They don't know her, Patrick thinks. And therefore, they don't know why.
A reporter in front of him with a helmet of blond hair nods vigorously as her cameraman films her impromptu interview of a physiologist. "The amygdala influences aggression via a pathway of neurons that leads to the hypothalamus," he says. "It sends bursts of electrical excitation down the stria terminalis, and that's the trigger of rage. Certainly, there are environmental factors, but without the preexisting pattern ..."
Patrick tunes them out. A tangible awareness sweeps the gallery, and people begin to take their seats.
Cyclopsian cameras blink. Hanging behind, Patrick tucks himself against the wall of the courtroom. He does not want to be recognized, and he isn't quite sure why. Is he ashamed of bearing witness at Nina's shame? Or is he afraid of what she might see in his face?
He should not have come. Patrick tells himself this as the door to the holding cell opens and two bailiffs appear, flanking Nina. She looks tiny and frightened, and he remembers how she shivered against him, her back to his front, as he pushed her from the fray yesterday afternoon.
Nina closes her eyes and then moves forward. On her face is the exact expression she wore at age eleven, a few feet up from the base on a ski lift, the moment before Patrick convinced the operator to let Nina off lest she pass out.
He should not have come, but Patrick also knows he could not have stayed away.
I am to be arraigned in the same courtroom where, yesterday, I murdered a man. The bailiff puts his hand on my shoulder and escorts me through the door. Hands cuffed behind my back, I walk where the priest walked. If I look hard enough, I can see his footsteps glowing.
We march past the prosecutor's table. Five times as many reporters are present today; there are even faces I recognize from Dateline and CNN. Did you know that television cameras running in unison sound like the song of cicadas? I turn to the gallery to find Caleb, but behind Fisher Carrington's table there is only a row of empty seats.
I am wearing my prison scrubs and low-heeled pumps. They cannot give you shoes in jail, so you wear whatever you were arrested in. And just yesterday, a lifetime ago, I was a professional woman. But as the heel of my shoe catches on the natty nap of a mat, I stumble and glance down.
We are at the spot where the priest lay dead, yesterday. Where, presumably, the cleaning people who scoured this courtroom could not completely remove the stain of blood from the floor, and covered it with an industrial carpet remnant.
Suddenly I cannot take a single step.
The bailiff grabs my arm more firmly and drags me across the mat to Fisher Carrington's side. There, I remember myself. I sit down in the same seat the priest was sitting in yesterday when I walked up and shot him. It's warm beneath my thighs-lights beating down on the wood from the courtroom ceiling, or maybe just an old soul that hasn't had the time to move on. The moment the bailiff steps away, I feel a rush of air at the nape of my neck, and I whip around, certain there will be someone waiting with a bullet for me.
But there is no bullet, no sudden death. There are only the eyes of everyone in that courtroom, burning like acid. For their viewing pleasure, I start to bite my nails, twitch in my seat. Nervousness can pass for crazy.
"Where is Caleb?" I whisper to Fisher.
"I have no idea, but he came to my office this morning with the retainer. Keep your head straight."
Before I can answer, the judge raps his gavel.
I do not know this judge. Presumably, they've brought him in from Lewiston. I do not know the AG
either, sitting in my usual spot at the prosecution desk. He is enormous, bald, fearsome. He glances at me only once, and then his eyes move on-he has already dismissed me for crossing over to the dark side.
What I want to do at that moment is walk over to this prosecutor and tug on his sleeve. Don't judge me, I'd say, until you've seen the view from here. You are only as invincible as your smallest weakness, and those are tiny indeed-the length of a sleeping baby's eyelash, the span of a child's hand. Life turns on a dime, and-it turns out-so does one's conscience.
"Is the state ready to proceed?" the judge asks.
The assistant attorney general nods. "Yes, Your Honor."
"Is the defense attorney ready to proceed?"
"Yes, Your Honor," Fisher says.
"Will the defendant please come forward?"
I don't stand, at first. It is not a conscious rebuff; I'm just not used to being the one who rises at this point in the arraignment. The bailiff hauls me out of my seat, wrenching my arm in the process.
Fisher Carrington remains in his chair, and my whole body grows cold. This is his chance to insult me.
When a defendant stands and the attorney stays seated, it is a clear sign to insiders that he doesn't give a damn about the client. As I lift my chin and turn away, resolved, Fisher slowly unfolds from his chair.
He is a solid presence along my right side, a fortifying wall. He turns to me and raises an eyebrow, questioning my faith.
"Please state your name?"
