Clayton nods. "It said 'GIANTS25.'"

"Why was that particularly interesting?"

Clayton looks sheepish, a look he can pull off, since he can't be more than twenty-three years old. "There had been a report that a football player was missing and... well, I'm not really a football fan, so I didn't realize he played for the Jets." Most of the female jurors smile their understanding.

"What did you do when you reached the car?" asks Dylan.

"I looked inside and determined there was no one in the car. Then I opened the door and saw what looked to me like bloodstains on the pa.s.senger seat and pa.s.senger side dashboard. Then I immediately closed the door, called in for a detective team and forensics, and secured the area."

Dylan introduces evidence proving that the car in question is Kenny's. Having done that, he could let the witness off the stand, but Clayton is an appealing witness, so he keeps him up there for another ten minutes before turning him over to me. Clayton hasn't done us much damage-that will come later from the lab results-but my strategy is to make points with every prosecution witness, no matter what they testify to. It reduces the chances of a "steamroller effect," in which the jury starts to view the prosecution as an unstoppable force.

"Patrolman Clayton," I begin, "were you on a special a.s.signment on that day? Or just on your regular patrol?"

"Regular patrol," he says.

"So you weren't looking for this specific car? This make and model?"

"No."

"So it was the way it was left in the woods, the way it was abandoned, that attracted you to it?"

"Right," he says. "It was unusual for a car to be partway into the woods like that."

"Almost as if it were meant to attract attention in the way it was positioned?"

Dylan objects that Clayton could not possibly know the intent of the person who left the car there. Harrison sustains, but I'm starting to make my point.

"Would you say there was a significant amount of blood," I ask, "or just some small specks?"

"I would say a decent amount, certainly not just specks."

I nod. "And you testified you saw it immediately and that as soon as you saw it, you were positive what it was?"

"Yes."

"Were there wipe marks? As if somebody had tried to clean it up?"

"I didn't see any," he says.

"Patrolman, let me ask you a hypothetical question. If that were your car, and you had murdered someone, would you have done a better job hiding it? Would you have cleaned up the blood?"

Dylan objects, but Harrison lets Clayton answer. "I guess I would have, sir. But I wouldn't murder anyone."

I accept that and move on. I get Clayton to describe where the car was on the highway, then ask, "And where was the taxi stand?"

"Taxi stand?"

"Right. Because if the defendant left his car there, he couldn't walk home, could he?"

"Well..."

"Are you aware of any theory of an accomplice, someone who drove Mr. Schilling home after he carefully hid carefully hid the car?" the car?"

Dylan objects that this is out of the witness's area, and I don't push it. Clayton responds to another question by saying that there is a rest area with a telephone a half mile away. I don't ask if there is any record of that phone calling a taxi company, because Dylan would object again. I know from the discovery that two such calls were made during the days when the car might have been left, but they were both by women, so Kenny is in the clear on that.

I let Clayton off the stand, satisfied that I've done as much damage as I could, but I'm all too aware that Dylan's big guns are still loaded and ready to fire.

Next up for Dylan is Dr. Janet Sheridan, the lab director who did the DNA tests on the blood in Kenny's car. I know from the reports that the results are conclusive, that it is without question Preston's blood.

Dylan takes three hours to get Janet to say this in as many ways as she knows how. Her conclusion is that the chance of its not being Preston's blood is one in two point five quadrillion, or something like that.

My cross-examination is quick and to the point. "Dr. Sheridan, how did Mr. Preston's blood get in the car?"

"I'm afraid I have no idea. That's not within the scope of my work."

I nod. "Sorry. Who was driving the car when it was left where it was found?"

Dylan objects, but Harrison lets her say she doesn't know this either.

"So if I were to say that someone other than Mr. Schilling took his car, murdered Mr. Preston, and then left the car with the blood in it, is there anything in your test results that would prove me wrong?"

"Not in these results, no."

"Thank you."

Kevin and I go back to the office. Adam is there working, and I realize that he wasn't in court today, though he had said he would be. Maybe the studio is pressing him for what he calls a first draft, but that's the furthest thing from my mind at the moment.

Adam stops what he's doing to listen to Kevin and me dissect the day in court. Kevin is a very good barometer of the trends in a trial, and he thinks we did okay, but not great. He's quick to say that there was no way we could have done great, but it's not necessary because I wasn't insulted. He's absolutely right: Dylan had the upper hand.

After about a half hour of this, Adam rather tentatively asks a question. "Let me ask you guys something. Forgetting people you've met while practicing criminal law... I'm talking about in your personal lives... how many people your age... friends... do you know that have died in the last ten years?"

"One" is my answer, thinking of Susan Goodman, a girl I went to high school with who was. .h.i.t by a car about two years ago.

"Two," says Kevin. "Why?"

"I've checked out maybe a hundred and twenty people identified as friends or acquaintances of Kenny's. Eight-all males-have died in the last seven years. None were over twenty-five years old."

I DON'T BELIEVE DON'T BELIEVE in coincidences. Never have, never will. It's not that I don't think they can happen, and it's certainly not that I think everything that happens is by a grand design. I've just found that it's always best to a.s.sume apparently related events have a logical reason for being, and there is nothing logical about coincidence. in coincidences. Never have, never will. It's not that I don't think they can happen, and it's certainly not that I think everything that happens is by a grand design. I've just found that it's always best to a.s.sume apparently related events have a logical reason for being, and there is nothing logical about coincidence.

Eight friends of Kenny's dying before the age of twenty-five: I don't know what the actuarial tables would say, but the odds against that must be off the charts. And these are young people, mostly athletes, in the prime of their lives. This is very scary stuff.

We have got to get into this in detail right away. Adam does not yet know the particulars of the deaths, nor does he have any indication there was foul play. Who knows, there could have been a leukemia cl.u.s.ter, in which case it will turn out to be a false alarm for our case. He also does not know the specifics of the connections between Kenny and the deceased, or the connections, if any, between the unfortunate young men themselves.

If these deaths are suspicious, related, or in any way tied to Kenny, we're in deep trouble, and our Quintana theory is most likely out the window. But we're a long way from determining any of that, and my hope and expectation is that when we find out what we need to know, the problem will go away.

In any event, we have a lot to learn, and we d.a.m.n well better learn it before Dylan does. Kevin and I are not going to be of much help, and Laurie's busy on a million other things, so I decide to let Adam do much of the legwork, since he seems good at it and that legwork can be done on a computer and telephone.

Adam is eager to dig into it, and I'm confident he can get it done. The truth is, he showed a really good instinct in picking up on this situation in the first place; someone else could easily have missed it or not thought it represented a problem.

"Let Sam Willis help you on this," I say. "He can find out things on a computer in ten minutes that could take you ten weeks to track down."

"Great," says Adam.

"And from now on you're really going on the payroll, with an investigator's pay. You're not just hanging around anymore."

"Don't worry about it," he says. "The top actors and directors are going to be fighting over this one. Besides, this is really cool. I'm glad I can help, and I'm enjoying myself."

That makes one of us.

I go home, take Tara for a walk, and then call Laurie. Tonight's not one of our sleepover nights, but I want to talk to her about Adam's discovery. I would do so even if she were not involved in the case, even if she were a pharmacist, ballet dancer, or software designer. When something important happens, good, bad, or confusing, it's comforting to talk to her. And I've got n.o.body to back her up in this area, no real bench strength, so if she bails out, I'll be talking to myself. That would be another h.e.l.l of a loss.

Laurie's reaction to the news mirrors my own, viewing this as a potentially ominous development and unwilling to chalk it up to coincidence. "Do you need to share this with the judge and Dylan?" she asks.

It's a question I haven't thought about, which doesn't say much about my abilities as an attorney. I think about it now and decide that I don't have to share the information now, and perhaps never. Even if we were to determine that Kenny was involved, even if he's a serial killer, we would not legally have to divulge the information. We would actually be prohibited from revealing it, the only exception being if we were aware of another murder that was going to be committed.

I get into bed and think about the situation some more. I don't want to discuss this with Kenny yet; I want to have more information first so I can better judge his response. On some level I can see the possibility that he had an argument with Preston and killed him, but I simply cannot see him as responsible for multiple deaths. Of course, I've been wrong before.

The window drapes are open, and my mind flashes to Michael Corleone in the bedroom of his Vegas compound, realizing just in time that the drapes being open means he should hit the ground before the bullets come flying.

I get up and close the drapes, cowardly doing it from the side of the window so as not to expose myself should Bruno Tattaglia want to take a shot at me. As I do, I get a look out into the darkness, and I can only hope and a.s.sume that Marcus is there.

They never mentioned anything about this c.r.a.p in law school.

I wake up at six in the morning and call Vince Sanders. I've made a deal with him to make him my initial media contact, and I'm honoring that now. I had come to the conclusion that he sent me on what was basically a wild-goose chase to Wisconsin to check out Matt Lane's hunting accident, but now I'm not so sure.

Vince grunts angrily at my waking him up, so I tell him that he can go back to sleep and I'll give the story to someone else. That tends to increase his alertness, so I suggest he meet me at a coffee shop on the corner of Broadway and Thirty-second Street in an hour.

I take Tara for a walk that ends up at the coffee shop, and we sit at our regular outdoor table. I get her a bagel and a dish of water, and she's already polished it off by the time Vince arrives, ten minutes late.

"This better be good," he says.

"It is," I say, launching quickly into what I wanted to tell him, since I'm in danger of being late for court. "My house was broken into by two of Quintana's thugs. They were going to kick the s.h.i.t out of me."

"But they didn't?" he asks.

"Marcus."

He nods. Enough said.

"Quintana is trying to keep his name out of the trial, but he's also after four hundred thousand that Preston was supposed to give him the night he was killed. He a.s.sumes Kenny has it and somehow further a.s.sumes that I can get it."

"Four hundred thousand?" Vince repeats, obviously impressed. "These guys who tried to break in... why would they tell you this?"

"Marcus."

He nods. Enough said.

"But they won't tell it to the police... so I'm telling it to you. You can break the story tomorrow morning, and then I go national with it."

"I'm happy to do it," he says, "but won't that just p.i.s.s Quintana off even more?"

"Maybe, but he's coming after me to keep me quiet. Once I go completely public, he's got nothing to be gained anymore by shutting me up. Besides, if he's got any smarts at all, once I do this he'd know that he'd be the first one the cops would go after if anything happened to me. I'm going to shine as much light on him as possible."

"And it helps your client in the process," he says.

"Yes. It does."

Vince thinks about this awhile and then seems to smile in satisfaction at what I've just told him. "Works for me," he says. "I'll even buy the bagels."

"Good. I was just going to order Tara another one."

I get to court with only ten minutes to spare, and I'm barely settled in when Dylan calls Teri Pollard, Bobby's wife, to the stand. It's a smart move. He wants someone to testify that Kenny left with Preston to take him home, but he doesn't want to call one of the football players who were there that night. They are celebrities, and Dylan doesn't want that celebrity factor to play in Kenny's favor.

Teri is clearly not happy to be doing Dylan's dirty work, but she's obligated to tell the truth. That truth includes describing to the jury the details of the night at the Crows Nest and the fact that Kenny and Preston left on the early side.

"Did anyone else go with them?" Dylan asks.

"No," Teri says, but then throws in, "unless they met someone outside."

Dylan won't let her get away with that. "But you did not see them meet anyone? And you're not aware of any expectation they had of meeting anyone?"

"No" is her grudging response.

I attempt to get Teri to provide support for Kenny's general character and goodness, but Dylan objects, since I'm only allowed to cross-examine on areas he covered in direct. That's okay; Dylan's objecting makes it look like he's hiding something.

"Was that night the first time you had been with Kenny and Preston at the same time?" I ask.

"No. Bobby... my husband... and I have been out with them together maybe five or six times." She points toward Bobby, sitting in the gallery aisle in his wheelchair. "But we spend time with Kenny very frequently."

"Ever see them argue?" I ask.

"No."

"Ever see them threaten each other?"

"No."

"You never thought Mr. Preston might be in any danger by going with Mr. Schilling?"

"No, of course not." Then staring right at Dylan, she says, "Kenny's one of the nicest people I've ever met."

Way to go, girl.

Next up in Dylan's parade is the county medical examiner, Dr. Ronald Kotsay. Dr. Kotsay was brought in about six months ago to replace a man who held the position for thirty-eight years, and he's had a rough go of it. Dr. Kotsay made the mistake of quickly trying to modernize procedures, which did not go over very well with the staff or DA's office. Simply put, everybody was just used to his predecessor, and Dr. Kotsay's "sweep out the old" approach faced a lot of resistance. Things have calmed down since, and most people have come to realize what an outstanding medical examiner he is.

"Dr. Kotsay, you were called to the defendant's house in Upper Saddle River, were you not?" Dylan asks.