Juror twenty-eight started to nod, then darted a glance at me. She cut short her nod and asked, "What do you mean by 'framed'? That someone made him look guilty? Or put him in a situation where he'd do something wrong?"

Pretty smart question, but her body language and attitude told me she'd asked that question to curry favor with me. She wanted on this jury way too much.

Terry finished with her and moved on to more mundane subjects like reasonable doubt. I snuck a look at Wagmeister and Ian. They were huddled together as though they were old fraternity buddies-the upper-one-percent fraternity. Ian was writing copious notes to Wagmeister, who nodded as he read them and patted Ian on the back. Wagmeister seemed to have slipped into the role of second fiddle rather easily, which was surprising. He was someone who'd always seemed to enjoy the limelight. On the other hand, if Ian had decided he preferred Terry to be lead counsel and he was still paying the freight, Wagmeister had no choice but to go along or get off the case.

I turned back to the jury and firmed up my decisions about who to kick first, then wrote down those juror numbers and showed Declan. Declan raised his eyebrows at my decision to kick the former CHP dispatcher.

Finally, Terry thanked the jury and sat down.

"The first peremptory is with the People," Judge Osterman said.

I stood. "The People would like to thank and excuse juror number twenty-eight."

The former CHP dispatcher favored me with a dirty look on her way out of the jury box.

"Defense?"

Terry stood. "The defense would ask the court to thank and excuse juror number sixteen."

There went my electronic engineer.

One by one, I watched the best of the pool walk out the door as the defense used one challenge after another to get rid of them. I passed as often as I dared, to save up my challenges for the coming groups, but it hardly mattered. I'd just be trading a stomachache for a headache, because they were all equally bad. And so it went that day and the next.

At mid-afternoon on Friday the judge turned to face the jury. "I know this is the least fun part of the trial for you, so for your sakes, I'm going to let you go early today and get started on your weekend." The jurors gave him a hearty thanks, which made Judge Osterman smile. The kiss-ass.

63.

On Monday, as we'd been doing all along, Declan and I ate lunch in my office. I unwrapped my vegetarian pita sandwich and salted it liberally. I know salt is bad for me. But it was a lot better than a big belt of scotch-which was what I really wanted. "I can't believe the way all the jurors are biting whenever she throws that conspiracy hook into the water."

Declan nodded glumly. "And whenever she talks about the innocent guys who get nailed-"

"I've got to keep pushing back and reminding them that those guys eventually got sprung by DNA, get 'em to say they believe in it-"

"That'll help, but when you look at what we've got coming..."

That was the most painful truth of all. Our next batch of jurors included a guy who'd been busted for DUI twice and believed the cops had rigged the blood test (both times!); a woman who'd divorced her cheating husband (a former sheriff's deputy) and was now taking him to court for unpaid child support; an older man whose daughter was unfairly busted for possession of cocaine (that really belonged to her roommate); and a university professor whose best friend had been (unjustly) accused of misappropriating funds from his accounting firm and was now facing criminal charges. And it went downhill from there. The group after that one included a woman whose son was on death row and a father whose daughter had stolen the family business right out from under him-and who passionately hated everyone under the age of seventy.

Naturally, all had claimed in their questionnaires that they could be fair.

"Let's talk about the good ones that're still in our clutches. We've got the librarian, the soccer mom from cop country-"

"Cop country?" Declan asked.

"Simi Valley. Bedroom community where lots of law enforcement live. Very good for us, and the defense might like her too, because she reads People magazine and watches Celebrity Ghost Stories, so she seems like a Hollywood groupie-"

"I watch Celebrity Ghost Stories."

I eyed him with mock reproach.

"It's not appointment viewing or anything, but it's kind of interesting..."

"Anyhow, I'd guess Hollywood nonsense is a fun distraction for her, not the sun in her universe. I think she'll ride with us. We've also got the single mom with the violent history-"

"You want to keep her?"

"Absolutely. She's cool and smart and she won't buy anyone's garbage. And I'm betting the defense doesn't get who she is, so they'll leave her on. Trust me on this one. What about that retired schoolteacher who taught English?"

"Not sure. I get a creepy vibe from him," Declan said.

"As in pedophile creepy?"

"I don't know." Declan finished his sandwich and wiped his mouth with the paper napkin. "But whatever. Do pedophiles tend to convict?"

I almost spit my soda across the room. "You're twisted, Declan. Yet another thing I like about you."

Back in the courtroom, the afternoon session flew. I hammered away on the virtues of DNA and did my best to find something good in what looked like a relentlessly bad batch.

By four thirty the next day, I had at least seven jurors I needed to kick and only two peremptory challenges left. This was the true heart-pounder, when I had to make the choice between the lesser of the evils. There was the owner of a paycheck advance business (the kind who prey on the poor, charging twenty percent interest for a loan against forthcoming paychecks) who openly admitted he wanted to write a book about the trial; a left-wing blogger who called me a "functionary of the male-dominated establishment" (personally, I appreciated her point of view, but legally, she had to go-and did I mention she hated cops?); and the piece de resistance: a waiter (aka out-of-work actor) who was very familiar with the work of the genius Russell Antonovich and his partner, the "brilliant Ian Powers." The other four were equally nightmarish.

I asked for a five-minute break to take aim at our final round of challenges and huddled with Declan in a corner of the courtroom.

"I think that guy in the back row, the one whose mom is so sick, has got to go," Declan said. "Did you see how pissed off he was when Terry got into her spiel about the innocent men wrongly convicted? I thought he was going to come out of his seat."

"Number eighty-nine, yeah." An anesthesiologist had botched a routine hip replacement operation that left the prospective juror's mother a vegetable, albeit one who'd probably get to go home, where doctors opined she'd survive for many years. Because he'd signed a binding arbitration agreement, the most he could recover was $250,000-which he probably wouldn't get, because his mother was elderly. I had an idea that whatever he got wouldn't come close to covering the costs of in-home care. In a word, the issue of innocent people being mowed down by the machine was very real to him. I tried to find a bright side. "He's got a bachelor's degree. There's a chance our evidence could get him to see past his own life. Besides, the paycheck loan guy looks way too impressed with Powers. He doesn't care what's true, he just wants a book deal."

Declan shrugged. It was a choice between death by hanging or by poisoning. There weren't many good options here. I booted paycheck loan guy and the "waiter" and prayed I was wrong about the rest. Like it or not, by five thirty we were done.

"Congratulations, we have our jury," Judge Osterman said. "Ladies and gentlemen, would you please stand and raise your right hand."

Exhausted, I watched as Judge Osterman swore them in, wondering if I'd already made the fatal mistake that would set a murderer free.

64.

I called Bailey to tell her we had our jury. "And it ain't pretty." I'd been filling her in all along, giving her the highlights-or rather the lowlights-of each day's proceedings. Bailey was still angry and incredulous about Terry's opening salvo.

"Rampart Division? Has she lost her mind?" Bailey said nothing for a few moments. "So they're definitely going for the conspiracy tack."

"Oh yeah. Terry's definitely going there, and she's taking the jurors with her." I'd told Bailey all about the alarmingly receptive audience Terry had found in our jury pool.

Though Terry had produced nothing to back up her conspiracy claim, the press had run with it as though proof were a foregone conclusion. "The only question," one commentator said, "is whether the prosecution can overcome this incendiary defense. And on that score, most agree, all bets are off."

It was, in large part, hype that was meant to make it a close race. I couldn't afford to get down about it; opening statements would begin before we knew it. Personally, I never do lengthy openings. I prefer to promise less than I plan to deliver. It gives the unheralded evidence an added zing, and it keeps the defense from claiming we made promises we couldn't keep. I knew the defense wouldn't say much, if anything. They didn't want to tip their hand.

Over the next few days Bailey and I put in the finishing touches. Our most important being the ordering of our witness list. I usually like to call a victim's friend or family member first. It humanizes my victim-always a challenge in a murder case, since the victim can never appear, while the defendant, all cleaned up and pretty, is ever-present. And, if well coached, crying on cue. But I wouldn't be able to do it this time. Not with Russell dead set against me and Raynie still ambivalent. The night before opening arguments, I was still unsure about who to put on first. Bailey read my thoughts.

"We could start with Mackenzie," she said.

"But she's awfully young. We don't know how she'll bear up. And I don't know that I want to open our case by admitting our victims were extorting Russell. We'll have to get there eventually, but I'd like to at least start strong, put this case on solid ground before I get into problem areas. How's Raynie sounding?"

"I only really talk to her about scheduling, but from what I can tell, she's still pretty wishy-washy."

I'd never before been in the position of having the victim's family at odds with us in a murder case. "Maybe once Raynie and Russell see it all put together, they'll come around."

Bailey gave me a skeptical look. I knew she was right, hard as it was to swallow. "Then I'll start with the physical evidence.

"How about Dorian?" Bailey suggested.

It made sense to start with our criminalist. She collected nearly all of the evidence, so I'd need her testimony before I could call the fingerprint and blood analysts-plus, she was a strong witness. But this time, since I couldn't call any friends or family for a while, I had a different plan of attack.

"Is Dr. Vendi good to go for tomorrow?"

"Yep. And I've got all her photos on disc."

We don't get to pick our coroners. It's always luck of the draw, and this time, we'd lucked out. Dr. Graciela Vendi was one of those rare pathologists who did fantastic work and knew how to talk to a jury. Her testimony would bring home the brutality of the attacks on Hayley and Brian in vivid detail. The defense could blab all they wanted about unnamed dark forces. Here was reality-two young people hideously slaughtered on a lonely mountain. Hopefully it would sober the jury up, get their minds right.

Bailey added, "Your guy Declan checked out the discs, said they looked good. I have to say, I really like that kid."

"Me too. But that's a total accident. Vanderputz only put Declan on so he could suck up to his Hollywood contributors-"

"And spy for him."

"Yeah. Didn't quite work out the way Vanderputz planned."

We both laughed. I raised a phantom toast in honor of my second chair.

With all the constant stress and worry about the crazy circus this case was turning into, I hadn't been getting much more than four hours of sleep a night, and jury selection and trial preparation had left me feeling like I'd been through a meat grinder. All I wanted to do was put it behind me and go to sleep. I hoped that with a solid eight hours under my belt, I'd wake up feeling better about the twelve select citizens we'd wound up with-or at least be able to pretend I did.

I dragged myself to the gym to work out the kinks and make sure I'd be tired enough to get into bed by ten o'clock. Then I ordered a light dinner-seared ahi tuna and a green salad-and polished off what was left of a bottle of pinot grigio. I'd just gotten into bed when Graden called to wish me luck.

"Thanks, I'll need plenty of it," I said.

"That bad?"

"I can't remember when I've felt worse about my chances this early in the game."

Graden tried to cheer me up by reminding me that anything can happen in trial-and even played back one of my own stories to make the point. "Remember? Your eyewitness fell apart on cross and the defense had a great alibi witness-solid citizen with no priors-who swore the defendant was working with him all day on the day of the murder. Even brought in the time card to prove it-"

"Except the time card showed it was the day after the murder." It was one of those great courtroom moments. The memory still made me smile. "I'm not going to get that kind of lucky this time, Gray. Not with Terry Fisk on the case."

We said good night and I took a health magazine-a free sample-to bed. Nothing like reading about gluten-free, fat-free, sugar-free to bore myself to sleep. In less than five minutes, the magazine slipped out of my hands and onto the floor.

The next morning, feeling rested if no less anxious, I pulled on my robe and stepped onto the balcony. I could already feel the heat building. At just seven a.m. My stomach was clenched too tightly for food, so I decided not to force the issue. I was out the door by seven forty-five and in my office by eight fifteen, a snack bar bagel and cream cheese and large coffee in hand.

"You really ought to let me do that," Declan said, nodding at my purchases, as he sat down in front of my desk.

"You're a lawyer, not a gofer."

"They're not mutually exclusive."

"Especially at the big corporate firms." I looked at Declan with curiosity. "I've seen your resume. Law Review, moot court finalist, dean's list. You could've had your pick of white shoe law firms. How'd you wind up here?"

"I interned here when I was in law school and I loved it. After that, I never wanted to be anywhere else."

Maybe that was the problem he had with his father: daddy had more high-profile commercial prospects in mind for his son than the low-paid position of a county prosecutor. I was curious, because the more I got to know Declan, the less I could understand his father being anything but enormously proud to have such a great guy for a son. But being rabid about my own privacy, I couldn't bring myself to encroach on his.

"You've got the DVD for opening?" I asked.

"Right here." He patted his briefcase.

I looked at the clock on the Times Building. It was eight thirty-five. "May as well get down there and set up." Judge Osterman had issued an e-mail to all parties reminding us that tardiness would not be tolerated and sanctions would be imposed for any party not ready to proceed at precisely nine a.m.

Now that jurors would be coming to court, reporters were on orders to take their assigned seats in the courtroom. No loitering or interviewing in the hallways allowed. The judge had reserved two rows of benches for the public, who had to show up and take numbers. As Declan and I headed out of the office, Melia said they'd begun queuing up at five thirty that morning. When we got off the elevator, I saw Jimmy, the bailiff, taking the numbers from the line of lucky winners as he admitted them into the courtroom one by one.

At five minutes to nine the courtroom was packed, not even one square inch of space visible on the benches in the gallery. A loud buzz filled the air as reporters chatted and waved to each other. Raynie was waiting out in the hallway with the rest of the family and friends, at my suggestion. There was no reason for them to suffer through the grisly details of my opening statement. But Russell defiantly sat proud and tall on the "groom's" side with all the rest of the Ian Powers supporters. I hadn't spoken to Russell since the day he'd thrown me off the lot. I'd hoped he'd come around by the time trial started. I put the depressing thought out of my mind and looked through my notes while Declan finished setting up the monitors that would display our photographs to the jury.

Judge Osterman took the bench at nine o'clock on the dot and Jimmy faced the gallery. In a strong, stern voice he announced, "Come to order. Department One Fourteen is now in session. Judge Osterman presiding."

The buzz stopped abruptly and a silent tension spread through the courtroom. Judge Osterman looked down at us. "Both sides ready? Anything we need to take up before we begin?"

We all agreed we were ready to go. "Then let's have the jury."

The twelve chosen jurors and five alternates filed in. My librarian darted a quick glance at the packed gallery, then cast her eyes down nervously as she found her seat. But the black single mom seemed unfazed. She took her time moving through the jury box and relaxed into her chair, then surveyed the courtroom with an amused expression. The young man with the ailing mother moved to his seat quickly, picked up his notebook, and stared straight ahead. Some of the jurors briefly looked my way, but none of them made eye contact. The judge commended them on their promptness, made sure they had no problems or issues to address, and told them now was the time for opening statements. He reread the introductory instructions he'd given at the start of voir dire, "just to refresh your memory," then reminded them that opening statements weren't evidence but only "a brief preview of what each lawyer believes the evidence will show." Then he looked down at me. "Are the People ready to proceed with an opening statement?"

I took a deep cleansing breath that nearly choked in my throat and stood. "Yes, Your Honor."

"You may proceed."

I turned to face the jury.

Let the games begin.