"No. If you argue both, it looks sleazy to the jury. Trust me. It seems like even you can't make up your mind why I'm not guilty." I think about this for a minute. "Besides, having twelve jurors agree on what justifies provocation is more of a long shot than having them recognize insanity when a prosecutor shoots a man right in front of a judge. And winning on extreme anger isn't an out-and-out win-it only lessens the conviction. If you get me off on an insanity charge, it's a complete acquittal."
My defense is starting to form in my mind. "Okay." I lean forward, ready to let him in on my plan.
"We're going to get a call from Brown for the state psychiatric investigation. We can go to that shrink first, and based on that report, we can find someone to use as our own psychiatric expert."
"Nina," Fisher says patiently. "You are the client. I am the attorney. Understand that now, or this isn't going to work."
"Come on, Fisher. I know exactly what to do."
"No, you don't. You're a prosecutor, and you don't know the first thing about running a defense."
"It's all about putting on a good act, right? And haven't I already done that?" Fisher waits until I settle back in my chair with my arms crossed over my chest, defeated. "All right, fine. Then what are we going to do?"
"Go to the state psychiatrist," Fisher says dryly. "And then find some-one to use as our own psychiatric expert." When I lift my brows, he ignores me. "I'm going to ask for all the information Detective Ducharme put together on the investigation involving your son, because that was what led you to believe you needed to kill this man."
Kill this man. The phrase sends a shiver down my spine. We toss these words about so easily, as if we are discussing the weather, or the Red Sox scores.
"Is there anything else you can think of that I need to ask for?"
"The underwear," I tell him. "My son's underwear had semen on it. It was sent out for DNA testing but hasn't come back yet."
"Well, that doesn't really matter anymore-"
"I want to see it," I announce, brooking no argument. "I need to see that report."
Fisher nods, makes a note. "Fine, then. I'll request it. Anything else?" I shake my head. "All right.
When I get the discovery in, I'll call you. In the meantime, don't leave the state, don't talk to anyone in your office, don't screw up, because you're not going to get a second chance." He stands, dismissing me.
I walk to the door, trailing my fingers over the polished wainscoting. With my hand on the knob, I pause, then look over my shoulder. He is making notes inside my file, just the way I do when I begin a case. "Fisher?" He glances up. "Do you have any children?"
"Two. One daughter's a sophomore at Dartmouth, the other is in high school."
It is suddenly hard to swallow. "Well," I say softly. "That's good to know."
Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy.
None of the reporters or parishioners who have come to Father Szyszynski's funeral Mass at St. Anne's recognize the woman draped in black and sitting in the second-to-last row of the church, not responding to the Kyrie. I have been careful to hide my face with a veil; to keep my silence. I have not told Caleb where I am headed; he thinks I am coming home after my appointment with Fisher. But instead I sit in a state of mortal sin, listening to the archbishop extol the virtues of the man I killed.
He may have been accused, but he was never convicted. Ironically, I have turned him into a victim. The pews are crushed with his flock, coming to pay their last respects. Everything is silver and white-the vestments of the clergy that have come to send Szyszynski off to God, the lilies lining the aisle, the altar boys who led the procession with their tapers, the pall over the casket-and the church looks, I imagine, like Heaven does.
The archbishop prays over the gleaming coffin, two priests beside him waving the censer and the Holy Water. They seem familiar; I realize they are the ones that recently visited the parish. I wonder if one of them will take over, now that there is no priest.
I confess to Almighty God, and to you here present, that I have sinned through my own fault.
The sweet smoke of candles and flowers makes my head swim. The last funeral Mass I attended was my father's, one with far less pageantry than this, although the service bled by in the same stream of disbelief. I can remember the priest who had put his hands over mine and offered me the greatest condolence he could: "He's with God, now."
As the Gospel is read, I look around the congregation. Some of the older women are sobbing; most are staring at the archbishop with the solemnity he commands. If Szyszynski's body belongs to Christ, then who controlled his mind? Who placed in that brain the seed to hurt a child? What made him pick mine?
Words jump out at me: commend his soul; with his Maker; Hosanna in the highest.
The organ's notes throb, and then the archbishop stands to deliver the eulogy. "Father Glen Szyszynski," he begins, "was well loved by his congregation."
I cannot say why I came here; why I knew that I would swim an ocean, break through fetters, run cross-country if need be to witness Szyszynski's burial. Maybe it is closure for me; maybe it is the proof I still need.
This is My Body.
I picture his face in profile, the minute before I pulled the trigger.
