"And there could be thousands more, correct?"

"I'm sure I wouldn't know."

I knew that. It was the question I was after, not her answer.

This next one will get me into trouble, but I ask it anyway because defense lawyers should never fear being in trouble with the judge. Not in a criminal case and certainly not in a criminal case as serious as this one.

"Ms. Takaguchi, wouldn't you agree, being that there is at least one other source of mice in Chicagoland, that reasonable doubt as to the defendant's guilt has been established?"

"Objection!"

"Sustained! Counsel, you know better. The jury will disregard the last question."

"That is all I have," I say meekly, seriously contrite as far as anyone can tell.

But inside I am singing the praises of Marcel Rainford, my investigator who obtained the Rudy Gomez mouse hair sample.

Thank you, Marcel.

We have raised reasonable doubt whether the court wants me to ask about it or not.

Now to do the same with the Superglue.

If I can, Jana has a chance of walking out of here a free man.

Just then he looks up and says, "What are my chances, Mr. Gresham?"

I look down at him and whisper, "Eighty-twenty."

"Eighty-twenty?" he whispers back. "That's fantastic!"

"No. The eighty is at the other table. The twenty is you."

"Oh. Eight times out of ten I'm dead in the water."

"In a manner of speaking, yes."

"Well, do something, man. Do something!"

I reach down and pat his shoulder. I do it for the effect it has on the jury. They like me, and the theory among defense lawyers is that some of that will rub off on the defendant when I touch or pat him.

That's the theory.

Had the jury not been there, I never would touch this young man.

I just wouldn't.

41.

We take our afternoon break and, just as we stand and stretch, Danny returns with a venti Starbucks coffee for me. My nectar. I take a sip and smack my lips. It's the little things that get the trial lawyer through the trial. Always the little things.

Ordinarily on our breaks Jana will disappear. I think he's going outside on the sidewalk to smoke and I couldn't care less. His help to me in the trial has been utterly worthless. I'm even beginning to think he doesn't know anything of use to me because he's not the killer. He has personal problems galore, like spying on Priscilla in the shower, but I'm almost a hundred percent certain he's not a killer to boot. I have been wrong before, but always find out too late, after I have acquired freedom for someone who goes back out to kill, rob, a.s.sault, or drive drunk again. It's happened many times over my thirty years.

We launch into the final session of Monday afternoon and the SA announces he will be calling his second to last witness of the trial. He calls Mira Kendricks, a gaunt image of a once-beautiful woman who has spent her life inside laboratories and courtrooms, without sun, without exercise, and without personal care. Her hair is stringy and different lengths, her eyes look flat and lack makeup, and her tight lips and small chest give her an almost childlike look that makes me think of an angry high school boy. It's the image.

The State's attorney asks the witness the usual foundational questions and we discover she's a chemist with the crime lab. If it's got any chemistry, she does it. This time around, it's the Superglue. She has tested what was found and seized in Jana's room and she tells us that it's the same batch of glue that was used to seal Amy's mouth.

But we knew that and I'm ready for it. I cross-examine her, making a big point out of the fact there are thousands of other tubes of Superglue in downtown Chicago alone that would have come from that sample. She limps from the courtroom, having been bitten several times by me.

Hopefully that put an end to the Superglue connection.

Now to wait for the final witness. I can guess that it will be Amy's father, our esteemed mayor, but I can't know for sure. Whoever it is, the State's Attorney has exhausted his list of expert witnesses.

We are done with the technical portion of the trial. The science has been handed off to the jury for its consideration. Good riddance, I'm thinking as I ride the elevator downstairs, exhausted. Danny is back at the office, finished with her own cases for the day. I close my eyes and visualize my boat and the lake. We are a good team, my boat and I; we have our own special blend of chemistry. Now that's some science I could really spend some time with. But it will be a few more days of trial first.

Then, I'm all in. I'm gone.

42.

We're off and running at 9:03 a.m. the next day.

Our mayor is a Jew and a d.a.m.n smart one. He came up through Yale and Wharton and worked for a stint at Goldman before returning to Chicago and buying a seat on the Exchange here. He ama.s.sed a fortune, sold his seat, and turned to politics to bleed off the incredible energy he's known to generate. He is a suave man in his Savile Row suits and shirts and neckties; he is understated in mood and manner and will not countenance drama in the mayor's office. He wears his white hair parted on the side and his black eyebrows give him a conflicted look as if he exists somewhere between young and old. It is a look many many his age-fifties-have, and, like everything else he does, he wears it well.

Amy Tanenbaum, he tells the jury from the jury stand, was a late-in-life child who grew up with the "only child" syndrome because of the ten years between her and her nearest sibling. By the time she reached high school her older brothers and sisters-two of each-were gone and either settled down with children of their own or pursuing medicine or Ph.D. Programs.

She was a charming girl, he says, an astute observer of people and the degree of sincerity with which they communicated, and so, the mayor a.s.sures the jury, the man who murdered her was not someone with whom she would venture far from the stands, as in going down the sidelines and into the dark to the restrooms. She just wouldn't have done that.

"So what are you telling us, Mr. Mayor?"

He hand-brushes his dense hair.

"What I'm saying is, Amy was surprised in the restroom. She had no idea her a.s.sailant was waiting there."

"So it's very likely the man who murdered her was not someone she knew."

"That's exactly what I'm saying."

"So we can rule out her friends as potential suspects?"

"Yes. My point, exactly. She took great care in choosing who she let come near."

"Were you familiar with Amy's circle of friends?"

"Very. We hosted a sleep-over just about every weekend. Our pool is heated and covered, there's a pool table in the game room, the refrigerators and pantries are always well-stocked with teenager food-we've done everything possible to encourage Amy to bring kids home with her. So, yes, I would say I knew them all. More than most parents, I would venture."

"Was she friends with the defendant, Jana Emerich?"

"Never heard his name before his arrest. Never saw him at our house. He was never there."

"Had you ever seen him before?"

"Never."

"Have you spoken with her friends about Mr. Emerich?"

"Yes."

"What have you learned?"

"Objection," I say, "hearsay."

"This is preliminary, counsel," says Judge Lancer-Burgess. "I'll allow it, but only so far, Mr. d.i.c.kinson."

"Please answer," SA d.i.c.kinson tells the witness. He takes a sip of water from his gla.s.s on the lectern.

"I have learned that Amy never spoke of the boy, was never seen with him, and wouldn't have had any idea who he was."

"It's true he was a newcomer at the school?"

"He started Wendover in September with the new semester. Before that, I believe he was in the Los Angeles area."

"Mr. Mayor, shifting gears now, are you acquainted with the detectives who have taken the lead on this case: Detective Ngo and Detective Valencia?"

"Yes. I have spoken with them numerous times."

"And you have asked them to find your daughter's killer?"

"No more so than any other homicide file on their desk. But I have asked, yes."

"At any time have these two detectives exhibited any doubt as to the ident.i.ty of Amy's killer?"

"Never. They have been certain all along that Jana Emerich is the man who killed my Amy."

He then goes on to establish what the mayor knows about the investigation, the normal departmental procedures that were followed, and the like. When it comes my turn to examine, I know better. Leave the family members alone. The jury will filter out what is useful and what is not. Their bulls.h.i.t sifters are always at work.

So I have no questions for His Honor.

At which point, the state rests the prosecution's case against Jana Emerich.

There follows the usual motion for a directed verdict, made by me, as is the usual procedure in criminal and civil cases at the close of the prosecution's and plaintiff's cases. These motions have never been known to be allowed, at least not by me, but I plunge ahead anyway, out of the hearing of the jury, with what will amount to my closing argument to the jury. It is a time to hone my words and my logic and get my ducks in line for the time when we argue to the jury.

My motion for directed verdict is denied.

The defense case must now begin.

43.

Tim O'Donnell-Uncle Tim-arrives at court wearing gray Dockers, a white shirt with a wide tie from the Seventies, and a blue blazer that is frayed at the wrists and becoming threadbare at the elbows. He looks hungover and probably is with his venous red sclera and two-day growth of facial hair. The look isn't anything like what I asked for. But like so many things that happen in courtrooms, it is what it is. So I call him to the stand and he is sworn and takes his seat.

He is restless and drums his fingers on the shelf at the front of the witness stand. I catch his eye and give him the briefest head shake. He looks at me with a question mark on his face, clearly without a hint of what I'm driving at.

Anyway.

So we launch right into our dialogue.

"Please state your name."

"Timothy J. O'Donnell."

"What is your business, occupation, or profession?"

"I'm a plumber."

"Where do you work?"

"Out of the back of my Ford van."

"So you're self-employed?"

"No, I work for someone."

I pause in my questions and appear to be reading through my notes. What I'm actually doing is giving him a chance to relax and acclimate to his surroundings. I don't want what he's about to tell the jury to be tinged with fear or trembling. I want him rock solid.

"Your nephew is Jana Emerich, correct?"

"Jana is my sister's boy. That makes me his uncle."

"How long have you known Jana?"

"Really known him only since last summer when my sister and him moved back here from L.A."