"Yes."

"What did Hayley say to you?"

"That I wouldn't see her around or hear from her for a while, but not to worry about her. She said she'd be fine, that everything would be okay. And that I couldn't tell anyone she'd told me that. She made me promise." Mackenzie's face crumpled on those last words, and she delivered the rest between tears that fell like raindrops into her lap. "And I didn't! I should've told someone, but I didn't want to let her down! Now she's dead, and it's all my fault!" Overcome, she covered her face with her hands, and her sobs filled the courtroom.

I know some lawyers prep their witnesses to get emotional, even cry. I never do. Mackenzie's outburst was one hundred percent genuine, and the jury knew it. Several looked at her with pity.

I'd hoped Terry would leave her alone. No such luck.

"So you and Hayley stayed at her father's house all by yourselves?"

"Yes."

"And you did that quite a lot, didn't you?"

Mackenzie shrugged. "We did it sometimes."

"And sometimes you'd throw parties there, isn't that right?"

"Just a few times."

"But of those few times, the cops were called at least once, isn't that true?"

Mackenzie fidgeted with her skirt. "It was just because it was a little noisy. No one, like, did anything bad."

"But you had older boys at those parties, didn't you?"

"I-I don't know."

Terry pulled out a handful of photographs and passed them to me. I looked them over with a sinking heart. I wanted to object but knew it was pointless. The defense would claim that those older boys were potential suspects who might have used their access to frame Ian.

Terry had the photos marked as defense exhibits and placed the first one on the monitor.

"That girl in the skinny jeans and heels, is that you?"

Mackenzie visibly gulped at the sight and I saw her scan the audience nervously. I'd bet she was looking for her father. "Y-yes."

"And who's that boy-or, rather, man-standing with his arm around you?"

"I don't know. Just a guy."

"Isn't he a bouncer at the Viper Room?"

"I-I guess so."

Terry put another photograph on the monitor. "That blonde girl in the leopard tube top and sequined miniskirt, is that Hayley?" Between the hair, the makeup, and the getup, she looked at least twenty. A very experienced twenty.

At the sight of her friend, Mackenzie's lips trembled. "Y-yes."

"And who is this man standing behind her with his arms around her waist?"

"That's-that was her boyfriend. Before Brian."

"He worked for a casting director, and he was about twenty-five years old, right?"

"Yeah-yes."

Mackenzie looked down at her lap and blinked quickly. I hoped that Terry had pushed it too far, that this cross was starting to alienate the jury, but a fast glance in their direction told me otherwise. Nearly all of their expressions had hardened.

"Now, when Hayley told you she'd be gone for a little while and not to tell anyone, you didn't know what she was planning?"

"No."

"But now you know she and Brian were setting up a fake kidnapping to get money from her father, right?"

"I-yes."

"And when Detective Keller first questioned you, you didn't tell her about your last conversation with Hayley, did you?"

Mackenzie shook her head.

"You have to answer out loud."

"No."

"You told the detective that you had no idea what had happened to Hayley after you left Friday morning, isn't that right?"

"Yes."

"But that wasn't exactly true, was it?"

"No."

"Thank you. Nothing further."

"-but I didn't know what to do!" Mackenzie continued, her voice trembling with grief. "I promised Hayley...I promised her..." Mackenzie's voice trailed off.

Terry went back to her seat and Bailey escorted Mackenzie out of the courtroom. I clenched my fists as a hard ball of anger burned in my stomach. Mackenzie didn't deserve this, but there was nothing I could do about it right now. It was on to the physical evidence and my next witness, hacker-or rather "sniffer"-Legs Roscoe.

He'd cleaned up considerably for his television debut. No spikes, no piercings-though I could see the telltale holes on his nose and ears. He even managed to look embarrassed about "cyber-sniffing" Brian's ransom note at the coffee shop.

"I'm not proud of this. It's just a game, you know? I do it because I can. I've never harmed anyone, blackmailed anyone, or anything sleazy like that."

"And you're sure the person you 'sniffed' was Brian Maher?"

"One hundred percent."

"And the girl with him was Hayley?"

"No doubt about it at all."

"Thank you, Mr. Roscoe. Nothing further."

And of course, no cross for Legs. Terry loved this testimony. It was further proof that our two victims were extortionists trying to squeeze a cool million out of Hayley's father.

The next witness was brief and easy: the LAPD computer expert who confirmed that the ransom note sent to Russell had indeed been sent from a laptop or desktop. No cross. No reason for it. And then it was on to our soil expert.

You know how voices can give you a sense of what a person looks like? Sterling Numan's deep, almost operatic-sounding baritone painted a picture of a large man, or at least a medium-sized man with a big barrel chest. Since I'd never met him in person, that was the mental image I'd been working with. So when a wiry little guy-five feet seven inches, tops-came bouncing into my office, tie swinging, schoolboy hair slicked to one side, and introduced himself, I'd had to bite my lip to keep from laughing.

I'd given him my standard advice for testifying, otherwise known as the KISS principle: Keep It Simple, Stupid. He'd assured me he was very comfortable with juries. My bad. I neglected to ask whether the feeling was mutual.

"Dr. Numan, please give us your credentials."

He swiveled in his chair to face the jury-which I hate-and proceeded to rattle off a list of degrees, accomplishments, and publications in a tone so condescending and self-congratulatory, I'd have thought it was a sketch right out of Saturday Night Live. I hoped things would improve when we got to the meat of the matter.

"Did you examine the soil samples removed from Brian Maher's car, Jack Averly's car, and Hayley's body?"

This time he turned to face the jury before I'd even finished the question. I was tempted to grab the baseball off the bailiff's desk and throw it at him-but I was afraid I might miss and hit a juror. My arm is a little unpredictable.

"First of all, the correct name for these 'soil samples,' as you call them, is particulates. It's important to use the correct terminology because each technical appellation has its own specific meaning..."

"Technical appellation." Kill me, just kill me. He started to roll through a list of all of these magic words. When he came up for air, I jumped in.

"Thank you, Dr. Numan. Did you determine the general location where those particulates came from?"

He shot me a look of annoyance at the interruption, then turned back to the jury. "Yes. I am able to determine the origin of particulates to a somewhat specific degree, though of course I cannot pinpoint the origin to a source within a small circumference..."

Blah, blah, blah. Incomprehensible. I badly needed this answer to be in English. It was the whole point of his testimony. I sliced in when he took a breath.

"Dr. Numan, forgive me. Those are a lot of big words. Could you help me out and give the Soil-or rather Particulates-for Dummies version?"

He shot me an imperious glance, then swiveled back to the jury. "Of course. I was able to determine that the origin of these particulates was limited to a somewhat specific locale..."

And off he went once again, if anything, even less comprehensible than before. I gave up. There was just no way to make him juror-or human-friendly. Eventually, though painfully, I dragged him to his conclusion-I think: that both cars and Hayley's body showed signs of having been in the locale of Boney Mountain.

But by that time I thought I could hear jurors snoring. I hoped to wake them up with one last piece of evidence I hadn't mentioned during opening statements.

"I want to shift gears now and ask about another location: Fryman Canyon, the location of the ransom drop. Were you able to tell whether Jack Averly's car had been in Fryman Canyon recently?"

"I examined samples taken from that location using a variety of testing methods..."

Incredibly, he got more long-winded with every answer. I imagined calendar pages turning before he finally gave his conclusion: that he could not find soil or plant evidence to indicate that Averly's car had ever been in that location.

Translation: if Averly's car hadn't been in Fryman Canyon, Averly hadn't picked up the ransom money. Ian Powers had retrieved it.

By the time I was done, I suspected the jurors hated me for putting this guy on. I passed the witness to the defense, hoping they'd spend enough time with Numan to get their fair share of juror wrath.

Wagmeister did the cross this time-a clear sign that Terry knew she didn't have to worry about this evidence. Unfortunately, Wagmeister kept it short and sweet. He had Numan admit again that soil analysis can't pinpoint exactly where in a given area the cars had been, then wrapped it up succinctly.

"And you cannot say, Dr. Numan, exactly when those particulates got on the cars, can you?"

Numan turned back to the jury. "No. I can only say it was recent enough that it had not worn off yet. But of course, cars run on wheels and wheels turn and when those wheels turn, they of course shed any material they may have picked up from any given area. And so the fact that I was still able to find the particulates that I did indicated to me that it couldn't have been very long-less than a year, certainly-since the cars were in that area..."

Seriously. What was so wrong with a simple "No"?

Wagmeister's expression went from amazed to amused, and when Numan finally wound down, he wisely threw in the towel. "Nothing further."

When the judge asked me if I had anything further, I wondered could there possibly be anything further? The soil should've been a nice piece of evidence to add to the big picture. But in the hands of "I'm comfortable with juries" Numan, all it did was confuse them and piss them off. The commentators would be dumping on us all night.

I had no time to dwell on the loss. The next witness would be Declan's inaugural run. I'd decided to let him take the print expert, Leo Relinsky. Relinsky had been telling juries about fingerprints for over thirty years, so I figured this was a foolproof witness to give a newbie who was getting his first taste of a high-profile case.

Declan had been studying his notes and getting ready half the night, though it surely wasn't the first time he'd put on a print expert. But this morning, in my office, he'd been a nervous wreck. He couldn't stand still. He was straightening his tie, adjusting his jacket, and fidgeting nonstop. I'd had to tell him to sit down three times. "If you don't relax, you'll pass out in front of the jury. Take some slow, deep breaths, and don't drink any more coffee. I'm getting the shakes just looking at you."

Now, as Numan left the courtroom, I sat down and whispered, "Go get 'em, slugger."

Declan stood, straightened his tie for the millionth time, and buttoned his jacket. He cleared his throat and barely managed to choke out, "The People call Leo Relinsky."

Declan started by having Relinsky state his credentials. It was a good way to warm up, because Leo's CV went on for a solid ten minutes. He'd won awards, published papers, taught classes-you name it, Leo had excelled at it. I could see that Declan was starting to relax. Excellent. Then Declan had Leo give his spiel about the uniqueness of fingerprints.

That out of the way, they moved on to the results: Jack Averly's prints on the interior driver's door handle of Brian's car, Ian Powers's prints on several areas inside Averly's car, and last, Powers's thumb and index fingerprints on the trunk of Brian's car, half an inch from the bloodstain.

It all went smoothly until Declan asked him about his findings on the nine-millimeter Ruger that'd been seized from Ian's house.

"Did you find any prints on that gun?"

"No, I did not."

"Did you think it unusual that someone would have a gun in his house that didn't have his prints on it?"

"Well, not necessarily."

"But doesn't the absence of prints indicate to you that the gun had been wiped down for some reason?"

"It could. I didn't particularly notice evidence that the gun had been wiped down, but then again, I wouldn't have thought much of it if I had. People frequently do clean their guns. Or they should."

"Did you find gun-cleaning fluid on the handle, or the trigger guard?"

Wagmeister stood up. "Objection! Assumes facts not in evidence-that he was looking for cleaning fluid."

The judge had been watching Declan with a mixture of pity and irritation. The questions about wiping the gun were a very bad idea for exactly the reason the witness had just explained. Declan had painted himself into a corner; now he was desperately trying to make something good come of it. A classic example of bad money after bad.

"Well, I'll allow it," the judge said. "But please move it along, Mr. Shackner."

Declan swallowed and his ears reddened. My heart ached for him. We'd all been there at some point-just not on national television.

"Shall I ask the question again?"

"No," Leo replied. "I remember it. The answer is that I always note the presence of cleaning fluid if it's there, but I did not notice any such fluid on the Ruger."