A Century of Great Suspense Stories

Jeremiah Healy is one of the private-eye writers who helped change a moribund mystery field in the eighties. His debut novel about Private Detective John Francis Cuddy, Blunt Darts, announced that here was a wise new kid on the block. Since then he has written more than a dozen novels featuring his melancholy P.I. His books and stories since then have done nothing but enhance his reputation as an important and sage writer whose work has taken the private-eye form to an exciting new level. He is one of those writers who packs the poise and depth of a good mainstream novel into an even better genre novel. Recent books include The Stalking of Sheilah Quinn, and the latest Cuddy mystery The Only Good Lawyer.

One

Bernard Wellington, Esquire, had that mournful look of an old dog betrayed by incontinence.

I watched Bernie ease himself into the high-backed swivel chair behind his desk, a muzzy twilight through the wide bay window silhouetting both man and furniture. An inch taller than my six-two-plus, you’d have pegged him an inch shorter, almost four decades spent bent over legal tomes stooping his shoulders and spoiling his posture. A widow’s peak of black hair coexisted peacefully with the fringe of snow at sideburns and temple. Wellington’s head and hands were disproportionately large, his voice a baritone burred by the long-term effects of good scotch. Descended from a Boston Brahmin family, he’d betrayed his corporate-law heritage in choosing criminal-defense work coming out of Harvard, lo, those many years ago.

That fine October Monday, though, Bernie had left a message with my answering service around lunchtime, asking me to meet him in his office at 5:00 P.M. Meaning after court.

As I took a client chair, the nail on Wellington’s right middle finger began picking at some leather piping on the arm of his high-back. “John Francis Cuddy, it’s been a while.”

I hadn’t seen him since doing the preliminary investigation for one of his armed robbery defendants five months earlier. “What’ve you got, Bernie?”

“What I’ve got is Michael Monetti.”

The Globe and the Herald both had run third-page stories when Monetti, a career hood, was indicted some months back for the attempted murder of a “business associate.”

I said, “His trial ought to be coming up soon.”

“We impaneled the jury last Friday afternoon.”

“A little late in the game to be calling for a private investigator.”

“Ordinarily, yes. But...” Something was obviously bothering Bernie. “John, indulge me a moment?”

“Sure.”

Wellington cleared his throat, the way I’d seen him do in the courtroom to focus attention on himself without having to raise his voice. “As I believe you know, the Commonwealth of Massachusetts has been one of the few states in the Union not permitting attorney voir dire of prospective jurors.”

I reached back to my one year of law school for the French phrase meaning to speak the truth. “But the judge does ask them preliminary questions, right?”

“Right. However, an attorney who can’t confront jurors individually before they’re impaneled doesn’t get much information or guidance toward exercising peremptory challenges. The typical juror questionnaire provides just generic data such as occupation, marital status, and children’s ages. That’s the reason for this new experiment.”

“Experiment?”

“Our esteemed legislature passed a bill establishing a pilot project in three counties. Under the project, each attorney has a total of thirty minutes to question the entire jury panel on bias, temperament, etcetera, etcetera.”

I thought about it. “Not much time, but still fairly helpful when you’re representing somebody as mobbed up as Monetti.”

Wellington seemed hurt. “My client is not ‘mobbed up,’ John.”

“I don’t recall any ‘esteemed’ judge letting him out on bail.”

“And a travesty, that, especially when his extended family has been clustered in the front row of the audience every minute of the trial. The proud father is a former brick mason, the doting mother a retired school-teacher. Michael’s older sister prospers as a registered beautician, and he once bragged about the career of a second cousin who does standup comedy, like that chap Rich—”

“Bernie?”

A pause before, “What?”

“Maybe you should save the ‘he comes from a good family’ argument for the sentencing phase of the case.”

A stony look. Wellington always had been better in the courtroom than in his office. Finally, though, a grudging “All right.”

“And — no offense, Bern — I still don’t see why you want to bring me in now.”

The stony look softened, and Wellington leaned back into his chair’s headrest, the leather bustle depressed and cracked from the countless times he must have pondered knotty problems of strategy and tactics. “I’m troubled by one of the jurors, John.”

“How do you mean?”

“Our case falls under this new pilot project, and I had a truly splendid sequence of questions to include in my voir dire. But, for all the prospective male jurors called to the box from the pool, Michael insisted I use his questions instead.”

“His questions?”

“Correct. My client wanted to know if those jurors had ever been in the armed forces, or arrested, or even if they’d worked in a ‘strategically sensitive’ industry.”

Didn’t make sense to me. “I can maybe see the ‘arrested’ part, Bernie, but what would Monetti’s other questions have to do with his attempted-murder charge?”

“Nothing, John. And worse, Michael’s approach undermined my opportunity to use the individual voir dire as a way of warming up the jury for him.”

“So what happened with them?”

“The male jurors, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Two had in fact been arrested, and the prosecution used peremptory challenges on both.”

“Meaning Monetti’s questions actually helped the other side decide who it should ding?”

“Correct again.” Wellington seemed to sour at the memory. “Of the remaining males called from the pool, one had been in the army, another the navy. Michael had me challenge both.”

“Why?”

“He didn’t say.”

And I still didn’t see Monetti’s strategy. “What about the rest of the jurors?”

Wellington closed his eyes for a moment. “One had worked at a defense think tank on Route 128, and my client wanted him off, too. However, the three males who answered negatively to all of Michael’s questions were eventually seated.”

“Because neither the prosecutor nor you challenged them.”

“That’s right,” said Wellington. “But believe me, I wanted to knock off one of the trio, a Mr. Arthur Durand.”

I thought about it. “I’m guessing he’s the juror who’s ‘troubling’ you.”

A nod. “I didn’t like him from the get-go, John. The juror questionnaire said Mr. Durand was unemployed, never married, no kids. In person, he also wore old clothes and had this tendency of scratching his nose and squirming in his seat.” Wellington caricatured both. “Plus, the man’s hair and beard were longish and unkempt, and he had rather a dopey cast to his eyes.”

“I don’t know, Bern. That last part makes this Durand sound like perfect juror material for Monetti.”

Another hurt look. “Except for Michael’s hundred-dollar razor cut and thousand-dollar suits. In any case, though, while I just didn’t like Mr. Durand, my client insisted on keeping him.”

“And?”

Wellington sighed. “And we finished impaneling Friday afternoon, Mr. Durand being the last one from the pool to be seated. Then the jury was excused for the weekend and went home.”

“No sequestration order?”

“Not for ‘just’ attempted murder, John.” A deeper sigh. “So, we reconvene this morning, and guess what?”

“I’m drawing a blank, Bernie.”

“All the jurors show up, including our Mr. Durand. However, it being just the first day of testimony, I didn’t really know them very well yet.”

“Know them?”

“Yes. After a few days of trial — even without attorney voir dire at the beginning — the jurors become burned into your brain by face and seat number.”

“Because you’re looking at them while the prosecutor is at bat with a witness?”

“Or while I’m cross-examining. But the first morning of a new case, I probably couldn’t pick five of the jurors out of a lineup.”

“Except for this Durand.”

Wellington came forward in his chair. “Yes and no. I look over at him, and he’s both gotten a haircut and shaved off the beard. The clothes are about the same, but when I move around the courtroom, his eyes are following me, like Mr. Durand is now actually paying attention. Oh, he still fidgets in his chair and scratches his nose, but something... I don’t know, bothers me.”

I shook my head. “Bern?”

“Yes?”

“Could there also be something you’re not telling me?”

Wellington leaned back again, now swinging his chair in a slow, twenty-degree arc. “I’ve represented Michael on and off for the better part of two decades, John. Despite my Herculean efforts on those earlier occasions, his past record combined with another felony conviction this time around would carry a life sentence.”

“And?”

A nearly glacial sigh now. “And once before — years ago — Michael had two of his loyal employees seek to ‘influence’ someone in the Commonwealth’s witness-protection program.”

Christ. “That was bright of him.”

“Michael thought a change of testimony might result in at worst a hung jury, with the prosecutor maybe not pursuing a second trial or the second jury coming back ‘not guilty.’ ”

“And did Monetti’s ploy work?”

“No, but I’m afraid my client learns a lesson hard, John.”

I chewed on that. “Meaning you’re afraid he may have had his muscle pay a visit to the nonsequestered Arthur Durand.”

Wellington closed his eyes. “That other time Michael tried it, the whole case nearly blew sky-high. Fortunately, the witness called me instead of the prosecutor.”

“Called you?”

“To request a ‘cash consolation’ for his ‘mental anguish.’ ”

I thought I knew Bernie better than that. “You didn’t pony up the money.”

A shocked expression. “Of course not. But as a result, we had to take a plea bargain thirty-percent worse than the deal originally offered by the prosecution. I told Michael, ‘Never again,’ or I was through representing him.”

I didn’t envy Wellington his ethical stand. “So, what do you want me to do?”

He leaned back into the cracked headrest, his fingernail picking at the leather piping some more. “I don’t know, John. Perhaps you could come to court tomorrow, watch Mr. Durand for a while in the jury box, and then follow him afterward. That might give me some sense of whether Michael’s stepped over the line again.”

“Bernie, you want a private investigator shadowing a current juror?”

“Unless you’ve got a better plan.”

Frankly, I was thinking about turning down the assignment altogether. But the return of the mournful, hangdog look to Bernie’s face kind of took that option off the board.

I said, “Would tomorrow after lunch be alright?”

“You can’t make it any earlier?”

“There’s somebody I want to visit in the morning.”

Bernard Wellington, Esquire, started to ask me who, but remembered just in time to catch himself.

Two

There really aren’t any trees on her hillside to turn yellow or orange in the autumn, but the grass does what it can by exchanging summer’s green for a salt-bleached brown. And the breeze off the harbor water is bracing enough, the gulls shrieking as they scavenge in that part of South Boston where Beth and I grew up, got married, and still spend time together.

In a manner of speaking.

I drew even with her row, opening the little campstool I carry now to spare my bad knee too much standing. The headstone reads as it always has. ELIZABETH MARY DEVLIN CUDDY. No easier to look at, though.

John, why aren’t you working?

Smiling, I squared my butt on the stool. “What, you don’t think your enterprising husband could have a cemetery for a client?”

Beth paused. Something’s troubling you.

“No man could ever fool a good wife.”

Never kept you from trying. Want to talk about it?

I found that I did.

As always, she listened patiently. Then, So what’s really the problem for you, the client or the case?

“A little of both, I guess. Bernie Wellington’s just fine. I even admire him for that stubborn way he clings to his ethics. But I don’t like working for Michael Monetti, and I really don’t like risking my license by following a current juror in a felony case.”

But you’re working for Wellington, not Monetti, right?

“Technically.”

Literally. And whatever you find out might make the system work better, not worse. So, you really aren’t doing anything wrong.

I didn’t have a counterargument. “Will you represent me should the system disagree?”

Another pause, but this one more like the time it takes to force a smile. Would that I could, John Cuddy. Would that I could.

As a gull wheeled overhead, somebody said, “Amen.”

Back in my office on Tremont Street across from the Boston Common, I called a friend named Claire who has the computer access of a Microsoft billionaire. She answered on the third ring, and I asked her to run “Durand, Arthur” through what she calls her “databases.” Claire said she’d have to get back to me, and I told her to leave a message with my service. Then I locked up, went downstairs, and headed over to the Park Street Under subway.

Michael Monetti had attempted the killing of his associate in Cambridge rather than Boston, so the trial was being held at the relatively modern Middlesex Superior Courthouse across the Charles River rather than our dilapidated Suffolk County one. A Green Line trolley carried me to Lechmere Station in East Cambridge, and I walked three blocks to the tall, gray-stoned building. After clearing metal detectors at the lobby level, I rode an elevator to the sixth floor.

The courtroom itself had hush-colored carpeting, polished oak benches, and a domed ceiling. From earlier experiences, I knew that dome gave the space the acoustics of a concert hall, ostensibly so no one in the audience outside the bar enclosure would have to strain in order to hear testimony from the witness stand. In reality, though, so much as a whisper from anywhere — including counsel tables — could be heard clearly everywhere.

Given the lunch hour, I was able to get an aisle seat in a row on the prosecution side of the audience. On the first bench across the aisle sat the people I took to be the Monetti family. An older man with scarred hands and an older woman with a stern demeanor were sandwiched around a fiftyish woman whose face shared characteristics of each apparent parent. Other people in the second row comforted them by nodding in unison or squeezing a shoulder.

Suddenly, a side door near the front of the bar enclosure opened, and Bernie Wellington came through it. He was followed by a slick, well-dressed guy in his late thirties, two bailiffs — one male, one female — leading him into the courtroom. I recognized Michael Monetti from the media coverage of his indictment. He shared the family features, but whereas the other members looked stalwart, Mikey resembled a killer whale somebody had shoehorned into a double-breasted suit.

As Bernie Wellington made eye contact with me, Monetti turned his chair at the defense table toward his cheering section. Smiling, he told them not to worry. The jail food wasn’t so bad, he’d had worse, how was their lunch, and so on. The dome’s acoustics carried every syllable back to me.

After the stenographer moved toward her seat and the court clerk toward his kangaroo pouch in front of the bench, the judge appeared from her chambers door, everyone rising. She was African-American and fairly young. When we were all settled again, the female bailiff who’d escorted Michael Monetti into the courtroom went to another side door and knocked. Seconds later, the jurors began filing through and into their rectangular box against the wall. Once they, too, were seated, the bailiff took a chair near the telephone table at our audience end of the jury.

Then Wellington stood and asked the judge if he could have a moment. She granted his request, and he came through the gate of the bar enclosure, walking down the aisle toward me.

Leaning over, Bernie brought his lips to within an inch of my ear, his voice as delicate as a lover’s kiss. “Thanks, John. Durand is in seat number twelve, closest to you and that court officer.”

I nodded, but waited until Wellington arrived back at the defense table, Monetti writing something on a pad and tugging on Bernie’s sleeve. After that decent interval, I looked over to the bailiff seated at our end of the jury box. Just past her in the last chair of the front row was a skinny man scratching his nose with his left index finger. He had dark hair which indeed looked freshly cut, a suit jacket with lapels ten years old, and a collared shirt without benefit of tie. Suddenly, the skinny man shifted a little in his seat before cupping the scratching hand over his mouth and whispering to the young female juror on his right. She rushed one of her own hands toward her teeth, stifling a laugh.

The judge glared at the two of them in a way that told me it wasn’t the first time she’d done so. Then the prosecutor — a red-haired and freckled-faced lad who looked all of sixteen — recalled one of his witnesses to the stand.

A police lab tech, she waxed eloquent about various fibers found at the scene of the crime. I tuned her out and glanced occasionally toward the jury. To the naked eye, Arthur Durand was paying attention, alright.

After the lab tech, the prosecutor put on a male ballistics expert, who testified that the three bullets removed from the victim’s soft tissue came from the nine-millimeter Sig Sauer carried by Michael Monetti in violation of this statute and that. I left the courtroom just as the ballistics witness stepped down off the stand, because I wanted to be outside the building and in position to follow juror Durand on foot, by cab, or via public transportation.

At a little after five, Durand wended his way through the crowd at the courthouse door, his shoes making the clacking noise of a cheap computer keyboard as he walked to Lechmere Station. Instead of the subway, though, he hopped an Arlington Heights bus, and I climbed on very casually with a bunch of “other” transferring commuters. The bus made stops through East Cambridge and then Somerville, Durand getting off in a decaying neighborhood about half a mile before the Arlington town line.

I followed him down the bus’s steps and out the door, crossing the street so as to parallel his route of march. He passed a couple of alley mouths with Dumpsters slightly overflowing. At a wider side street, Durand turned. When I reached the intersection, I saw a block of wooden three-story houses.

I waited until he stopped at a house painted that hardware-sale shade of lavender. If Durand hadn’t nodded his head toward the car parked diagonally across and up the street, though, I’m not sure I would have spotted them.

Two men, sitting in the front seat of a beige Ford, the Crown Victoria model with white-walled tires. At that distance, I couldn’t make out faces, but the guy at the wheel was sipping through a straw from a big fast-food cup. His partner on the passenger side was motionless except for a single tug on his earlobe, the way Carol Burnett used to end her monologue.

Then Arthur Durand went up the stoop and into the lavender three-decker. I kept walking, but only around the block.

The Crown Vic was now halfway down the street from me. Unfortunately, I couldn’t see its rear license plate because of a truck between us. On the other hand, I’d certainly known a lot of vehicles like it over the years.

The favorite unmarked car of plainclothes police everywhere in the state, though usually with only black-walled tires.

I didn’t understand why Arthur Durand would be getting special protection as a juror unless Michael Monetti’s stupid ploy involving the earlier-case witness had gotten around. However, best to invest some time and be sure.

I moved to the other side of the street, which gave me an unobstructed view of the two men’s heads but still not their registration tag. The driver stopped sipping his drink and turned to his partner, saying something. The wheelman had straight sandy hair, the other dark curly hair, which was about the extent of description I could get without becoming obvious enough to be made by them.

I found a quiet doorway and waited.

It was nearly midnight — and me nearly starving — when the driver turned to his partner again, the other nodding and tugging on his ear some more. Then finally the Crown Victoria started up and pulled away.

But not so fast I couldn’t get their plate number.

Three

A groggy “Who the...?”

Into my end of the phone, I said, “Claire, this is John Cuddy.”

“What time is it?”

“By my watch, seven A.M.”

Her voice grew an edge. “Seven? You call fucking farmers at seven, Cuddy. Cyber-wizards, we like to sleep a little more toward noon.”

“Sorry, Claire, but I’ve got a lot to do today, and I didn’t pick up your message until after twelve last night.”

“Yeah, well, hold on a minute.”

A bonking noise came across the wire along with a distant, muffled “Shit.”

Then Claire’s voice was closer and clearer again. “Goddam phone. I should get a speaker thing, one of you guys ever paid me half what I’m worth for finding all this stuff for you.”

“Your weight in gold, Claire.”

“That some kind of crack?”

“No, it—”

“I mean, I lost five pounds in the last month, and I don’t take kindly to—”

“A compliment, Claire.”

“What?”

“It wasn’t a crack, it was a compliment. As in, ‘You’re worth your weight in gold.’ ”

“Yeah, well, remember that when you’re writing my check.” A rustle of paper. “Let’s see... let’s see... ‘Durand, Arthur,’ right?”

“Right.”

“Okay, with no middle initial, I wasn’t sure how many I’d turn, but I’ve got three out by Springfield, two north of Worcester — probably a father-and-son thing — and just the one in our own Slummerville.”

“Unkind, Claire. Give me the Somerville listing.”

“That’s Durand, Arthur ‘G.’ as in ‘George.’ ” More rustling. “Let’s see... No service record, no arrest record.”

So, Durand had told the truth answering those questions.

Claire said, “He does have a driver’s license, but no current car registration. Social Security is — you want the number and all?”

“Not necessary. Has there been any activity on the account?”

“Nothing from job withholding. Just a... yeah. Yeah, he’s been collecting unemployment for about three months now.”

Making the man someone who, as a juror, might be vulnerable to a bribe offer. “And before that?”

“Worked in a video store.”

“Any time in ‘sensitive industries’?”

“What, you mean defense contractors, that kind of thing?”

“Yes.”

“Cuddy, I think you overestimate our Durand, Arthur G.”

“How about bank records?”

“Simple savings and checking,” said Claire. “No real activity beyond depositing his unemployment and writing his rent checks.”

“You have a payee on those?”

“Yeah. ‘Stralick,’ that’s S-T-R-A-L–I-C-K, Rhonda M.”

“Address?”

“Same as your guy shows in Somerville.”

So, maybe a resident landlady. “Any credit cards?”

“Negative.”

“Bank loans?”

“Also nega-tivo, though I gotta tell you, Cuddy, I can’t see how this Durand could qualify to finance anything beyond a tattoo.”

“You turn up much else, Claire?”

“No records of marriage, divorce, or birth of child. The guy’s your basic loner/loser.”

“I can ask if he’s available?”

“I’m not that fucking desperate, thank you very much. Let me just total your tab here.”

“Hold it.”

“Why?”

“I’ve got a license plate I’d like you to run.”

“Jesus, Cuddy, you have any idea how much of an uproar the Registry of Motor Vehicles is in about this new federal law?”

“Which law’s that, Claire?”

“The one’s supposed to keep ‘stalkers’ from getting computer access to the home addresses of any sweeties they see driving by. But, if the Commonwealth doesn’t pass its own statute, we’re—”

“Claire?”

“What?”

“Just this one tag, please? And today, if possible.”

A grunt. “Why not? You got me up at the crack of dawn, I’ll have plenty of time to fucking carpe diem and get the registration for you too.”

I waited until after court would resume at nine before leaving my apartment and walking downstairs to my old Honda Prelude behind the building. Going to Arthur Durand’s place by car would be a lot more direct than trolley-and-bus, and in seven hours the night before I’d seen all of two cabs cruising the drag at the foot of his street.

I made my way to Somerville using the Western Avenue bridge and Central Square in Cambridge. Turning at Durand’s corner, I did a drive-by of the lavender three-decker but didn’t see any Crown Victoria staking out the block. There was a parking space near the next intersection, though, and I took it.

Walking back to Durand’s building, I studied its exterior. If you could forgive the color, the clapboard facade was fairly well maintained, especially when compared to its neighbors. I climbed the stoop; three bells mounted next to the door had just unit numbers rather than names below them.

Figuring that an owner would live on the first floor to enjoy the backyard, I started with “1.” After thirty seconds, I tried it again. Same lapse of time, same lack of result.

I was about to press the button once more when the door huffed open, a piece of rubber insulation making for a pretty tight fit against the jamb. The woman on the other side struggled to still look forty. Her platinum-blonde hair was spun around her head like cotton candy, biggish ears not quite hiding under it. The facial features pushed through makeup applied in layers, and even a nice manicure couldn’t hide the veins bulging on top of her hands. She wore a sweatsuit the color of the clapboards and fuzzy bedroom slippers.

“And who might you be, luv?”

A slight English accent. “John Cuddy.”

“Well, now, John.” Hooding her eyes, she canted her head. “You’re the cute one, aren’t you?”

“Ms. Stralick?”

A wariness now crossed her eyes. “You know my name?”

“ ‘Stralick, Rhonda M.’ ” I took out my identification holder.

Reading, she said, “Private investigator?”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t know nothing about anything.”

“That’s okay.” I closed the holder. “I’m just here for an employer who’s thinking of hiring one of your tenants.”

Wary became surprised. “Arthur?”

“Probably. I have ‘Durand, Arthur G.’ ”

Stralick didn’t seem convinced. “Who wants to hire him?”

“I’m afraid that’s confidential. But what I have to do won’t take very long.”

Another change of expression. “Good. That’ll give us more time to get acquainted, won’t it?”

Said the spider to the fly. “Could I come in?”

Stralick made a sweeping gesture with her right arm.

After closing the front door, she led me along a short corridor to an apartment entrance past the base of a staircase that would serve the upper two floors of her house. “Please excuse the mess, John.”

That would take some doing. In the living room, television trays functioned poorly as magazine racks, supermarket tabloids scattered like giant playing cards across one of those sculpted carpets popular twenty years ago. Opposite the flower-print couch was a widescreen Sony, the video on but the audio muted. Three teenaged girls — one white, one black, one Latina — sat awkwardly on a stage, an older man sporting evangelist hair roaming the audience with a handheld mike. The brightly printed caption at the low left of the screen read, STEP-DAUGHTERS PREGNANT BY THEIR STEPFATHERS.

I thought, And the mothers who love them both.

“What was that, John?” said Stralick, behind me.

Must have thought out-loud. “Nothing.”

Next to the TV was an armchair with the bulbous design of a ’52 Chevy. I went to it as my hostess took the couch, near enough to me that our knees almost touched.

Then she trotted out the hooded-eyes trick again. “So, what do you want to talk about?”

“Mr. Durand indicated on his job application that he was currently unemployed.”

“Three months’ worth,” said Stralick.

“I’m sorry.”

“No need to be sorry, luv.” She licked her lips. “What I meant was, Arthur hasn’t come up with the rent for the last little while.”

“I see. Before that, though, was he prompt in his obligations to you?”

“Moneywise, yes.”

“How about ‘otherwise’?”

A shrug. “Arthur helps me out with the storm windows, the snow shoveling, that sort of thing.” A coy smile. “But for real ‘otherwise,’ he’s not exactly the life of the party.”

“Sober, responsible types make better employees.”

“You don’t understand, John. After I divorced the bloody mound of shit who lured me to your country, I got a little lonely. But Arthur, he’s quiet as a churchmouse, he is.”

Stralick paused, maybe to give me a chance to jump in. When I didn’t, she made a face before saying, “Weeks can go by, and I won’t even hear him, much less see him. No taste for fun, Arthur.” Another wetting of the lips. “If you get my drift.”

“Fine with my client.”

Stralick’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I hope you’re not as dull as your ‘client,’ luv.”

I gave her an ingratiating smile. “Any reason you can think of why Mr. Durand shouldn’t be hired?”

“Only if it’d mean you’ll visit with me longer.”

A proper bulldog, Ms. Stralick. “I wonder, then, could I get a look at his apartment?”

Now wary again. “Why?”

“I just like to see the place where a prospective employee lives. Helps me put some flavor into my report, maybe even make it a full-blown recommendation.”

“God knows that’d be a help, what with Arthur in arrears on his rent the way he is.”

“And it would also be good if my visit today could stay our little secret, okay?”

“I like ‘secrets’ as much as the next girl, luv, but I do have a question first.”

“What’s that?”

Back to coy. “If you know Arthur’s unemployed, what makes you think he’s not up there now?”

“Because Mr. Durand advised my client he’d be on jury duty for a while.”

Stralick finally seemed convinced. “Right, then. Only I have to go with you, of course.”

“Of course,” I said, neutrally.

“Kind of captures him, if you get my drift.”

Rhonda Stralick had managed to rub or bump against me three times during our trip up the staircase. Arthur Durand’s apartment consisted of a living room with bay window in front, bedroom next, bath and kitchen at the back. The worn, faded furniture seemed to be the only furnishings, and the rooms gave off a spic-’n’-span shine. Which didn’t tell me much.

What wasn’t there told me something, though. No knick-knacks, keepsakes, or even photos. More like a large, spartan motel room.

At least until you got to the kitchen.

“Damn him!” Stralick went to the sink, using a paper towel from a cylindrical dispenser to crush three or four cockroaches scurrying over a dead pizza box. “Arthur’s usually neat as a pin, he is.”

There were beer cans and other takeout trash on the flanking counters. “Maybe Mr. Durand had somebody over last night and forgot to clean up.”

“Not bloody likely. No family, no visitors, no personality.” She began to lift the box by its edges.

“You might want to leave that where it is.”

Stralick looked at me. “Why?”

“So Mr. Durand won’t know you let somebody in to see his apartment.”

“Oh. Right you are, luv.” She let the box drop back into the sink, then made a sensual ritual of wiping her hands across the thighs of her sweatsuit. “I hope this business with the bugs doesn’t ruin our nice little mood.”

Seeing an out, I took it. “Afraid so. Delicate stomach.”

“Just my luck.” Rhonda Stralick tried to put on a happy face. “Well, then. Next time you’re in the neighborhood, you’ll stop and visit awhile, won’t you?” Now the hooded eyes again. “If you get my drift.”

More like her tidal wave.

Outside, I’d just put the key in my Prelude’s door-lock when I noticed the beige Crown Vic, parked beyond the intersection this time. I ducked my head a little, but I couldn’t do much about having been seen leaving the lavender three-decker.

I executed a three-point turn to avoid driving by them and glanced in my rearview mirror. Instead of following me, the sandy-haired driver seemed to be squinting in my direction and talking to the dark-haired ear-tugger, who himself was writing something down.

Probably the letters and numbers on the Prelude’s license plate, but there wasn’t much I could do about that either.

Four

Back in the office, I dialed Bernie Wellington’s number. His secretary told me that, not surprisingly, he was still in court on the Monetti case. I asked her to have him return my call as soon as possible.

I considered trying Claire again, too, but twice in one day seemed to be skating over the edge of her good will. Paperwork on other cases occupied me until almost three, when the phone rang.

A sound nearly as shrill as her voice.

“John Cuddy.”

“You own a pencil?”

“Ready, Claire.”

“Alright, let’s see... let’s see... Yeah, the tag belongs to a rental agency.”

That felt wrong, though it explained the white-walled tires. “You sure?”

“I’m insulted. But not as much as if I was the one actually running the plate.”

“Give me that again?”

“I told you about this new federal crackdown on computer access, right?”

“Right.”

“Okay, so I had this friend of mine over at the Registry do the search for me. He says the tag’s from a Ford Crown Vic — some ridiculous color that amounts to ‘beige’ — and the car belongs to, and I quote, ‘Best-Ride Car Rentals, Inc.,’ over by the airport. Here’s their address.”

The name and location — almost five miles from Arthur Durand’s apartment — meant nothing to me. “Claire, you ever hear of this outfit?”

“No, but my friend at the Registry has.”

“In what context?”

“The ‘connected’ context.”

Uh-oh. “A mob launderette?”

“Or maybe just a captive business the wiseguys turn to when their own wheels ought not to be involved. Help you any?”

“Maybe, maybe not. But thanks, Claire.”

“Hey, Cuddy, do me a favor, huh?”

“What’s that?”

“Mail my check before you pay these ‘Best-Ride’ people a visit, okay?”

Couldn’t blame her for asking.

After leaving two more messages for Bernie Wellington and not getting a return call, I decided to postpone the rent-a-car agency till the next morning. Locking up for the night at five-fifteen, I went downstairs to the parking space behind my office’s building. In the Prelude, I crawled with the rush-hour traffic over to South Boston and the Jack O’ Lantern tavern.

That part of Broadway near L Street in Southie is undergoing a general — if not quite gentle — gentrification. A lot of the old blue-collar, shot-and-a-beer joints are being squeezed out, their liquor licenses bought up by fern-and-butcher-block places for the new condo crowd. With orangy lights shining through tooth-gap windows, and an oval bar inside a walking moat before the tables start, “the Jack” is sort of a compromise: a good place for dinner with the wife and kids after work, then a watering hole for serious barflies from nine or so onward.

Maybe the early hour was what lulled me.

I’d been sitting on a stool at the bar, just finishing a steak platter with two Harp lagers, expertly drawn by Eddie Kiernan behind the taps. About five-eight and skinny as a rail, Eddie had played shortstop in the high minor leagues before coming back to the neighborhood and opening the Jack. In fact, I spent most of my dinner that evening listening to him grouse about the competition from his chi-chi new neighbors — “the wormy bastards” — and the skyrocketing rates for liability insurance they’d brought like a plague along with them.

Checking my watch, I saw it was nearly seven-thirty, so I got up to use the men’s room and try Bernie Wellington one last time before driving home. As I made my way between the bar and the tables, a guy leaving his own stool slammed into me, then staggered back. A little theatrically, I remember thinking at the time.

Maybe six feet tall and solid, with sandy straight hair and an oft-broken nose, he flared. “The fuck is wrong with you, asshole?”

I took in half a breath. “I believe you’re the one who bumped into me.”

“The fuck he is,” said a different man, standing at the bar.

I turned. Same size and build, but black curly hair and standard nose. He tugged on his left ear once, and I began to get the picture.

Sandy stepped up first, throwing a right cross at the left side of my face as I stayed turned toward his partner. I parried the sucker-punch, looping my left arm over Sandy’s right and catching his fist under my armpit. With the heel of my left hand braced under his elbow, I lifted up, hard. I could feel more than hear the joint dislocate, but I heard more than felt Sandy’s scream of pain as I released the hold.

Curly had swung his left just as I hunched my right shoulder up to protect my head and neck, but he’d had the time to realize that his first had better count. It rocked me into a table of four, who’d pushed back and stood up as the fighting began. Sandy was on the floor now, cradling a floppy forearm, facial features squinched up, voice down to a keening moan. When Curly stepped in to follow with his right, I used the table to support my own bad left knee. Then I side-kicked out with my right foot aimed at his left shin, all his weight having transferred forward onto that leg.

This time I did hear the cracking sound, Curly toppling like a felled tree with about as much noise. By now, Eddie had come out from behind the bar, a Louisville slugger in his hands. I was about to initiate appropriate inquiries of the two on the deck when instead Eddie jabbed me in the solar plexus with his bat as though he were doing bayonet drill.

I joined the hamburger plates on the party of four’s table.

By the time my breath started returning to me, Sandy had struggled to his feet and gotten Curly up as well, the combined three good arms and three good legs carrying both of them through the Jack O’ Lantern’s door and into the October night.

Eddie was standing near my left thigh, his bat at half-mast.

I said, “Why... me?”

“I was scared shitless you were going to maim the wormy bastards. My liability premiums would shoot out of sight.”

I forced some air down into the lungs. “Then how come... you didn’t... hit them first?”

He gave me a jaundiced look. “I said I was insured, John, not insane.”

As Eddie Kiernan promised the table of four he’d bring them new meals, I decided I couldn’t blame him either.

When I was able to breathe in for a count of eight without cramping, I left the tavern and made my way to the Prelude. Nobody had touched it. I got in, drove home, and climbed the stairs slowly, thankful for not having worse wounds to lick.

Once in the apartment, I checked with my answering service for the office. A message from Bernie Wellington, asking that I reach him the next day before court.

I went to the CD player, choosing some soft and soothing soprano sax, courtesy of the late Art Porter. Then I lowered myself onto the couch and stretched out, trying to make sense of a situation that was anything but soft and soothing.

Then I tried some more.

I started awake in the dark, the pain above my gut keeping me from sitting straight up. I’d been having a dream — about Rhonda Stralick, I’m embarrassed to admit — when a throwaway line of hers during my “visit” that day clicked into place. And suddenly something Bernie Wellington had mentioned joined it.

If I was right, Michael Monetti’s oddball voir dire questions made perfect sense. I could even understand why the two guys staking out the lavender three-decker had rousted me at the Jack.

But I needed to confirm one more piece of the puzzle to be certain, and I came up with a way of doing it I thought might work.

Five

That next Thursday morning, I took considerable care leaving the apartment building for two reasons. First, my solar plexus was still a tad ginger, thanks to Eddie’s bat. Second, if Sandy and Curly also had a friend at the Registry to run my plate, then they — or their replacement — could have a home address for me as well.

In the parking lot, I got down on hands and knees, examining the Prelude’s undercarriage to be sure no “aftermarket” options had been added to the ignition system. Starting up, I decided to avoid my office, since that was for sure where the muscle boys had been waiting before following me to the Jack O’ Lantern.

It could have made for a long day, but our Museum of Fine arts on Huntington Avenue had a great photographic exhibit by Herb Ritts to go with its other, usual wonders. About 11 A.M. — and knowing Bernie Wellington would be in court — I used a pay phone to call his secretary. I left only a blind message with her for him to try me at the office after lunch.

No sense in risking Bernie’s license, too.

Later that same Thursday, I drove from the museum across the Charles to East Cambridge. Parking the Prelude a few blocks west of the Middlesex County Courthouse, I loitered discreetly outside the main entrance. At four-forty, Arthur Durand appeared in a stream of people too randomly dressed to be lawyers and too jaded to be anything but “citizens summoned to serve.” That same young woman from the jury box was walking beside Durand, and he seemed to exaggerate some mannerisms of head and hands as he said something to her. She laughed again, this time not covering her mouth as in the courtroom, and they waved a casual goodbye, Durand scratching his nose with his left index finger.

I watched him move off toward Lechmere Station. When the woman turned north, I fell in behind her, half a block away and across the street.

Sometimes you get lucky.

At the corner, she got into the passenger side of an idling station wagon, one of those Subarus you see Australia’s Paul Hogan hucking on TV. There was a man about her age behind the wheel and a toddler strapped into a plastic restraint bucket against the rear seat.

The lucky part was that a taxi had just slewed to the curb in front of me, dropping off an elderly couple who’d already given the driver their fare. The young family’s car entered the traffic flow, my cab trailing it.

“Marjorie, come on, huh? You want this family package or that one?”

“Hey, Phil, give me a break, okay? I’ve been listening to witnesses and lawyers since Monday. It doesn’t look like we’re anywhere near finished, and this Monetti guy isn’t exactly O. J. material, you know?”

Phil wouldn’t let go of his bone. “Yeah? Well, try picking up Troy each afternoon from day care.”

“Like every other week of our lives I don’t?”

I eavesdropped on them silently as we all shuffled our way along the cafeteria line of a Boston Market franchise, the operation that was lucky to survive changing from the successful marquee name of “Boston Chicken.” The charming Marjorie and Phil couldn’t make up their minds on which of the many dinner options — including roasted turkey and baked ham — to choose. Their toddler, Troy, was between them, his head following their argument like a rapt tennis fan watching an important match.

Marjorie finally went for the turkey combo, and Phil paid at the cashier before carrying the trays of food and drink to a nearby booth for four. I took my own ham platter to an empty table across from them.

After we all had settled in, husband wisely said to wife, “Let’s change the subject, okay?”

“Okay,” replied Marjorie, a relenting tone in her voice as she cut up a side dish of broccoli for Troy-boy.

Phil forked some turkey off his plate. “You still can’t talk about the case?”

“Not until the judge says so, like after we vote and everything. But I’ll tell you this. If it wasn’t for Arthur, I’d be stir-crazy by now.”

“He’s that other juror you sit next to?”

“Right.” Marjorie turned to her own meal. “The judge already had to tell him twice to stop saying things during dead spots in the testimony or whatever, account of how he was, like, breaking me up.”

I again thought back to Rhonda Stralick’s evaluation of her tenant as Phil said, “Jokes? During a murder trial?”

“Attempted murder.” Marjorie took a slug of her cola. “But really, without Arthur and his impressions keeping all us jurors loose, I don’t know where we’d be.”

Phil pushed more turkey into his mouth. “Impressions of what?”

“Not of ‘what.’ Of ‘who.’ Arthur can do Sylvester Stallone and Arnold Schwarzenegger—”

“From the TV, Mommy?” said boy Troy, until now content to while away the meal smearing mashed potatoes across his face.

“That’s right, honey. From the movies on TV.” Then back to Phil with, “And Arthur has this wicked Johnny Carson, too, even better than that guy used to do.”

“What guy?”

“Oh, you know. Rich-somebody-or-other.”

“Rich who?”

“The one who did that great President Nixon. C’mon, Phil, you have to know who I mean.”

Her husband claimed he didn’t, but I was pretty sure I did.

“Wellington.”

“Bernie, it’s John Cuddy.”

“Good Lord, John,” came the voice from the other end of the line. “Where have you been?”

“Kind of busy, Bern.”

“You’re busy? The Commonwealth expects to rest tomorrow, which means I’m supposed to open the defense case Monday, and I’ve been trying to reach—”

“It’s a long story, and you might be better off not hearing all of it.”

A hesitation. “How bad, John?”

“Let me ask you something first.”

“What?”

“When you were impaneling the jury for Michael Monetti, did anything odd happen?”

“Odd? You mean, other than those questions he had me ask?”

“Right. Specifically with Arthur Durand.”

“Well, yes.” Another hesitation. “Not odd, so much, though. More coincidental.”

“Tell me what you mean.”

On the other end of the line, Wellington seemed to gather his thoughts. “After I asked Mr. Durand the last of Michael’s voir dire questions, I came back to our defense table to confer with my client about challenging him. Just then, one of Michael’s family in the audience behind us sneezed rather loudly, and the entire courtroom laughed.” Bernie’s voice grew weary. “Trust me, John, that’s been my only comic relief in the whole process.”

“Was that also when Monetti told you to keep Durand on the jury?”

“When Michael said not to challenge him, right. And I don’t mind sharing with you that it still feels wrong to have that chap in the box. Defense attorneys are being sued all the time now for ‘ineffective assistance of counsel’ if they fail to use all their peremptories and the jury returns a verdict of ‘guilty,’ and here’s my own client basically ordering me not to—”

“Bern?”

“What?”

“I’ll get back to you.”

“John—”

Six

The next morning, Friday, I got up at 6 A.M., my solar plexus barely twinging anymore. After dressing in old clothes, I drove the Prelude across the Western Ave bridge and through Central Square again, eventually reaching the foot of Arthur Durand’s street. No sign of anybody surveilling the lavender three-decker today, but that didn’t mean their overall plan wasn’t still on.

I left my car and walked into the mouth of the nearest alley. Taking ten more steps, I hunkered down behind its Dumpster.

To wait.

At seven-forty, I heard the distinctive keyboard clacking of a certain person’s dress shoes coming from the direction of Rhonda Stralick’s house. I moved back to the mouth of the alley again. When the thin man who scratched his nose and shifted in his chair crossed the opening in front of me, I clotheslined him with my left forearm.

He went down hard, but not quite out.

I grabbed the collar of his jacket and dragged him quickly behind the Dumpster before he was focusing well again. After propping his butt and torso into a sitting position against the brick wall of the alley, I squatted onto my haunches. His eyes slowly registered me in front of him.

“What the... the fuck is going on?”

“My friend, we need to have a little chat before court resumes this morning.”

He tried to make his hands work, palms pushing at the ground to scrabble back up.

I laid my own hands on his shoulders to calm him down. “You find yourself in deep weeds, boyo. Very deep weeds.”

“The fuck are you—”

“First I talk, and then maybe you talk. Understand?”

He didn’t say anything to that.

“Michael Monetti’s criminal career is going south on him. One more felony conviction, and he never sees the sun again outside of exercise time in a prison yard. However, he’s also about to be tried for attempted murder, and so something has to be done. Mikey once had his muscle tap a state-protected witness, but that didn’t work out so well for him. Then he has a brainstorm about the current situation.”

I looked down into the man’s eyes and thought back to Bernie Wellington’s “good family” speech. “Specifically, you. The accused’s gifted second cousin.”

“I don’t know what—”

“Be patient, I’m not done yet. Mikey made it easy for you. Sit with the rest of the family at the front of the courtroom’s audience that first afternoon of trial last week, sort of ‘hide in plain sight.’ Then watch as the jury’s selected. If one of the males answered Mikey’s voir dire questions the right way, you’d study the guy, see if he was also ‘right’ in other ways. Your approximate height and weight, hopefully some telltale mannerisms that would be easy to mimic.”

I had my subject’s undivided attention now.

“A man named ‘Arthur Durand’ turns out to fit the bill nearly perfectly, especially since his unkempt hair and beard would kind of haze anybody’s memory of his facial features. So, when it comes time to maybe knock the guy off the jury, you send Mikey a little ‘keep him’ signal in the courtroom. A cough, maybe. Or a sneeze?”

The second cousin’s eyes jumped.

“Now move on to that night — a week ago today. Your cousin’s enforcers follow Durand home to Rhonda Stralick’s three-decker around the corner. Meanwhile Mikey’s sister the beautician gives you a haircut, so nobody would think it odd that ‘Durand’ had shaved off his beard, too. Your rough resemblance to the guy and considerable talent can do the rest, particularly for people like the other jurors, who’d never seen Durand before that afternoon.”

“I’m... I’m Arthur Durand.”

“You’re not listening, my friend. The enforcers take Durand out of the three-decker, remove any photos of him there, and put you in his place. Bingo. The next day of trial — Monday morning, now — there’s a juror among the twelve who’s eventually going to create a ‘hung’ jury by voting his cousin ‘not guilty’ for sure. Maybe you’d even make a few friends in the box during the course of trial, what with some snappy patter and a knack for impressions of famous people. Like that great comic, Rich Little, used to do. It wasn’t the real Durand’s personality, but you might get a couple of other votes to swing your way, especially if you paid close attention to the evidence and raised good arguments during deliberation. The district attorney would think twice before pursuing a second trial if there were enough ‘not guilty’ votes the first time around. Hell, even an acquittal wouldn’t be out of the question if most of your fellow jurors took a shine to you.”

“I’m telling you. I’m Arthur Durand.”

I shook my head. “You’re a bit nervous now, right?”

No answer.

“Right?” I repeated.

A grudging “Right.”

“Okay. Only problem is, you’ve been forgetting to scratch your nose the way Durand does. Or — more accurately — did.”

A glimmer of something beyond nervous. “What are you talking about?”

“Let me guess. Mikey told you they were just going to snatch Durand for the course of the trial, then put him back into his life and you into yours, right?”

“I’m not saying.”

“Fine. Just listen, then. The juror questionnaire covers things like job, family, and so on. Guess what? Durand had nobody. On the surface, great for your cousin’s plan, because there’d be no one to miss Durand while he’s ‘gone’ during the trial. Mikey even camped his enforcers each day outside the three-decker, probably as babysitters so your winning personality didn’t go off romping at night and maybe piss in the stew somehow. But why would your cousin want you living in Durand’s apartment this last week?”

No response.

“Mikey gave you an answer to that one, didn’t he? ‘Hey, cuz, we need to have somebody moving around up there, make some noise so the landlady hears her tenant.’ Again, on the surface it seems plausible. But there’s a real risk, too. What if Rhonda Stralick should run into you on the stairs? Or come a-knocking on Durand’s door, looking for the rent money? She knows her tenant pretty well, wouldn’t be fooled into thinking you were him. And that seems to me a bigger risk than her not hearing ‘Durand’ walking around up there for a few days.”

The second cousin was thinking about it, because his eyes started moving left-right-left, kind of jittery.

I said, “So let’s explore things a bit more. Mikey tells you he’s just keeping Durand on ice for a while. Only thing is, how could your cousin be sure Durand wouldn’t talk later about his little ‘interlude’?”

Still no response.

“And if Durand wasn’t going to talk — because he’d been handsomely bribed or was just rationally terrified — why bother to substitute you for him in the first place? Why not simply intimidate the real Arthur Durand into being the juror who’ll definitely vote ‘not guilty’ and therefore at worst buy Mikey a second trial?”

Nothing except for those eyes flicking, like lightning bugs caught in a jar.

“Don’t feel stupid, my friend. It took me a while to figure it out, too. Start by remembering that your cousin got burned when he approached that witness in the earlier case. Then think about those questions Mikey had his lawyer ask the male jurors for this go-around. Armed forces, arrest, sensitive employment. Durand answered ‘no’ to all the above. So tell me, what do those experiences carry with them?”

The second cousin shook his head.

“Okay, time’s up, anyway. They all require the person involved to be fingerprinted, boyo, meaning Durand never had been. I’m guessing the same is true for you.”

He swallowed hard, maybe seeing where I was heading.

“Now, here’s the stumper: if Mikey’s enforcers have been parked outside the three-decker, and—”

“But they never showed up yesterday.”

The first real admission. “I’m not surprised. They spotted me nosing around Wednesday, found out who I was, then set me up for a barroom beating that night.”

The second cousin shook his head some more. “But... you don’t look like—”

“I was able to discourage them.”

He just stared at me.

“Now let’s get back to my question, okay? If your cousin’s enforcers have been babysitting you since they snatched the real Mr. Durand, and the rest of the Monetti clan — including even you — has been sitting dutifully in the courtroom, who does that leave to look after the poor kidnap victim, shut up in a room somewhere?”

The eyes did jumping jacks in the man’s head. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“I’m afraid so, my friend. Arthur Durand is dead, probably killed by Mikey’s enforcers that first night a week ago. However, when the trial ends — say another week from now — any evident ‘disappearance’ of a juror who’d just sat on a major case is going to be investigated fairly carefully by the police, something your cousin would not exactly welcome. Especially since Durand’s landlady will maintain that her tenant is ‘quiet as a churchmouse’ while the other jurors would call him more the ‘class clown.’ So, better if Durand’s body itself turns up simply and quickly, the result of some tragic ‘accident,’ maybe. Only problem? A roughly two-week-old corpse would be a tough sell to any medical examiner told that ‘Arthur Durand’ was alive and well through the end of jury deliberations. Therefore, I’m thinking Mikey will need a fresher body to stand in for the real Durand.”

“But... but...”

“Which brings us back to why your cousin wanted you in that third-floor apartment this past week. You’re probably about Durand’s height and weight, but you wouldn’t have had his dental work. So — after a disfiguring collision, say — the M.E. will be asked to match up the unlucky corpse with the missing Arthur Durand, and guess what? The fingerprints on the body will match those found in Durand’s apartment.”

“You’re saying... you’re saying Michael’s gonna kill me?”

“Look at it from his standpoint. When the trial is over, you’re kind of a loose thread, and potentially very embarrassing. What happens if your career as a standup comic starts to take off, and one of the jurors who sat with ‘Arthur Durand’ for two weeks recognizes you? Maybe he or she would go to the authorities with this odd piece of information.”

“But Michael’s... I’m his own blood.”

“I’d bet your cousin sees it more as his own future. On the other hand, you know him better than I do. Which way do you think he’ll flip on this one?”

Not much doubt from the eyes now, but no reason to leave any in his mind, either.

I said, “On the third hand, let’s assume I’m wrong about Mikey’s views regarding the bond of family. Even then, my friend, I blow the whistle on your little masquerade here, and you’re up for at least conspiracy in the murder of the real Arthur Durand.”

He looked down, eyes flicking left-right-left some more, then back up to me. “The fuck am I gonna do?”

“We go to the courthouse together this morning, and you have a frank talk with the judge and the district attorney.”

His eyes got wide enough to see white all around the pupils. “What’re you, nuts? If I wanted to fucking die, ratting out Michael would do it.”

“You tell the authorities about what he’s pulled here, and they’ll place you with their witness-protection program.”

“Yeah, and how safe am I gonna be in that? Michael’s guys already broke the thing once.”

“That’s not all they broke.”

“What?”

“The barroom, night before last. The both of them are in body casts by now.”

“So Michael sends two more after me. What’re my chances then?”

“Better than they are now.”

The second cousin looked down again. “Basically...” He coughed twice, tears trickling along that nose he was no longer scratching. “Basically, what you’re saying is, I gotta go in and tell the truth.”

“The system calls it ‘voir dire.’ ”

His face came back up. “Huh?”

“Never mind,” I said.