"How about if you rely on me not to turn this trial into a circus?" Harrison responds dryly.

Dylan immediately goes into damage control mode. "I'm sorry, Your Honor, but I was referring to the atmosphere outside of court. I worry about the influence on the jurors."

Harrison turns to me. "Your Honor," I say, "the prosecution position is ludicrous on its face. As I understand it, they have asked the court that we not be allowed to present evidence showing that the victim a.s.sociated with murderers. They choose to make that request the very morning after those same people are involved in another murder. Speaking for myself, the mind boggles."

Harrison rules promptly, as is his style. He refuses to prohibit our pointing toward Preston's a.s.sociates in our defense, though he will not let us go too far afield. Dylan is annoyed; he believed he had a chance to undercut our defense before we even began. Now he has to collect his thoughts and give his opening statement.

He begins by thanking the jurors for their service, praising their sacrifice and sense of duty. He doesn't mention their future TV appearances and book deals, just as I won't when it's my turn. It's the unfortunate duty of us lawyers to kiss twelve a.s.ses and six alternate a.s.ses during every trial.

"There is a lot of attention being paid to this case," Dylan says. "You have only to try and park near the courthouse to know that." He smiles, and the jurors smile with him.

"But at its heart it's a very simple case. A man was murdered, and very conclusive evidence, evidence that you will hear in detail, pointed toward this man, Kenny Schilling, as the murderer. The police went to talk to him about it, and he pulled out a gun and prevented them from entering his house. And why did he do this? Because the victim's body was in his bedroom, stuffed in his closet."

Dylan shakes his head, as if amazed by what he is saying. "No, this is not a complicated case, and it is certainly not a whodunit. Troy Preston, a young man, an athlete in the prime of life, was shot through the back of the head. And this man"-he points to Kenny-"Kenny Schilling, supposedly his friend, he's the one who 'dunit.'

"Mr. Carpenter will not be able to refute the facts of the case, no matter how hard he tries. He will realize this-he does already-and he'll try to create diversions. He'll tell you that the victim, who is not here to defend himself, a.s.sociated with bad people, people capable of committing murder. Some of it will be true, and some not, but I'll tell you this: None of it will matter. Even if Troy Preston hung out on a street corner every night with Osama bin Laden and Saddam Hussein, it still would not matter. Because those people, bad as they are, did not commit this particular murder, and that's all you're being asked to care about. And soon it will be very clear to you that Kenny Schilling committed this murder, and that's the reason he's the man on trial."

Dylan goes on to detail some of the evidence in his a.r.s.enal, knowing full well he can back it all up with witnesses and lab reports. By the time he's finished, he's done a very good job, and it doesn't take a mind reader to know that the jury was hanging on his every word. The entire world believes Kenny Schilling is guilty, and as members of this world, that's the predisposition the jurors brought here with them. Dylan's words only served to reinforce their belief, so they considered him totally credible.

Kenny looks depressed, and I lean over and whisper a reminder that he is supposed to look interested and thoughtful, but not to betray any emotional reaction at all. It's easier said than done; the words he's just heard from Dylan would be enough to depress anyone.

I stand up to give our opening statement with a modest goal. Right now the jury is thinking that the prosecution has all the cards, and though that may be true, I've at least got to show that this is not a mismatch, that we are a force to be reckoned with.

"I'm a curious guy" is how I begin. "When something happens, I like to know why. I want things to make sense, and I feel comfortable when they do.

"When the thing that happens is a crime, then the 'why' is called motive. It's something the police look for in trying to figure out who is the guilty party. If there is a reason or a motive for a person to have done it, then that person becomes a suspect."

I point toward Dylan. "Mr. Campbell didn't mention motive; he didn't point to a single reason why Kenny Schilling might have killed Troy Preston. Now, legally, he doesn't have to prove what the motive was, but wouldn't it be nice to have an idea? If someone is on trial for his very life, wouldn't it be nice to understand why he might have done something? And wouldn't it be nice to know if someone else really did have a motive and a history of murder?"

I walk over to Kenny and put my arm on his shoulder. "Kenny Schilling has never committed a crime, never been charged with a crime, never been arrested. Never. Not once. He has been a model citizen his entire life, achieved a high degree of success in a very compet.i.tive field, and as you will hear, has been a good friend to an astonishing number of people, including the victim. Yet Mr. Campbell would have you believe that he suddenly decided to shoot his friend and leave a trail of evidence that a five-year-old could follow."

I shake my head. "It doesn't make sense. We need to have an idea why.

"Well, let's try this on for size. Troy Preston had other friends, friends with a record not quite as spotless as Kenny's. In fact, they were more than friends; they were business a.s.sociates. And that business was a dangerous one: the importation and sale of illegal drugs. And it turns out that Troy's other friends kill people.

"Yet you will hear that almost no investigative effort was made to determine whether one of the people they killed was Troy. Kenny was an easy suspect, because he was set up to be one by the real killers. The police accepted everything they saw at face value, and here we are, still wondering why.

"Now, Kenny did a stupid thing, and if he was charged with committing a stupid act, he would have already pleaded guilty. He took out a gun, for which he has a legal permit, and fired a shot in the air. Then he prevented the police from entering his house for almost three hours, before voluntarily giving himself up.

"Yes, it was stupid, but there was a why why behind it, a behind it, a motive motive for what he did. He had just found his friend's body, a bullet through his chest, in the back of his house. Suddenly, men were at the door trying to get in, men who within moments had guns drawn. How could he know that these men were really police? He had no idea why his friend was shot, and was afraid that the same thing was about to happen to him. He panicked, of that there is no question, but it's easy to understand why. for what he did. He had just found his friend's body, a bullet through his chest, in the back of his house. Suddenly, men were at the door trying to get in, men who within moments had guns drawn. How could he know that these men were really police? He had no idea why his friend was shot, and was afraid that the same thing was about to happen to him. He panicked, of that there is no question, but it's easy to understand why.

"Kenny Schilling is not a man capable of murder. You will come to know him, and you'll understand that. You'll also hear about other people, people very capable of murder, and you'll understand that as well.

"All I hope, all Kenny Schilling hopes, is that you keep asking why and keep insisting that things make sense. I know that you will."

I get a slight nod from Kevin, telling me that it went reasonably well. I agree with that, but I also know that "reasonably well" is not going to cut it. Not in this case.

It's late in the day, so Harrison tells Dylan that he can call his first witness tomorrow. It'll give me something to look forward to.

A TRIAL IS AN TRIAL IS AN incredibly tense, hectic process, yet for me there's something calming and comforting about it. It's the only time in my life when I have a rigid schedule, a self-discipline in my actions, and it's a refreshing change. incredibly tense, hectic process, yet for me there's something calming and comforting about it. It's the only time in my life when I have a rigid schedule, a self-discipline in my actions, and it's a refreshing change.

Tonight is a perfect example. We have our team meeting at my house, after which Kevin leaves and Laurie and I settle down to dinner. We have take-out pizza, though hers is of the vegetarian variety and in my humble opinion not worthy of the name "pizza." Luciano Pizza or Jeremiah Pizza or whoever the h.e.l.l invented it would cringe at the sight of the healthy mess that comes out of Laurie's pizza box.

Laurie turns out the overhead lights and instead lights candles she had put on the table. It makes it a little tough to see the pizza, but she seems to like it that way. We talk about the case, about what's going on in the world, about how great Tara is, or anything else that comes to mind. Everything except the Findlay situation.

After dinner my ritual is to go into the den, turn on CNN or a baseball game as background noise, and read and reread our files on the Schilling case. In order to react in a courtroom the way I want to react, I need to know every detail of our case, every sc.r.a.p of information we have.

Each night, I go over the next day's witnesses, as well as an area of our investigation that I select more or less randomly. Tonight I'm going over Kevin's and Adam's reports on their work in locating and talking to Kenny's friends and acquaintances, especially those he shared with Preston.

At ten-thirty Laurie and I go up to bed, where I continue to go through the papers. She makes a phone call, which is disconcerting, since she speaks to Lisa, a high school girlfriend from Findlay. Laurie is making real connections, or reconnections, back there, and the knowledge of it makes it a little hard for me to concentrate.

I'm trying extra hard to focus, since I have the uneasy feeling that there is something in these particular reports that is significant and that I'm missing. I'm about to discuss it with Laurie, now off the phone, when Tara starts to bark. Moments later the doorbell rings.

"Let me get it," Laurie says, which means she's at least a little worried that it could relate to Quintana.

I'd love to say, "Go ahead," but I'm too macho for that, so I throw on a pair of pants and go downstairs. I get to the door just as the bell rings again, and I ask, "Who is it?"

"Marcus" is the answer from the other side of the door.

I turn on the porch light, move aside the curtain, and sure enough, there is Marcus. I open the door. "What's wrong?" I ask.

"Rope," says Marcus.

"Rope?"

"Rope."

"What about rope?" This conversation is not progressing that well.

"He wants to know if you have any rope," says Laurie from the top of the steps.

"No, I don't have rope," I say to Laurie. "Who am I, Roy Rogers?"

I turn back to Marcus. "I don't have any rope. Why do you need some?"

Marcus just shakes his head and closes the door. I turn to Laurie once he's gone.

"What is he doing? Should I get him some rope?"

"From where?" she asks.

"How the h.e.l.l should I know? Maybe there's a rope store open late around here."

Marcus seems to be gone, so I go back upstairs and once again get into bed with Laurie. My sense is, I haven't heard the last of this rope situation, and this is confirmed about five minutes later when the doorbell rings again.

Once again I trudge down the stairs. "Who is it?"

"Marcus."

I open the door and immediately see a sight that will forever be etched in my memory. Two men, one of whom I recognize as Ugly, the guy Quintana sent to threaten me, are tied up with my garden hose. They are head-to-toe and back-to-back, but stretched out full length against each other. They look like a two-sided human bowling pin, and Marcus walks into the house carrying them over his shoulder. He comes into the room and drops them on the floor, and the thud could be heard in Hackensack. Tara sniffs around them, having absolutely no idea what is happening. Join the club.

"Laurie!" I call out. "You might want to get down here!"

She comes downstairs, surveys the bizarre scene, and takes over. "Marcus, what's going on?"

He tells her in a series of barely decipherable grunts that they were outside, trying to break in, and he caught them. His plan now is to question them. Marcus questioning people is not a pretty sight.

"I think we should call the police," I say.

Marcus looks at me, then calls Laurie off to the side. They whisper out of earshot of me, Ugly, and his friend. The intruders are rolling back and forth in a futile effort to untie themselves and/or get up. It would be funny if it were happening in someone else's house.

"Come on, Andy. Let's go upstairs," says Laurie.

"Why? What's going on?"

"Marcus is going to question our guests."

I start to argue, but Laurie silences me with a look, and a head motion directing me upstairs. I have confidence in her in situations like this, and none in myself, so I follow dutifully behind.

As we near the top of the steps, Marcus calls up to her. "Knives?"

"In the kitchen. Second drawer on the right," she says.

When we get in the bedroom, Laurie closes the door. With Marcus, Ugly, and his buddy now out of range, I become a little more a.s.sertive. "What the h.e.l.l is going on?"

"Marcus said we can call the police in fifteen minutes. He'll know what he needs to know by then."

"What is he going to do?"

She shrugs. "Be Marcus. But he said he won't kill them, and he won't do anything on the carpet."

I nod. "Well, that's comforting."

"Andy, those guys were trying to break into this house. They might well have killed you, or even us."

She's got a point. "Fifteen minutes?" I ask.

She nods. "Fifteen minutes."

Except for the agonizing times I've felt waiting as verdicts were about to be delivered, these are the longest fifteen minutes I've ever spent in my life. I strain to hear any noises coming from downstairs, but it seems, as they used to say in Westerns, to be "quiet out there, too quiet."

At the moment the fifteen minutes are up, I pick up the phone and call 911, reporting that two men have broken into my house. I then call Pete Stanton at home, and he agrees to come over. I think he gets some kind of perverse kick out of Marcus and doesn't want to miss out on what is going to be an entertaining evening.

Laurie and I go downstairs. I don't know about her, but I'm cringing at what I think I am about to see. The trio is not in the living room or den, and we find them in the kitchen. Ugly and his pal are sitting with Marcus at the kitchen table, drinking diet sodas. They look unhappy but are no longer tied together with the hose and look none the worse for wear. Marcus looks impa.s.sive, which is not exactly a stunning piece of news.

Five police cars pull up less than two minutes later. The process takes only a short time; I explain that these two guys tried to break in and that my bodyguard caught them and held them here so that they could be turned over to law enforcement.

Pete Stanton arrives just as the cops and their captives are leaving, and I let him listen with Laurie and me to the mysteries of the agonizing fifteen minutes, as told by Marcus Clark.

It takes almost an hour and a half for us to understand his cryptic grunts, but basically, the pair admitted to him that they were sent by Quintana and this time were told to "kick the s.h.i.t out of the lawyer." They also revealed that it was money that Quintana believes Kenny took from Preston that night, a total of four hundred thousand dollars. The night Preston died was drug receipt payment night, but Preston was killed before he could make that payment. My two visitors were supposed to find out with certainty whether I know where that money is.

Pete points out the obvious. "Quintana's going to keep coming at you."

"Why can't you arrest him once these guys tell you what they told Marcus?"

Pete shakes his head like I just don't get it. "They won't talk to us. We're not allowed to be as persuasive as Marcus. They go down for breaking and entering, then maybe serve a little time, maybe not. There's no way they rat out Quintana."

"Which means Quintana remains a big problem," I say.

"I could kill him," says Marcus.

Pete jumps up as if somebody shoved a hot poker up his a.s.s. "I'm outta here," he says, and walks out the door. He's a friend, but he's also a cop. He has no love for Quintana, but he's not going to sit and listen while somebody plots his murder.

Once Pete leaves, Laurie says, "Don't kill him, Marcus. That's not going to solve anything."

I'm torn here. I'm not usually one to countenance murder-after all, I'm an officer of the court-but in this case I'd be tempted to make an exception. To say the least, if I heard that Quintana died, it wouldn't prompt me to sadly shake my head and say, "Boy, that really puts things into perspective, doesn't it?"

"You need to protect Andy full-time," Laurie continues.

I turn to Marcus and nod. "I want you on that wall. I need you on that wall." Either he recognizes the line from A Few Good Men A Few Good Men or he doesn't; with Marcus it's hard to tell. He grunts a couple of times and leaves. or he doesn't; with Marcus it's hard to tell. He grunts a couple of times and leaves.

"That is one scary guy," I say after I'm sure that he can't hear me.

"Just be glad he's your your scary guy," Laurie points out. scary guy," Laurie points out.

It's now two-thirty in the morning, so Laurie and I get back into bed. I take some time to think about the case. I find I'm starting to believe my own PR now, considering it more and more possible that Preston actually was the victim of a drug killing. The money was certainly substantial enough that people from that underworld might kill for it, and I'm certain, too, that members of Quintana's gang would have been aware of it.

I've been thinking all along that it wasn't a drug hit because Quintana, Moreno, or even Petrone wouldn't have bothered to frame Kenny. They've got the people and the experience to have murdered anonymously, without real fear of it being traced back to them. Therefore, there would be no reason to frame anyone.

But what if it was one of Quintana's men who did the killing so as to get the money? He might well have framed Kenny, not to throw the police off his trail, but rather to make sure Quintana did not catch on. Quintana's justice would be far more swift and deadly than the police.

There is also the chance that Kenny found out about the money and went for it, but this seems far less likely. Sam has checked and found no evidence that Kenny had anything but a rosy financial picture, and he's been paying his substantial legal bills on time.

I always want to believe that a client is innocent, but there's believing and really believing. really believing. For the first time, I'm starting to For the first time, I'm starting to really believe, really believe, and it's a nice feeling. It doesn't quite make up for my knowledge that a murderous maniac in command of an entire gang of other murderous maniacs is trying to kill me, but it's a nice feeling. and it's a nice feeling. It doesn't quite make up for my knowledge that a murderous maniac in command of an entire gang of other murderous maniacs is trying to kill me, but it's a nice feeling.

DYLAN'S FIRST witness is Patrolman Jared Clayton, the officer that found Kenny's abandoned car. I would have expected Dylan to build his case more methodically, to perhaps put on team officials of the Jets to talk about Preston not showing up that day and how uncharacteristic that was. As I reflect on it, I realize that Dylan's strategy is a good one: He doesn't want to give me a chance to cross-examine based on Preston's character. As far as Dylan is concerned, this is a physical evidence case, and he's going to focus on that as much as possible. witness is Patrolman Jared Clayton, the officer that found Kenny's abandoned car. I would have expected Dylan to build his case more methodically, to perhaps put on team officials of the Jets to talk about Preston not showing up that day and how uncharacteristic that was. As I reflect on it, I realize that Dylan's strategy is a good one: He doesn't want to give me a chance to cross-examine based on Preston's character. As far as Dylan is concerned, this is a physical evidence case, and he's going to focus on that as much as possible.

Patrolman Clayton testifies that the car was abandoned maybe ten feet into the woods off the road but that he was able to see it.

"What made you approach?" Dylan asks.

"Well, I thought maybe somebody was in it, in some kind of distress or something. It wasn't really a normal way to leave a car. Then, when I got close, I saw the license plate."

"It was an unusual plate?"