Guilt

'What the defendant did not know was that his wife was already taking two other powerful drugs – Benadryl for her allergies, and Nardil for depression. When the defendant gave his wife the chloral-hydrate, the dose, combined with the alcohol and these other drugs in her system, was enough to kill her.'

There was an audible stir in the courtroom. This was evidently a surprise to people who'd only read the articles as far as the grisly stabbing. Thomasino gently tapped his gavel and quiet returned.

Jenkins continued. 'If Mrs Dooher had been allowed to remain unmolested as she lay dead in her bed, Mark Dooher would probably not be in this courtroom today, charged with her murder. But Mr Dooher is a lawyer. He is a clever man and-'

Farrell was up out of his seat. 'Your honor…'

Thomasino sustained him again. And this time Jenkins turned to the Judge and apologized to him, then to the jury. She didn't mean to characterize the defendant.

Jenkins was playing well for the jury – friendly, courteous, professional. 'Intending to stab his wife to death, the defendant instead poisoned her to death. Legally, it makes no difference – either killing is murder in the first degree.'

'Factually, it makes all the difference in the world. The defendant's miscalculation got him caught. That's because much of the evidence deliberately planted by the defendant to suggest a burglary, much of the evidence designed to explain Sheila Dooher's violent death at the hands of a knife-wielding attacker, takes on a very different light once we know Sheila Dooher was poisoned to death. It shows the calculated and methodical attempt of a cold-blooded murderer to conceal guilt…

'We're going to show you a knife – a classic "murder weapon", complete with Mark Dooher's fingerprints. You're going to hear from witnesses who help to piece together the real story of what happened on that evening of June 7th. And that is this: that the defendant, having made sure his wife would be sleeping soundly – drugged with chloral-hydrate – left his house by the side door, without activating the alarm system, and reached above the door, unscrewing the porch light so the driveway would be dark upon his return.

'Then he drove to the San Francisco Golf Club, not to the Olympic Club which is closer to his house and where he is a member, and bought two large buckets of golf balls. After hitting a few balls, he walked through a break in the fence, went to his car, and drove home.

'We know he drove home because one of the neighbors, Emil Balian, recognized his car with its personalized plates parked on the street down from his house at between eight and nine p.m.'

Yes, Glitsky knew Balian had said that, but he thought that if ever a witness were born to be broken, it was the neighborhood busybody, who'd already changed details in his identification story three times. Glitsky thought that Farrell would destroy him on cross-examination. But, as Drysdale had said, Balian was very nearly the key to the case. Sometimes you had to take what you could get.

'By now it was dark out, and the defendant entered his darkened house. Upstairs, in his bedroom, he plunged a knife into his wife's heart as, he thought, she lay sleeping. He tore her bedclothes and threw blankets around, simulating a struggle. He poured a vial of blood that he had stolen from his doctor's lab around the body. He tore the wedding and engagement rings from Sheila Dooher's hand, and then rifled the bureau in the room, taking other jewelry, including his own Rolex watch. Then he went back to the driving range, climbed back through the fence-'

'It's all a goddamn lie!'

Glitsky was startled nearly out of his seat. Dooher was suddenly on his feet, pointing at Jenkins, who stood open-mouthed, stu

Thomasino, who'd been listening intently to Jenkins, reacted as if he'd been jolted by electricity. He reached for his gavel, missed it, and it fell behind the desk, so he had to stand himself. 'Mr Dooher, you sit down! Mr Farrell, you control your client, you hear me? Sit down, I said!'

Glitsky was up and the two bailiffs were moving across to Farrell's table, but Wes held up his hands, motioning them back. 'Come on, Mark, easy…' Christina, too, was up, an arm around Dooher's back, whispering to him.

But Dooher glared at one and all. 'I ca

Everybody in the courtroom heard him.

Dooher turned to the jury and suddenly his voice was in the normal conversational range. 'None of this happened this way,' he said. 'Not any of it.'

Thomasino had found his gavel and slammed it down again. 'Mr Farrell, I'll gag your client if you don't.'

'Yes, your honor.' A hand on Dooher's arm, pulling him down. Whispering through clenched teeth. 'Mark, sit down. Get a grip, would you?'

Then, Farrell to Thomasino again: 'Your honor, if I could ask for a short recess?'

But Thomasino was shaking his head. 'Not during an opening statement, Mr Farrell. You control your client and let Ms Jenkins finish up, and if there are any more interruptions, I'll hold you in contempt. How's that – clear?'

'What the hell was that? What are you trying to do, kill yourself out there?'

Farrell, in their tiny room across the street, was himself now nearly out of control. There was spittle on his lips and he seemed almost struck with palsy – now pacing, now hovering in front of his client. Dooher, again, had hoisted himself up on to the desk. He was swinging his feet, relaxed. Christina stood at the window, arms crossed over her chest.

Thomasino was going to allow Jenkins all the time she needed to wrap up her opening statement, but it turned out that she only made it another ten minutes before she asked for a recess. Dooher's interruption had pole-axed her, and what had begun as a reasonably compelling recital of events had degenerated into a disjointed shopping list of purported evidence whose relevance and co

'Wes, relax,' Dooher said, 'it's all right. You're going to have a heart attack.'

'You're goddamn right I'm going to have a heart attack. I deserve a heart attack. What were you doing in there? What was that all about? How could you lose your temper like that?'

Dooher actually broke a grin. 'I didn't.'

'This is fu

'I didn't lose my temper, Wes.'

'Well, damn, Mark, that was one hell of an imitation.'

Christina came forward, daring to speak for the first time since Wes had dressed down both Mark and herself for their incredible stupidity and duplicity and every other negativity he could think of over the kiss. She talked to Dooher. 'What do you mean, you didn't lose your temper?'

He turned to her, palms up. The grin faded. 'It was an act. I thought it would humanize me for the jury.'

Farrell seemed to sag and let out a chuckle without a trace of humor in it. His eyes went to Christina, back to the client. 'This is what, in the trade, we call a bad idea. What it did for the jury, Mark, was made you look like a guy with no respect for the law, some kind of hot-head…'

'Wait wait wait! Don't you see?'

'I don't see. Christina, do you see?'

She didn't answer.

Dooher included them both. 'All right. I'll spell it out. Jenkins is up there painting this picture. I'm cold. I plan things to the nth degree. And here I am, sitting at the defense table trying to keep some kind of impassive face while Jenkins just goes on and on, lie after outrageous lie. So I react. Who wouldn't react? It's natural. What's u