who sat stone faced, listening, and wondered the very same thing. When the Judge finished, he indicated for Paul to begin the jury selection process.

"Good morning everyone," Paul said to the panel.

"Good morning," they echoed back.

"My name is Paul Maxwell and I have the honor and privilege of serving as your District Attorney for Hernando County. The Judge has already explained to you how important it is that you're here today. We're going to try and find out whether or not each of you would make good, unbiased jurors for this case the Court is about to hear. Now, the Good Book says that none of us are perfect, so I don't expect anyone here to be. I'm surely not. And none of the other people up here before you today are either." He glanced toward the defense table and held his gaze on Lester, who stared straight back. "So don't be afraid to answer truthfully."

Paul was good at what he did. He'd been doing it for a long time—almost as long as Judge Stone had been on the bench. At heart, Paul was a good-ole-boy. His sandy-blonde hair, the ends of which flipped over his ears, was always just a bit out of place, making him appear more like a schoolboy than a lawyer, despite his age: relatable, rather than stale and bookish, as lawyers often are. He spoke with a Southern accent that was never too thick, so it appealed to the professionals as well as the rednecks. He mentioned the Bible often, a not-so-subtle appeal to the jurors' religious side, which was almost certainly 100% conservative Christian, and was having an off day if he forgot to mention the "good ole days."

He moved through his questions quickly but confidently, making sure to look each juror in the eye as he spoke to them. When he asked if anyone had heard about the case before trial, almost every single juror lifted the paddle with their number on it. On his follow-up question, though, every single juror said on their oath that they could set aside whatever notions they had about the case and render a fair and impartial decision.

Did I believe that? Of course not. Sure, the majority of the jurors were probably telling the truth—at least they thought they were. It's not hard to convince yourself of something if you really want to believe it. But I also knew there were more than a few who already held a truth in their heart that no amount of evidence from the stand was going to change. The trick was finding out which was which.

When Paul was finished and had taken his seat, the panel's eyes turned toward me.

"Mr. Price," the Judge said.

I took my place behind the podium. "May it please the Court, my name is Jack Price and I represent the defendant, Mr. Lester Crowe. The State is correct about the importance of your duty today. Do you know where that duty comes from? The Sixth Amendment to the Constitution. It grants those accused of crimes, like Mr. Crowe here," I pointed in my client's direction, "the right to a trial in front of a fair and impartial jury. So you're here today because of the Constitution. The Sixth Amendment also guarantees the accused the right to a lawyer to represent him at that trial. So I'm honored to be upholding the Constitution as I stand before you today. I looked for where the District Attorney was mentioned in the Constitution, but I'm afraid I couldn't find it." I flashed a smile at Paul as the panel erupted in laughter. He sat blank-faced, clicking his pen. Over the years I'd found jury selection to be half truth-seeking and half popularity contest, and I was off to a good start.

I started into my questions while Marcus took notes. The panel appeared very receptive, having already warmed up to Paul. I talked about the presumption of innocence and reasonable doubt and made sure the panel understood and could stick to their charge on those concepts of law. Each and every one promised they would hold my client innocent until proven guilty.

When I got into more pointed questions which dealt with specific issues that may arise in the case, the panel members dropped one by one. Almost a third of the panel was involved in law enforcement or security or was married to someone who was. When I asked whether those people would believe the word of law enforcement over a civilian, many raised their hands. Pamela Herbert said she'd believe anything law enforcement said, even if it was contradicted by other evidence. She was removed from the panel for cause along with the others who'd made similar remarks.

I asked another question about whether any of the panel had been victims of violence or knew someone who had, and the hands went up like someone had asked them if they wanted a free trip to Disney World. Of those who raised their hands, several had family members or friends who'd been killed as the result of robberies, drunk-driving accidents, or other crimes. Most stated they didn't think they could sit through a trial that involved the murder of such a young girl. The judge was happy to oblige them.

I tried to watch for Lester's reactions, or lack of them, as the panel got thinner and thinner. He never so much as raised an eyebrow, choosing only to stare at each panel member as they were singled out by my questions. Most avoided eye contact with him, but if the expressions of the ones who met his gaze were any indication, they saw much more than just a thin man in a dark suit; Lester had assumed his ultimate form and he wanted them to see it.

By the end of my questions, nearly half the potential jurors had been disqualified. I glanced at Lester when I was finished, but his face remained as smooth as glass.

As soon as I sat down, the court reporter stood and walked quickly out of the room. Judge Stone furrowed his brow and announced a short recess before the lawyers picked the jury. Several minutes later, we found out the reporter had run to the restroom with an upset stomach and didn't think she could continue. Judge Stone's clerk immediately called the backup, but she couldn't be at the courthouse for at least forty-five minutes.

It was an hour and a half before she arrived. When she was finally set up, we went back on the record and after another half an hour had finally picked our jury. I didn't feel great about them, but I'd done the best I could.

After the panel was called back into the courtroom, Evelyn stood and called out the names of the twelve jurors who would hear the case. Each stood as their name was called and solemnly made their way to the jury box. The Judge thanked the remainder of the panel for their service and dismissed them.

"We're going to take a break for lunch now, ladies and gentlemen. This has taken longer than expected," Judge Stone explained. "Opening arguments will start at two o'clock." I looked down at my watch and was shocked to see that it was almost one. "Jurors, you may not discuss the case with anyone or amongst yourselves. We'll see you back here at two."

"I'm gonna run," Marcus said. "I've got a deposition. Good luck."

"Thanks for the help Marcus, I appreciate it," I said, shaking his hand. "We'll need all the luck we can get."

Lester eyed Marcus as he stood up and took his place in the line of people shuffling out of the courtroom.

"You did good up there, Jackie boy," Lester sneered after he had moved into Marcus's seat. He looked me up and down. "You have talent. And true talent is a rare find. I'm going to enjoy having you around."

"Having me around?" I echoed. I knew what he was getting at, but I wanted him to say it.

He laughed. "Don't look so surprised. You've known all along. A deal's a deal, after all. And what you become in the process, well, you'll get used to it, in time. They all do." He turned away. "Now go and get some lunch, Jack. Your stomach is growling."

***

The jury slowly trickled back into the courtroom at around 2:05, bellies full. When everyone was seated, Judge Stone announced it was time for opening statements. Paul stood up and took his place behind the podium.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Sometime before 9:37 p.m. on July 30th, 2016, Lester Crowe violently assaulted Amanda Dunbar, a 15-year-old girl who attended Coles Creek High School. We know it was before 9:37 p.m., because that's when the people who found her called 911 to report the beaten and barely conscious young girl lying face down in the mud at Lake Baldwin. She had dirt under her fingernails because Mr. Crowe dragged her through the mud and she fought back with every ounce of strength she had. She had broken ribs, broken fingers, and dozens of cuts all over her where someone had tortured her. She died three days later at the hospital because her brain wouldn't stop bleeding." He said the final three words with emphasis, accentuating each syllable. Then he pointed at Lester.

"We know Mr. Crowe did it, because that's what the evidence will show today, ladies and gentlemen. Keisha Fleming saw Mr. Crowe on a county road near Lake Baldwin around the same time Amanda was attacked. You'll hear from her today. We know he was at the crime scene because he left a footprint in the damp soil, and that footprint matches the shoes he was wearing when he was arrested. Further, the soil found on his shoes contains the same chemical composition as the soil at Lake Baldwin. Lester Crowe was there.

When Mr. Crowe was arrested, guess what he had with him? Amanda Dunbar's iPhone. And when he was handcuffed in the patrol car, he practically confessed..."

"Objection!" I shouted, standing. Objections during opening statements were relatively uncommon, but Paul had gone too far. "Mr. Maxwell is mischaracterizing my client's alleged statement. That's highly prejudicial, your Honor."

"Sustained," Judge Stone ruled. "Mr. Maxwell, stick to the facts."

Paul turned back toward the jury, not missing a beat. "He made a statement to the deputy in the patrol car about how Amanda was sweet as cherry pie. Why would he say that, ladies and gentlemen?"

He turned toward me and pointed. "Now, Mr. Price here has a job to do. And he's going to stand up here in a minute and tell you that Amanda Dunbar was meeting someone at Lake Baldwin. He's going to try and suggest to you that that person was the one who killed her. He may even give you a name. I'll be the first to admit to you that Ms. Dunbar was not perfect. None of us are. But she's not on trial here. And there isn't a single bit of evidence that points to someone else assaulting her that evening at Lake Baldwin.

"This isn't CSI: Miami, Ladies and Gentlemen. We can't always find the smoking gun and we're not able to lift fingerprints off people's skin. That stuff happens on television and the movies, but not in real life. In real life, we make reasonable decisions based on the evidence that is available. And that evidence shows Lester Crowe committed this murder."

He stepped out from behind the podium and clasped his hands behind his back. "We spoke earlier in voir dire about 'reasonable doubt'. Each one of you looked me in the eye and told me you understood that 'reasonable doubt' did not mean 'beyond all doubt'. I'm asking you to be reasonable today. Look into your hearts. Listen to the evidence as it's presented on that witness stand. Trust your God-given sense. And at the end of the testimony today, I'm going to ask that you find Lester Crowe guilty of first-degree murder. Thank you."

I waited for Paul to sit, then took my place in front of the jury.

"May it please the Court. Honorable Judge Stone, opposing counsel, court staff, and members of the jury:

"My client, Lester Crowe, does not have to prove a thing to you today." I paused and let the words sink in. "The State has that burden. And the most important thing you need to listen for today is the story that isn't being told.

"That story is the story of how and why Amanda Dunbar was at Lake Baldwin late on a Saturday night at the end of July. Alone. You won't hear the State explain why she was there. Like the State suggested, Amanda Dunbar had her issues, one of which was her use of marijuana. She was positive for THC at the time of her death. Another issue was her abuse of prescription pills, at least that's what her boyfriend, Brad Bailey, will tell you.

"You also won't hear the State talk about the phone call she received at about 7:30 p.m. that night. Isn't that the time the State claims she was being attacked? Why wasn't that person identified by the sheriff's department? I'll tell you why. They didn't even look at Amanda's phone records. If they had, they would've discovered that she talked to someone for almost two minutes that night. Why hasn't the sheriff's department found this person? Was she meeting someone out there? If so, who was it? Why hasn't this person come forward to tell the authorities what he and Amanda Dunbar talked about for almost two minutes?

"The State will also fail to show any physical evidence linking Lester to Amanda Dunbar's murder. There was no DNA found on the scene. Lester didn't have any of Amanda's blood on him. You won't hear a single witness take the stand and tell you they saw him attack Amanda. And the State won't be able to give you a single motive as to why Lester Crowe, who's not even from Coles Creek, would want to murder a fifteen-year-old girl.

"Now, here's what I'm not going to prove today. I'm not going to be able to tell you today how Lester Crowe ended up with Amanda's phone. Maybe the person who killed her dropped it as he was leaving. Maybe Amanda lost it earlier that day and Lester picked it up on the road. But I submit to you that Lester having her phone does not make him any guiltier of murder. Remember, the State has to prove to you beyond a reasonable doubt that Lester is guilty. Lester doesn't have to prove anything.

"As you listen to the evidence presented from the witness stand today, remember that the clue to finding out who killed Amanda Dunbar rests in why she was out at Lake Baldwin in the first place.

"Lester didn't kill Amanda Dunbar. And I'm asking you to hold the State to their burden to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that he did. When they fail—and they will—I'll ask you to find him Not Guilty. Thank you."

I grabbed my notes and took my seat beside Lester as Paul Maxwell rose.

"Call your first witness," the judge said.

"The State calls Dr. Carmen Wells, M.D., Ph.D., your Honor."

Dr. Wells was the pathologist at the Mississippi State Medical Examiner's office who performed Amanda's autopsy. It's typical for the State to call their out-of-town witnesses first so they can get back on the road, even though it seems like they're being called out of order.

Dr. Wells' heels clicked on the wooden floor of the courtroom as her tight brown ponytail swung from side to side. She adjusted a pair of dark-rimmed glasses as she sat down.

"Dr. Wells," Paul began after he'd asked the doctor about her background and qualifications, "did you perform the autopsy on Amanda Dunbar?"

"I did," she replied.

"Can you tell the jury what the cause of death was ruled to be?"

"Acute cerebral edema."

"Dr. Wells, explain to us what a cerebral edema is."

"Sure. Swelling, also known as 'edema', is the body's natural response to injury. When you bump your knee, or arm, or any other part of your body on something, it swells up in response to that trauma. The brain does that too. When it swells, it increases pressure inside the skull. The increased intracranial pressure can prevent blood from flowing to the brain and eventually cause death."

"What types of things cause cerebral edema?"

"Other than natural causes like strokes and infections, traumatic brain injury is the most likely culprit. The three main causes of traumatic brain injury that we see are motor vehicle accidents, falls from significant heights, and assaults."

"Which caused Amanda's brain injury?"

"An assault."

"Tell the jury how you came to that conclusion."

"Upon examination of Amanda's body, I identified multiple injuries consistent with an assault. Amanda suffered three broken ribs, two broken fingers, and a bruised spleen along with countless other cuts and contusions, most notably on her head, face, and back. She had cuts and bruising on her eye and mouth as well as a contusion on her head where it appeared she was hit with a large object. At the spot of that contusion I found a small skull fracture. When I examined her brain, I found an extensive increase in fluid in the lepto-meninges. The brain on cut section showed a diffuse cerebral edema. There was no evidence of active degeneration of the brain or evidence of hemorrhage."

"Someone beat her up?"

"Violently," Dr. Wells replied, looking directly at the jury.

"Can you tell me about the cuts on her back?"

"There were approximately thirty-seven lacerations, each between three and four centimeters long and a couple millimeters deep. I've never seen anything like it."

"Why do you say that, Dr. Wells?"

"Well, like I said, most of Amanda's injuries are consistent with some kind of physical assault—punches and kicks, a baseball bat, that sort of thing. I couldn't determine what made the cuts. They're mostly uniform and appear to have been skillfully done. Whoever cut her had a steady hand and took their time. If they were made with a knife, it must have been razor-thin; they're almost like paper cuts. They would have been extremely painful but did not contribute to her death."

"Dr. Wells, based on your experience, were you able to determine a manner of death?"

"Homicide," she said quickly. "There is no question."

"Your witness, Mr. Price."

"Dr. Wells, you said the superficial cuts would have hurt. Wouldn't they also have bled?"

"Yes, they would have bled some," she answered.

"Some?" I turned to the judge. "May I approach?" The judge nodded. I showed Dr. Wells the crime scene photo I'd brought from the podium. "Have you seen this before? If so, can you identify it?"

"I've seen it. It's a picture of the back of Amanda's shirt."

"Covered in blood, right?" I held the picture up for the jury to see.

"It appears so, yes."

"Thank you. Your Honor, I'd like to mark this for identification and enter this photograph into evidence as exhibit D-1."

"No objection," Paul stated.

"It will be so admitted," the judge ruled. I handed the document to the court reporter, who marked it and handed it back to me.

"And there were a lot of these cuts right?"

"That's right."

"Thirty-seven?"

"Approximately."

"That's a lot. So whoever killed her should probably have her blood on them too. Correct?"

"I can't say for sure," she replied, obviously sidestepping the implication of my question as she looked past me toward Paul. When I followed her gaze, I saw Lester motioning me over.

"Court's indulgence, your Honor?"

I walked back to the table and leaned down. Lester whispered something in my ear.

"And how about your opinion, Dr. Wells?" I asked, back at the podium. Just as Lester had said it. It was sacrilege to ask the other side's witness their opinion about something, especially when you didn't know the answer, but this was different.

"My opinion is that it would have been nearly impossible for someone to cut her so many times without getting any blood on themselves."

I heard Paul cough behind me.

"You also testified about the brutal beating Amanda must have received. Broken ribs. Bruised spleen. But other than the incisions, you didn't find any evidence that a weapon or other implement was used to cause the bruising and contusions, did you?"

"No, I didn't."

"So, whoever attacked Ms. Dunbar must have used their fists?"

"Objection!" Paul said vehemently. "Calls for speculation."

"Overruled. This is cross, Mr. Maxwell. Witness will answer."

"Or their feet," Dr. Wells answered.

"And if they used their fists, shouldn't those fists be covered in bruises and scratches themselves?"

"Again, I can't say for sure."

I already knew what to say. "And what about your opinion, Dr. Wells?"

She hesitated this time, but only for a moment. "I would find it odd if the person that attacked her didn't have any marks or injuries on them."

I shot a glance at Paul. The veins in his neck were beginning to bulge as his cheeks flushed with crimson. I could feel his fury radiating from ten feet away.

"Your Honor, may I approach the witness?"

"Go ahead," the judge instructed.

"Dr. Wells, can you identify this document?" I handed her the report I was holding.

"It's Amanda Dunbar's toxicology report," she replied without reading it.

"Who ran these tests?"

"The lab at our office."

"Dr. Wells, can you read this and tell me the results of Ms. Dunbar's test?" I handed the document back to her.

"She was positive for THC." She handed the document back to me.

"Can you tell the jury what THC is, please?"

"It stands for tetrahydrocannabinol. It's the main psychoactive agent in cannabis."

"And what does this positive test mean?"

"It means she had marijuana in her system at the time of her death."

"Thank you, Dr. Wells. Your Honor, I'd like to enter the report as D-2." When Paul had no objection, the judge admitted it. "Nothing further for this witness, your Honor."

"Redirect?" the judge said.

"Briefly," Paul replied as he hurried to the podium.

"Dr. Wells, does your test show exactly when the THC was ingested?" He was trying his best to remain calm and collected, but his frustration showed through.

"No, it doesn't," she replied. "Typically, it will show positive for at least two weeks after the subject has ingested the THC."

"So we don't know when Amanda smoked the marijuana?"

"No, we don't."

"Thank you. You stated a moment ago that you didn't find evidence of a weapon or other object being used to batter Ms. Dunbar. Do all weapons leave identifying marks?"

"Objection!" I yelled. "She can't testify as to all weapons."

"I'll rephrase. In your experience, have you always been able to identify every weapon or object that was used to inflict injury upon a person?"

"No," she said.

"So it's possible that the attacker used a weapon in this instance. You just aren't able to determine whether one was used or not."

"That's correct."

"Thank you, Dr. Wells. Your Honor, that's all I have for this witness. Unless Mr. Price plans on calling her later, I'd like to release her so she can get back at a decent hour."

Before I said anything, I looked over at Lester. A grin had begun to form at the edges of his mouth. It was the first expression I'd seen on his face since the trial started.

"We won't be calling her, Judge," I conceded.

"You're excused, Dr. Wells." She stood up, straightened her skirt, and slowly walked out of the courtroom. I didn't suppose Paul would be calling her as a witness again anytime soon.

"State calls Ms. Keisha Fleming," Paul announced once she was out of the door.

One of the bailiffs left the courtroom to find her. Five minutes later, the bailiff came back alone. "She's not in the building, Mr. Maxwell."

Paul stood immediately as his assistant began scrambling through the accordion file in front of him. He retrieved a piece of paper and handed it to Paul. "Your Honor, may we have a five-minute recess to locate her? The process server's return indicates that she was served with her subpoena. She should be here."

"Five minutes," Judge Stone announced, sounding only slightly annoyed. "Members of the jury, you may retire to the jury room. We're in recess."

Paul and his assistant left hurriedly from the room, phones in hand. Ms. Fleming wasn't a crucial witness by any means, but it looked bad when a witness didn't show up. It sometimes made it look like the State didn't care enough to get them there.

Lester leaned toward me. "Round and round the cobbler's bench the monkey chased the weasel, the monkey thought 'twas all in fun, Pop! goes the weasel."

That look on his face. "Did you have something to do with this?" I whispered.

"Me?" he said, raising his eyebrows and tucking his chin back into his neck like a hurt child. "Of course not. I've been in jail, remember? Just havin' a little fun, eh Jack?"

I hoped Ms. Fleming was just delayed, but Lester's demeanor suggested otherwise. I wondered if she was okay as I pushed the chair back and stood, walking toward one of the courtroom's two windows and surveying the law offices across the street. I did it partly to stretch my legs and partly because I couldn't stand the sight of Lester Crowe any longer. His presence alone was beginning to sicken me.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and saw the text from Eddie. Call me ASAP, it read. I texted back: Can't talk now, in trial. I put it back in my pocket, but ten seconds later it vibrated again. I snatched it out again ready to give him hell.

bout yo girl, the text read.

I didn't even glance in Lester's direction as I hurried out of the courtroom dialing Eddie's number. I waded through the people in the hall and burst into the men's restroom just as he picked up.

"Eddie. Hey Eddie, I'm here. What did your text mean?"

"Check this out, Jack. Rabbit, your boy from Nola, just contacted an associate of mine. See, Rabbit owes him money an can't pay, so Rabbit says to my boy he got somethin' better fo' him. My padnah says what, and he says I got hookup for some crystal. My padnah says nah, I want my money, then Rabbit says he got somethin' even better. He says to my boy he got the in wit some fire booty in Nola. Some fancy setup where the fat cats go. White girls, too. My padnah starts trippin' cause he thinks this Rabbit maybe settin' him up or somethin'."

"Holy shit," I said.

"They gon' go soon, Jack. He said an hour or so. My padnah is just waitin' on a call back from me. What you want me to tell him? You think your girl might be there?"

My eyes darted around the bathroom. "Don't tell him anything yet, Eddie. If he calls back, stall him. I'm in the middle of a trial and I need a little time. Can you do that?"

"Okay, Jack, but you gotta hurry. Time's tickin'."

My dress shoes echoed on the tiled floor as I sprinted out of the bathroom and back down the empty hall toward the courtroom.