It's an unprofessional comment, and Hawpe's objection gets it stricken from the record, but the point is made, and the jury certainly heard it. By the time Dr. King gets off the stand, I think that Hawpe is ready to throw him a good-bye party.

Mercifully, a juror comes down with a stomach virus, and the afternoon session is canceled. I don't wish anyone ill, and if I could outlaw viruses forever I would, but if someone in America had to come down with one, I'm glad it's a juror on this case. I need the time to focus on our efforts to learn the truth about Stacy and why she was killed.

I call Vince, who tells me that he just got off the phone with Petrone's people. Whatever they talked about, it hasn't improved his mood any. "They want you at Spumoni's Restaurant on Market Street at five thirty."

"Five thirty? That's a little early for dinner."

"That's because you're not invited for dinner," he says.

I want to make sure I have all this straight. "Who should I ask for?"

"Who are you going to see?"

"Dominic Petrone."

"Then why don't you start by asking for him and see how that goes? Oh, and they said you should come alone and unarmed."

"What did you tell them?"

"That not only will you not bring a gun, you probably won't bring any b.a.l.l.s."

"Thanks, Vince."

Before he gets off the phone he makes me repeat the "I'll give the story to Vince" pledge, which I willingly do. Vince is a major pain in the a.s.s, but the next time he doesn't come through for me will be the first.

I call Marcus and give him the evening off. Ever the responsible bodyguard, he presses me about why, and I'm forced to tell him. He reluctantly agrees, and I only hope he's telling me the truth.

I show up at the restaurant at the appointed time. It has been on this downtown street for more than fifty years and is said to have extraordinary Italian food.

I just hope Clemenza left me a gun in the bathroom.

I've worn fairly tight jeans and a thin pullover s.h.i.+rt. I'm not trying to make a fas.h.i.+on statement; I'm just not a big fan of getting frisked by burly men, and I'm hoping this will render that unnecessary.

It doesn't work. I'm not in the door for twenty seconds before I've been frisked and ushered into a back room, where Dominic Petrone sits having a drink with two other men. He moves his hand almost imperceptibly, and they get up and leave the table. Three of Petrone's people take positions around the room, with their backs to the walls.

"Sit down, Andy," says Petrone.

"Thanks, Dominic," I say as I do so. "Try the veal. It's the best in the city." He doesn't seem to get the G.o.dfather G.o.dfather reference, which is just as well. But Sam Willis would have gotten it. reference, which is just as well. But Sam Willis would have gotten it.

"Vince says you're here to help me."

"I was hoping we could help each other. I have some information you can use, and hopefully you can get information that I need."

"Let's start with me," he says.

I'm not going to get rolled here. "Do we have a deal?"

"Let's start with me," he says again, with a little less patience.

"Dominic, the way I envisioned this is-"

"You don't trust me?" he asks.

I just got rolled. "Of course I do." Strangely enough, I do trust him, though I know that were it in his best interests, he would kill me without spoiling his appet.i.te.

I pause a moment to try to control the tremor in my voice. What I'm about to say can have serious repercussions, most notably to me.

"In the course of my investigation of the Evans case, I've learned that you have been sending large amounts of money, in small- and medium-sized bills, out of the country."

Petrone doesn't flinch, nor does he blink. He simply waits, probably deciding in his own mind how I am to be killed.

I continue. "I have not told anyone about it, but I have also learned something else. There is about to be an intense investigation into unusual activity down there, and if you have any cargo there or ready to be s.h.i.+pped in the next few days, it might pay to pull it back immediately."

"And you are the reason this investigation is taking place?" he asks, his voice completely calm.

I shake my head. "I have told no one about this other than you," I say, and for the moment that is true.

"And the information you need?"

"Four companies-I've brought the list with me-have been bringing goods into this country through the Port of Newark. They came in through Keith Franklin's section. I need to know what was in those s.h.i.+pments."

"And how would I know that?" he asks.

"You wouldn't. But I'd bet that you have the people down there that could find out."

He thinks for the moment, then takes a pen out of his jacket and writes something on a piece of paper. Hopefully it's not my eulogy.

He hands me the paper, and I see that it has a phone number on it. "Call me tomorrow at five p.m.," he says.

"I will. Thank you."

I walk out into the main area of the restaurant. One of Petrone's men points with his hand toward the exit door, which I will be thrilled to use. Before I go, I point toward the bathroom door. "My brother better not come out of there with only his d.i.c.k in his hand."

He apparently hasn't seen the movie, either.

BEFORE CALLING J JEFFREY Blalock to the stand, I ask for another closed hearing. Blalock to the stand, I ask for another closed hearing.

I start off by bringing Hawpe up to date on what we have now learned about Stacy's ident.i.ty and background, and I again ask that Blalock be allowed to state his view that she had to be under the protection of WITSEC.

Hawpe, of course, objects. "Your Honor, as you know all too well, we have been over this ground. There was a specific denial in your court from the lawyer representing the U.S. Marshals Service."

"I now believe she was parsing her words, Your Honor."

"What do you mean?"

"I checked the transcript. She phrased her denial quite precisely." I look at my notes and read the words she used. "The woman known in this trial as Stacy Harriman was never under the control of the U.S. Marshals Service in the witness protection program."

"How is that parsing her words?" the judge asks.

"I believe this is a DIA or CIA operation, probably using WITSEC's physical structure and operational capability. So I think that the Marshals Service could conceivably deny that she was 'under their control.'"

I go on to admit that there could be another explanation, that Ma.s.sengale herself might have been kept in the dark and was therefore telling the truth as she believed it.

Hawpe cuts in. "Your Honor, with all due respect, Mr. Carpenter is making this up on the fly, with no facts to support him."

I'm prepared to argue some more, but Judge Gordon surprises me with a quick decision. He still prohibits Blalock's mentioning the witness protection program or WITSEC, but will allow his opinion that an unnamed government ent.i.ty may have partic.i.p.ated in or created the deception.

It's a partial victory for us, which right now feels pretty good.

Back in court, I take Blalock through all the doc.u.mentation we have that demonstrates conclusively that Stacy Harriman was not who she claimed to be. In his expert hands the story is spellbinding, and it's not just my imagination in thinking that the jury is the most attentive it has been throughout the trial.

After we have gone through everything, I say, "A fake credit report... birth records... high school transcript... all these things-how could she have accomplished all this?"

"She couldn't," Blalock says. "She had to have help."

"You mean like a friend who was good with a computer?"

Blalock smiles. "No, much more than that. Far, far more than that. It would have had to be a government agency that made these organizations do their bidding. No citizen could have pulled this off."

I let him off, and Hawpe starts his cross-examination. He takes an interesting tactic, essentially conceding that Stacy's ident.i.ty was a fake, but instead focusing on why that might be.

"Mr. Blalock, have you come in contact with many people who have created new ident.i.ties for themselves?"

"Yes, quite a few."

"And they do so for a variety of reasons?"

"Yes."

"Would one be to get a fresh start, perhaps after a bad marriage?" Hawpe asks.

"It could."

"How about escaping financial problems?" Hawpe asks.

Blalock nods his agreement. "Certainly."

"And there could be many others?"

"Absolutely."

"Of these people who you've worked with that have changed their ident.i.ty, have any of them been murdered?"

"No."

Hawpe spends very little time on Blalock, perhaps in an effort to diminish his importance. His cross-examination has been well done, effectively telling the jury that just because someone is not who they seem to be, that doesn't necessarily have anything to do with their murder.

All in all, I think Blalock's testimony went well, and I tell that to Richard when he leans over and asks me. "Where do we go next?" he whispers.

"To the jury," I say, and then I stand and address the judge. "Your Honor, the defense rests."

The phrase "the defense rests" is unfortunately not to be taken literally. We don't rest at all after saying it; instead we prepare for any reb.u.t.tal witnesses the prosecution might call, and for our closing argument.

Resting is for suckers.

This time I'm going to get even less rest than usual, since at five o'clock I've got to place a call to Dominic Petrone, which in turn might lead me in any one of many directions, none of them restful.

I make the call, and the person who answers the phone gives me a different number to call. That call yields a third number. I a.s.sume this must have to do with some security concerns, but I'm not sure how.

I finally get through to Petrone, and he says, "I have your information."

"Great."

"Those companies you listed did not receive any goods coming through customs."

This both troubles and confuses me. "I have the doc.u.mentation that they did."

"That was intentional. The doc.u.ments listed s.h.i.+pments that never actually were delivered-that did not even exist."

This doesn't make sense. I expected arms, or drugs-"nothing" was not on my list of possibilities.

"Do you know why?" I ask.

"I neither know nor care."

"But you're sure about this?" I ask, and immediately regret the question.

"I only say things I am sure of," he responds. "As an example of that, let me say that I do not want to hear from you again." With that, he hangs up the phone. Just to show he can't push me around, I hang up my dead phone as well.

So Stacy Harriman was killed because she knew that certain people were smuggling nothing into the country.

I'm glad we cleared that up.

I FEEL AS FEEL AS if we are operating in parallel universes. if we are operating in parallel universes.

There is the trial, which is nearing conclusion and can certainly go either way. If I were inclined to make predictions, which I am not, I would say we're in some trouble.

Then there is the investigation operating outside the trial. We are making progress there, but not nearly fast enough. I am gripped by the fear that we're going to win the eventual investigation battle but lose the immediate war. I don't want to have to tell Richard the truth about Stacy in a visiting room at the state prison.

There is also the terrifying possibility that we can uncover the whole truth but that it will have no effect on the trial or on a subsequent appeal of another guilty verdict. No matter what happens in the world of Stacy, Hamadi, Franklin, Durelle, Banks, et al., it could be ruled irrelevant to Richard's case. A jury or an appeals court could say that yes, she was not nearly who she claimed to be, but that doesn't mean Richard didn't kill her.

The other, even more frustrating situation is Reggie's uncertain fate. It is terribly painful to think about, and it is a pain that Richard, Karen, Kevin, and I have in common.

Kevin shares my a.s.sessment that we need to take fast action. We discuss whether to turn over what we know about Stacy, Hamadi, and the others to law enforcement. At some point we will do that, but for now it simply doesn't serve our purposes. It will take too long, and if the government's performance on this matter to date is any indication, the actions they would take in response to our information may be somewhat less than vigorous.