Kiss

4.

Bloody murder would be the subject of this trial.

Bloody murder seemed to rage in the fierce January wind that rattled the tall windows on one side of the courtroom. The windows were shut tight against the winter cold, but you could still hear the high, shrill whistle of the wind outside, more insistent than the muted sounds of traffic in the streets below. The walnut-paneled courtroom was far too small for the crowd it contained. An expectant hush seemed to shrink the room further as Assistant District Attorney Henry Lowell called his first witness.

"I would like Dominick Assanti to take the stand, please," he said.

A tall young white man with wavy black hair and brown eyes came through the doors at the back of the courtroom, nodded to a man sitting in the back row-undoubtedly his father, judging from the remarkable resemblance-and walked down the center aisle to the witness chair. The clerk of the court swore him in. Lowell approached.

"Could you tell me your name, please?" he asked.

"Dominick Assanti.”

"How old are you, Dominick?”

"Eighteen.”

"How old were you on July seventeenth last year?”

"Seventeen.”

"You had your eighteenth birthday between then and now, is that it?”

"Yes, sir. On the sixth of December.”

"Mr. Assanti, on July seventeenth last year, do you recall going to a movie with a girl named Doris Franceschi ...”

"Yes, I do.”

"... who was your girlfriend at the time, wasn't she?”

"Yes. But we broke up. She's not my girlfriend no more.”

"But she was at that time.”

"Yes.”

"At the time, did she live at 7914 Harrison Street?”

"I think that was her address, yes.”

"Mr. Assanti," Lowell said gently, "if you can remember the exact ...”

“Objection.”

Harold Addison, attorney for the defense.

A white man in his early sixties, sporting a Santa Claus beard and a potbelly to match.

Ruddy-cheeked and twinkly-eyed, he gave the impression of a kind and generous grandfather whom it pained even to use the word objection, but if justice was to be served ...

"Yes, Mr. Addison?”

"He's answered the question, Your Honor.”

"I don't believe so. Please read back the question.”

"At the time, did she live at 7914 Harrison Street?”

"Do you mean Frankie?”

"Is that what you called her?”

"Frankie, yes. That's her nickname.”

"And is that her address?”

"Yes, that's where she lived," Assanti said.

From where Carella was sitting with his mother and sister in the third row right, he saw Addison smile in his Santa Claus beard, as if he'd won a major victory. Carella could not for the life of him imagine why. Judge Rudy Di Pasco was frowning, as if displeased by whatever it was that Grandpa Addison had done. To nail it all home, Lowell said, "Then on July seventeenth last year, Doris Franceschi was living at 7914 Harrison Street, in Riverhead, was she not?”

"She was, yes," Assanti said.

"Thank you. Now tell me, Mr.

Assanti, on that night, after the movie, did you not walk Miss Franceschi back to her home at 7914 Harrison Street?”

"I did.”

"Would you remember what time this was?”

"It was after the movie.”

"Yes, but what time was that? Would you remember what time the movie let out?”

"It m/'ve been about eight-thirty. Around then.”

"Did you go directly from the movie to Miss Franceschi's house?”

"Yes.”

"Arriving there at what time?”

"I don't remember.”

"Well, isn't the theater you went to only ten blocks ...?was "Your Honor?" Santa Claus. On his feet again. Head tilted to one side as if he'd just come down the chimney and was apologizing for all the soot he'd trailed onto the carpet.

"Yes, Mr. Addison," Di Pasco said.

"I hate to interrupt the orderly flow of an examination," Addison said, "and I realize that Your Honor has already ruled upon an instance where Mr. Lowell was insisting on certain knowledge rather than on conjecture. But, Your Honor, when the witness says he cannot remember something, then surely this may be taken as a direct answer to a direct question. I do not remember ... it is impossible for me to recall ... whatever language the witness may choose to use, it means the same thing. He cannot remember. And not remembering something is a valid answer and not, to my knowledge, a crime in this sovereign state.”

Murder is, Carella thought.

"Mr. Lowell?”

"It was my hope, Your Honor, to refresh the witness's memory by providing significant facts relating to time and distance.”

"Perhaps you can find another way of getting to that.”

"Your Honor ...”

"I've ruled, Mr. Addison.”

"Thank you, Your Honor. But ...”

"I said I've ruled.”

"Thank you," Addison said, and rolled his eyes as he sat down, clearly transmitting to the jury that something rotten was afoot in a court of American law where a witness wasn't allowed to say he didn't remember something.

"What was the name of the theater you went to?”

Lowell asked.

"The Octagon.”

"Thank you. And the Octagon is on what street?”

"Benton.”

"And how far is that from Harrison, would you say?

From the house Miss Franceschi lived in on Harrison.”

"About ten blocks.”

"So how long did it take you to walk those ten blocks? Would you say five minutes?”

"Longer than that.”

"Ten minutes?”

"More like fifteen or twenty.”

"Is it fair, then, to say that it took you fifteen or twenty minutes to walk to her - house from the movie theater?”

"That's about what it took.”

"Which would have placed you there at a quarter to nine, ten to nine, around that time.”

"Yes, it was around that time.”

"What time did you leave Miss Franceschi?”

"Around twenty after nine.”

"Mr. Assanti, do you have any knowledge of a bakery shop at 7834 Harrison, a shop called AandL Bakery, are you familiar with this shop?”

"I've seen it, yes. It's out of business now.”

"Would you know if it was still in business on the night of July seventeenth last year?”

"It was.”

"After you left Miss Franceschi, did you pass this shop on your way home?”

"I did.”

“What time was this, do you recall?”

"It was about nine-thirty, give or take a few minutes.”

"Mr. Assanti, can you tell us what happened as you were walking home?”

"I heard shots.”

"Where?”

"I didn't know where at first. I thought it was from the liquor store.”

"What liquor store?”

"There's a liquor store next door to the bakery.”

"How many shots were there?”

"Three. One right after the other.”

"Were these shots, in fact, coming from the liquor store?”

"No.”

"Where were they coming from?”

"The bakery.”

"Tell us what happened next.”

"Two guys came running out of the bakery.”

"Describe them.”

"They were both black. Very big. Both wearing jeans and black T-shirts.”

"Were they armed?”

"One of them had a gun.”

"And you say they came running out of the bakery shop ...”

"Yes, and almost knocked over a man who was coming out of the liquor store.”

"So you heard these three shots ...”

"Yes.”

“One right after the other.”

"Yes.”

"In rapid succession, would you ...?was "Your Honor, he's putting words into the witness's mouth.”

"Sustained.”

"You heard these three shots one after the other, and you saw two men come running out of the bakery shop ...”

"Yes.”

"And one of them was carrying a gun.”

"Yes.”

"Did you get a look at the gun?”

"I did.”

"Do you know what kind of gun it was?”

"No, I don't know anything about guns.”

Lowell walked to the prosecutor's table, picked up a tagged pistol, and carried it back to the witness stand. "Mr. Assanti," he said, "I show you a nine-millimeter assault pistol, and ask if the gun you saw on the night of July seventeenth looked like ...”

"Objection!”

Addison was on his feet again, a chiding smile on his bearded face, as if he were saying that surely Lowell knew better than even to begin posing such a question. Shaking his head in reprimand, he said, "Your Honor, is the district attorney asking whether Mr.

Assanti saw this particular pistol on the night of July seventeenth ...”

"My question ...”

"Let him finish, please, Mr. Lowell.”

"Thank you, or a pistol merely like this one,”

Addison said. "Because if we are discussing this particular gun, which the district attorney now ...”

"We are discussing this particular gun,”

Lowell said, "but only as ...”

"Then of course the question becomes of paramount importance.”

"I am asking ... if I have a chance to get the question out," Lowell said in a sly aside to the jury, "whether a pistol like this one was seen by Mr. Assanti ...”

"Then, Your Honor ...”

"Approach the bench, please.”

The two attorneys stepped up to the bench.

Di Pasco looked down at them.

"I don't like this kind of showboating," he said to Addison.

"Your Honor, surely ...”

"Surely me not," Di Pasco said. "You heard Mr. Lowell's question as well as I did.

Now if you're going to keep jumping up every three minutes with objections designed to confuse the jury ...”

"Perhaps I myself was confused, Your Honor.”

"Yes, perhaps you were.”

"In which case, I apologize for taking up the Court's valuable time.”

"Spare me," Di Pasco said, and rolled his eyes.

Addison went back to the defense table, a slight, small smile hidden in his beard.

Lowell went back to the witness chair.

"Mr. Assanti," he said, "did the gun you saw on the night of July seventeenth look like this gun?”

"Yes, it did.”

"Same size and shape ...”

"Yes.”

"Same sight and trigger guard ...”

"Yes.”

"Same muzzle ...”

"Yes.”

"Same grip ...”

"Yes.”

"In fact, a gun that looked exactly like this gun, isn't that so?”

"Yes.”

"Your Honor," Lowell said, "I would like this pistol marked and moved into evidence subject to connection by a subsequent witness.”

"So moved," Di Pasco said.

Lowell seemed mildly surprised that Addison hadn't objected. He hesitated a moment before asking his next question. Or perhaps that was only for dramatic effect.

"Mr. Assanti," he said, "can you please tell us which of the men was carrying a gun that looked like this one?”

"The one called Sonny.”

"How do you know what he was called?”

"The other one called him Sonny.”

"When was this?”

"When they were running by me.”

"They came running out of the bakery shop ...”

"Yes.”

"And almost knocked over a man coming out of the liquor store ...”

"Yes.”

"By the way, would you recognize this man if you saw him again?”

"I think so, yes.”

"And then they ran by you, is that it?”

"Yes.”

"Tell me what you heard as they came running by.”

"The other man ... not Sonny, the one with him ... yelled, `Come on, Sonny, move it.`”

"Meaning what?”

"Objection.”

"Sustained.”

"Did you get a look at both of these men?”

"I did.”

"The one carrying the gun?”

"Yes.”

"You got a look at him?”

"Yes.”

"Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

"I would.”

"I ask you to look around this courtroom and tell me if you see the man who was carrying a gun exactly like this one on the night of July seventeenth last year.”

"I do.”

"Would you point him out to us, please?”

"He's there. He's sitting right there.”

"Is he sitting at the defense table?”

"Yes.”

"Is he the black man sitting next to Mr.

Addison?”

"He is.”

"Let the record show that the witness is pointing to Mr. Samson Wilbur Cole, also known as ...”

"Objection.”

"His name is noted as such on the indictment, Your Honor. Samson Wilbur Cole, astksta Sonny Cole. Which, of course, means `also known as Sonny Cole.`”

"Overruled. Proceed, Mr. Lowell.”

"I have no further questions.”

He didn't much enjoy being with her.

She didn't say a lot, she wasn't a talkative woman, but she did manage to express-with a rolling of the eyes, or a - heavy sigh, or an almost imperceptible shake of the head-enormous impatience whenever he revealed his ignorance of the city. Hesitate before crossing a street or turning a corner, show the slightest puzzlement about which way was east or west or north or south, confuse the subway or bus lines, head off uptown when he'd meant to go downtown, and her face would flash the now-familiar look that told him he was just a hick from Second City, U.S.A., fumbling his way through More-Every-That-Rather-O-People-O-Like-I-So!

That Tuesday-this was already the eighth of January, the new year seemed to be flashing by -he told the doorman downstairs that he was here, and the doorman buzzed up and said, "Mr.

Darrow's here, madam," and her voice came over the speaker, "I'll be right down, George." Didn't ask him to come up.

Well, why should she? He was hired help.

He waited in the ornate marble lobby.

Chatted with the doorman about the weather. The temperature outside this morning was twelve degrees Fahrenheit. He'd read USA Today while he was having breakfast in the luncheonette around the corner from his building.

Twenty-nine in Chicago. It was like the Caribbean up there, but he was freezing to death down here. The doorman told him a warm front was headed this way. He'd believe it when he saw it.

Meanwhile, the wind was howling outside. Nice and warm here in the lobby though. He hated having to go outside again. Maybe she'd be heading someplace warm.

"Good morning," she said.

Stepping out of the elevator, walking toward where he was sitting. A raccoon coat hung open over a yellow leotard, black tights, and black aerobic shoes. He said, "Good morning," his eyes studiously on her face and nowhere else. She pulled the coat closed, fastened it, took a woolen hat from one of the pockets, and yanked it down over her ears.

Together, they stepped out into the cold.

She walked at a brisk pace, saying nothing, vapor pluming from her mouth. They were heading in what he now knew was a southerly direction, toward the wide avenue that skewered this part of the city east and west. Its proper name was Stemmler Avenue, clearly visible on the corner signposts, but the natives here called it - The Stem, something he had discovered only yesterday, live and learn. He recognized the manicure shop he'd passed on the way to the apartment yesterday, recognized other little landmarks along the way, the laundromat, the deli, the Christ the Redeemer Billiards Parlor, the herbal shampoo store, the statue of the Civil War hero General Julian Pace sitting astride a rearing bronze horse on the center island. He was getting to know this city.

The aerobics studio was upstairs in a building that housed a Chinese restaurant on the ground floor. Emma led him up a long, narrow flight of stairs that terminated at a glass-paneled door lettered with the name of the place, Body Language, and decorated with its logo, a woman in silhouette leaping into the air with arms and legs impossibly spread-eagled. The door opened onto a room with a wooden bench on the wall to the right, a row of pegs on the wall to the left, a counter directly opposite the entrance door, with a doorless doorframe just beside it. A blonde wearing a pink aerobics outfit looked up as they came in.

"Hi, Mrs. Bowles," she said.

"Hello, Ginger," Emma said, and went directly to the row of wall pegs and hung the raccoon coat alongside a long down parka.

She glanced at the clock hanging over the bench- it was now twenty minutes to nine-and then turned to Andrew. "It's over at ten, ten-fifteen,”

she said. "If you want to go for a cup of coffee or anything ...”

"Too cold out there," he said. "I'll wait here, if that's okay.”

"Sure," she said, and shrugged as if to say there was no accounting for the odd ways of bodyguards hired by a person's husband. "This is Mr.

Darrow," she said to Ginger. "He'll be with me for the next little while.”

"Nice to meet you," Ginger said, and didn't question why he'd be with her for the next little while.

Andrew wondered how many men accompanied women to their aerobics classes. Emma disappeared through the doorless doorframe. He could hear her greeting other women inside there. He took off his coat, hung it on the rack alongside hers, and then went to sit on the bench. A small end table was cluttered with magazines like Vogue, Mademoiselle, Vanity Fair, and Cosmopolitan.

"I can get you some coffee, if you like," Ginger said.

"That'd be very nice, thank you," he said.

"How do you take it?”

"Light with one sugar, please.”

"Do you mind instant?”

"Not at all.”

"Back in a jiffy," she said, and smiled at him, and then walked out of sight somewhere behind the counter.

He was wearing a black cashmere jacket over worsted trousers in a small houndstooth check.

Gray broadcloth shirt with white collar and cuffs. Simple silver cuff links. Matching silver tie tack fastening a wine-colored silk tie. Black loafers shined early this morning at the shoemaker's two blocks from the apartment he was renting. He knew he looked casually but elegantly dressed, but he also knew he'd have attracted little Ginger here even if he'd been wearing mud-covered jeans and a ketchup-stained T-shirt. He had that effect on women.

Well, most women.

"Here you go," she said. "I hope it's light enough.”

Still smiling. Tightly packed into the pink leotard and tights. A beautiful body.

"Thank you," he said, and accepted the cup.

She did not immediately go back to the counter.

"What'd Mrs. Bowles say your name was?”

she asked.

"Andrew," he said.

"I'm Ginger," she said, and extended her hand.

"Yes, I know.”

He took her hand. The palm was fleshy, slightly damp. He wondered where else she might be damp.

"Nice to meet you," he said.

"Hi, Ginger!”

Through the doorway with the leaping-lady silhouette came a woman herself in silhouette and fairly leaping with energy. She bounded into the room, looked up at the wall clock, gave Andrew a cursory but appreciative glance, and then hung her coat on one of the wall pegs. She was tall and very slender, a woman in her late forties who'd obviously taken very good care of herself.

Good, firm breasts in the molded leotard, long, shapely legs in the black tights. She - glanced at Andrew again. She smiled at him, and he smiled back. She gave a slight, barely perceptible acknowledging nod and then went through the doorframe into the other room, where a tape now began playing.

He listened to the jolting music.

His eyes closed, he visualized them leaping around in there.

When at last they began flowing out through the doorframe again, he imagined each and every one of them in bed, knowing this was the way they would look after sex, out of breath, clothes sweaty and clinging, faces flushed, hair disarrayed, bodies pushed to the limit of exhaustion. They knew-or at least he thought they knew-that he was stripping them naked with his eyes. Emma seemed to sense this as well; she put on her coat with seemingly unnecessary haste.

"I hope you weren't bored," she said dryly.

"Plenty of magazines," he said, and they went down into the cold again.

They walked back to the Butler Street condo, and this time she asked him to come up. They rode the elevator in silence. They walked down the twelfth-floor corridor in silence. She unlocked both locks, the Medeco and the one below it.

"I'll only be a little while," she said, "make yourself comfortable." An airy hand gesture toward the living room. "There are magazines.”

Little note of sarcasm there? For having appreciated all those pretty aerobics ladies? He watched her as she went through a door into what he supposed was the master bedroom.

The door whispered shut behind her. There was a click. She had locked it.

He went into the living room, sat on a stainless-steel tubular sofa with vanilla leather cushions and back, and picked up a magazine from the similarly tubed glass-topped coffee table.

Forbes. Undoubtedly her husband's choice.

The magazine under it was Fortune. And beneath that, Business Week. He wondered where all the women's magazines were. In the bedroom?

He looked at his watch.

Twenty to eleven.

He began reading Fortune.

Lots of rich people in this country.

He wondered how many of them paid income tax.

He was deeply absorbed in a story about corporate takeover when she came out of the bedroom. She was wearing a gray cable-stitched turtleneck sweater and snug tailored slacks. Black boots. A red beret tilted low on her forehead.

"Ready to go?" she asked, and took her mink coat from the hall closet.

It was ten minutes to eleven.

The doorman hailed a taxi for them. She told the driver she was going midtown, and gave him an address. To Andrew she explained, though it seemed to pain her to have to do so, that she was going to Gucci's to leave a handbag for repair.

"Have you got a Gucci in Chicago?" she asked.

"Oh, yes," he said, "on Michigan Avenue. I buy all my shoes there.”

Proud of the way he dressed. Wanting her to know that he spent money on clothes. Took care in selecting his clothes. Bought his clothes at only the very best shops.

"Incidentally," he said, "I thought you might like to have my home number.”

"Why?" she asked.

"Well, I can't be with you twenty-four hours a day, and if anything happens ...”

"Once the police find Tilly, nothing will happen," she said.

"In the meantime, they haven't got him, have they?”

"No, but ...”

"Then take my card," he said, and handed it to her. "I've written a number here on the back, it's where I'm staying while I'm in town. You can call me anytime you need me.”

She looked at the card: A. N. DARROW INVESTIGATIONS 644 South Clark Street CHICAGO, ILLINOIS 60605 312-404-2592 "Darrow Investigations," she said aloud.

"Yes.”

"South Clark Street.”

"Yes.”

She turned the card over, studied the telephone number he'd scrawled in ink.

"Where is this?" she asked.

"All the way downtown. Near the - Calm's Point Bridge.”

"I used to live down there.”

"Oh?”

"Long ago. Before I met Martin.”

"What were you doing then?”

"Dreaming," she said, and fell silent for the rest of the trip downtown.

The police cars here in the center of the city were marked on their sides with the words MIDTOWN NORTH PCT. Andrew wondered where the Midtown South precinct started. Was there a dividing line? The stores lining the avenue had already taken down all the Christmas decorations, their windows were showing cruise wear. Hall Avenue was the name of the big shopping street here, it reminded him of The Miracle Mile in Chicago, except that it wasn't as wide.

Everything here in this city seemed cramped and stingy.

You didn't have the feeling of extravagant space you had in Chicago. Well, Chicago had been carved out of the prairie, and this place was an island, but even so, they could have made their avenues a bit wider. At least their avenues.

He really hated this fucking city.

She spent about half an hour upstairs at Gucci, first waiting to see someone about the bag and then explaining what had happened to its clasp. The woman she spoke to was in her late forties, Andrew guessed, an attractive woman with jet-black hair pulled into a bun at the back of her head. She spoke with an accent Andrew found charming. He wondered what Rome was like.

He was willing to bet they had wide avenues in Rome.

It was a little past twelve when they came out into the street again. The sidewalks were thronged with people on their lunch hour. That was another thing about this city. It always seemed so crowded. No wonder people's tempers were short.

"Shall we have some lunch?" Emma asked.

"About that time, isn't it?" he said.

She led him to a little French restaurant on one of the side streets. He didn't know exactly where he was, but he gathered this was a neighborhood with a lot of restaurants in it, most of them expensive from the looks of them. The outside looks, anyway. The canopies, the thick wooden entrance doors, some of them elaborately carved, the polished brass doorknobs. He wondered at once who'd be paying for lunch. He'd told her that his fee included expenses. Would they be going Dutch here? He certainly hoped she didn't expect him to pay for her lunch. In the Bad Investment Department, that would be an indisputable winner.

Emma ordered a glass of white wine. He ordered an Absolut on the rocks.

"I only drink the best," he said.

"Cheers.”

"Cheers," she said.

She sipped a little of the wine, and then put her glass down.

"Wine okay?" he asked.

"Fine," she said.

And fell silent again. He hated these silences she fell into.

The restaurant was tiny and intimate, small square tables with pristine white tablecloths, polished silver, sparkling stemware glasses on each table, a small one for the white wine, a large for the red, a yet-larger water goblet. People kept drifting in; the place was gradually filling up. There were good aromas in here. Andrew suddenly felt ravenously hungry. The headwaiter brought their menus and padded off. Andrew studied his.

"I'm going to need help," he said.

"Sure," she said.

He thought at first that she was going to translate for him, but instead she signaled to the headwaiter, who patiently recited the day's specials and then answered Andrew's specific questions about several items on the menu. He ended up ordering the grilled salmon without the mouselline sauce.

She ordered the chicken special. The waiter asked him if he would care for another drink. He said he'd just have a glass of white wine, please.

"Madame?" the waiter asked.

Her glass was still three-quarters full. She covered it with her hand.

"I'm fine," she said. "Thank you.”

And fell silent again.

What the hell was wrong with her?

"When was that?" he asked abruptly.

She looked up.

"When was what?”

"When you lived downtown. Near the bridge.”

"Oh. When I was very young.”

"How young?”

"Nineteen. A long time ago.”

“Not so long ago," he said, and smiled.

"Long enough," she said.

"What were you doing back then?”

"I was in school," she said.

"Best time of my life," he said, and smiled again.

It was tough to get this woman to return a smile. Her thumb and forefinger kept working the stem of the wineglass. She was looking down into the glass again. No eye contact. The waiter brought Andrew's wine. He lifted it in a toast she did not see, and took a small swallow of it.

"Nice," he said.

"Yes," she said.

"Studying what?" he asked.

"What? Oh. I wanted to be an artist.”

"Really?”

"A painter," she said. "I was studying at the Briley School of Art. Do you know where that is?”

"No.”

"Well ... downtown. Near the bridge.”

"Were you any good?”

"I thought I was.”

"But?”

"Things change." She looked up. "I met Martin.”

"Uh-huh.”

"And we fell in love. And we got married.

And ...”

"And?”

She shrugged and picked up her wineglass.

She took another sip, but that was all. Put the glass right down on the table again. Began toying with the stem again. Big drinker, this lady.

"How'd you meet him?" he asked.

"In the park. There's this little park outside the school, I used to bring a sandwich to school and eat it in the park. And after lunch, when the weather was good, I'd sit there and sketch. ... I was very serious about becoming an artist, you see. The war in Vietnam was over by then ...”

... well, it had been over for several years by then, and most students were settling down and trying to prepare themselves for whatever the future might hold. Nobody was even sure there'd be a future; the kids used to sit around and talk about the big blast coming any day now. Telling Andrew about it now, Emma remembers that there seemed to be constant trouble all over the world, heads of state being murdered everywhere, countries getting invaded or overthrown, and all of this might have been completely unsettling to a nineteen-year-old girl-had it not been for her art.

Back then, Emma saw everything with a frame around it.

Her careful eye searched out the details of city life, and her quick pencil recorded them.

When later she worked these sketches into charcoal drawings on canvas, enlarging them, expanding upon them in oils, giving them full-bodied life in riotous color, she felt like an essential part of this tremendously exciting thing that was happening here in the big, drafty room on the top floor of the school; the skylights spilling northern light, the kids in paint-smeared smocks standing behind their easels, touching brushes to pallet and canvas, the smell of turpentine and linseed oil, the serious looks on all the faces; Mr.

Grayson standing with his hands on his hips, a stub of a cigar clenched between his teeth, squinting at the canvas, Nice, Emma, very nice, oh Jesus, it was so beautiful. Vibrating with energy and talent and ambition, she took images from this city and made them her own and gave them back again enriched.

That day in the park outside the school ... that bright spring day ... she remembers there was a man playing an accordion ... yes ... and a bird ... a green-and-yellow parrot ... and the parrot would dip his beak into this tray of cards and take out one of the cards, and there would be a fortune printed on it. She made a series of quick sketches-the man playing his organ, the parrot dipping into the tray, the grinning faces of the boys and girls in the crowd-and was working on several more careful studies of the parrot's claws gripping the perch, and the parrot's bright, intelligent eyes ... when ...

"That's very good," he said.

Startled, she looked up.

The man standing there looking over her shoulder was perhaps five or six years older than she was, a tall, slender man with dark hair and brown eyes, his pleasant mouth turned up in a smile. He was wearing a dark pinstriped business suit with a white button-down collar shirt, and a silk rep tie.

"Really, it's quite good," he said.

"Thank you," she said. He sat beside her on the bench. Crossed his long legs. Looked over at the accordian player and then at the parrot. Looked down at her sketch pad and the busily working pencil.

"Do you go to school here?" he asked.

"Yes," she said.

He looked up at the building as if discovering it for the first time.

"The Briley School of Art, h'm?" he said.

"Yes," she said. Eyes on the parrot's eyes. Those difficult folds around the eyes.

"I'm Martin Bowles," he said.

"Hello, Martin," she said. "Let me get this, okay?”

He watched her silently. Pencil shading in those folds around the eyes. Bright, piercing parrot eyes.

"Very nice," he said.

"Shhhh," she said.

And kept working. When at last she turned to him, he said, "All done?”

"For now," she said. "I have to go back in.”

"Let's go for a walk instead.”

"No," she said, "I can't.”

She closed the pad, rose from the bench.

Holding the pad against her breasts, she said, "I'm Emma Darby," and smiled and walked back into the school.

"That's how we met," she told Andrew now.

"He was the handsomest man I'd ever seen in my life.”

"Mr. Assanti," Addison said, leaning into him affably, like a department-store Santa Claus wanting to know what a terrified kid would like for Christmas, "you've testified that you walked Miss Franceschi home from the movies ...”

"Yes.”

"... and got to her house at about a quarter to nine, ten to nine, isn't that what you said?”

"Yes.”

"And you've also testified that you left her at about nine-twenty ...”

"Yes.”

"... which is how you happened to be in the vicinity of the AandL Bakery at or around nine-thirty ... I believe you said it was nine-thirty, give or take a few minutes, please correct me if I'm wrong.”

“No, that's what I said.”

"Thank you. Now, Mr. Assanti, what were you doing between a quarter to nine, when you arrived at Miss Franceschi's house, and nine-twenty, when you left her? Isn't that what you said?

Nine-twenty?”

"Yes. It only took me ten minutes or so to ...”

"Yes, so what were you doing between a quarter to nine and nine-twenty, can you tell me?”

"We were in Frankie's hallway.”

"Doing what?”

Assanti looked at the judge.

"Answer the question," Di Pasco said.

"We were necking.”

There was mild laughter in the courtroom. Di Pasco glared out over his bench. The laughter ceased.

"You were necking for thirty-five minutes, is that right?" Addison asked, looking amazed.

"Yes.”

"Mr. Assanti, do you remember talking to Detectives Randall Wade and Charles Bent on the night of July twenty-fourth last year?”

"I do.”

"Do you remember telling them that as you walked home, all you could think of was Frankie?”

"Yes, I think that's what I told them.”

"Well, did you, or didn't you?”

"I did.”

"In fact, didn't you tell them you felt sort of dizzy after being with Frankie?”

"I may have said that, yes.”

"Well, those are your exact words, aren't they?" Addison asked, and walked to the defense table and picked up a stapled sheaf of papers.

"Here, I'll refresh your memory.”

"What is that?" Di Pasco asked.

"The Detective Division report written and filed by Detective Randall Wade of the Forty-fifth Detective Squad, recounting the conversation with the witness on the night of July twenty-fourth last year.”

"Proceed.”

"Now, Mr. Assanti, isn't this what you said? `I guess I was feeling sort of dizzy after being with Frankie all that time. I was walking along wiping her lipstick from my mouth ...`was "Well, that's okay, you don't have to ...”

"I'd like to go on, if I may. `Wiping her lipstick from my mouth and thinking about what happened in her hallway.` Isn't that what you told Detectives Wade and Bent?”

"Yes.”

"And isn't that when you heard what at first you thought were backfires? While you were wiping her lipstick from your mouth and thinking about what had happened in her hallway?”

"Yes.”

"What made you decide they weren't backfires?”

"There were no cars on the street.”

"Ah. In your delirious state, you were able ...”

"Objection. He's characterizing the witness's ...”

"Sustained.”

"Anyway, I wasn't delirious,”

Assanti said.

"You told the detectives you felt dizzy.

That is the exact word you used. Dizzy.”

"I guess I was being poetic.”

"Ah. A poet. How nice.”

"Objection. Counsel is harassing ...”

"Sustained.”

"Anyway, I was in love with Frankie at the time," Assanti said.

"But you're no longer in love with her.”

"No, I'm not.”

"And now, in your more stable, nonpoetic condition ...”

"Objection, Your Honor.”

"Sustained. Really, Mr. Addison.”

"Mr. Assanti ... would you here and now still say you were dizzy on Frankie when you left her that night?”

"Well ... yes.”

"But not so dizzy that you couldn't distinguish gunshots from backfires ...”

"They were gunshots.”

"You realized later.”

"Yes.”

"Because there were no cars on the street.”

"Yes.”

"Not because you were able to distinguish them as gunshots, but only because they couldn't have been backfires since there were no cars on the street.”

"Well, yes, I figured ...”

“Actually, it was a sort of reasoning process, wasn't it?”

"Yes, I suppose ...”

"Even though your reason, at the time, was somewhat distorted, wasn't it? You were in love with Frankie, your head was full of Frankie, you were dizzy with thoughts of Frankie, wiping her lipstick from your face, remembering what you'd done together in her hallway. And in this condition, you saw two black men coming out of the bakery ... are you sure they were black?”

"Positive.”

"And you're sure there were two of them?”

"Yes.”

"That's what you told Detectives Randall and Wade a week after the incident, isn't it?

That you saw two black men coming out of that bakery, isn't that so?”

"Yes.”

"But on the night of the incident ... on July seventeenth ... just minutes after you'd witnessed the incident, you told Doris Franceschi that you saw some guy running out of the bakery shop with a gun in his hand. Isn't that what you said?”

"I may have said that, I'm not sure.”

"Well, weren't those your exact words? Some guy with a gun?”

"Maybe, but what I meant was ...”

"He's answered the question, Your Honor.”

"Let him explain.”

"I meant I saw two guys but only one of them had a gun.”

"I see. But that's not what you actually said on the night of July seventeenth, is it?”

"No.”

"That is what you're saying now, isn't it?”

"Yes.”

"With complete confidence.”

"Yes.”

"And you are also able to say-now, with complete confidence-that you saw Samson Wilbur Cole that night, and that he had a nine-millimeter semiautomatic assault weapon in his hand.”

"Yes.”

"Mr. Assanti, do you recall being shown some photographs by Detective Randall Wade on the twenty-fifth of July last year?”

"I do.”

"How many photographs were you shown?”

“I don't remember. There were a lot of them.”

"Well, by a lot of them ... would you say twenty?”

"More than twenty.”

"Well ... fifty?”

"More than that.”

"A hundred?" Addison said.

"No, not that many.”

"Somewhere between fifty and a hundred then?”

“Yes.”

"Does seventy-two sound like it might be a correct number?”

"Yes, around that.”

"Were you informed that these were mug shots of known criminals?”

"Yes.”

"Were you told that all of these known criminals had the nickname Sonny?”

“Yes.”

"What were you looking for, Mr. Assanti?”

"I was trying to pick out the man I saw running out of the bakery shop.”

"On July seventeenth last year?”

"Yes.”

"Were you successful in picking him out?”

"No.”

"You looked at upward of seventy photographs of known criminals named Sonny, but you could not find one who even faintly resembled ...”

"Objection.”

"Sustained.”

"Did you find a single photograph of anyone who resembled the man named Sonny, whom you say you saw running out of the bakery shop?”

"No, I didn't.”

"Seventy some-odd photographs!”

"Yes.”

"But now-five, almost six months after the event-you can look across the courtroom and point a finger at the defendant sitting there, and say without question that he is one of the men you saw running from that bakery with a gun in his hand.”

"That's right, yes.”

"No further questions.”

Lowell rose from the prosecutor's table, consulted some notes in his hand, and walked toward the witness chair.

"Mr. Assanti," he said, "when you - were shown those photographs last July, did Detectives Wade and Bent tell you what you were looking at?”

"Yes, they did.”

"What were you looking at?”

"Pictures of people convicted of felonies in this city.”

"And you say you could not find Mr. Cole's photograph among those that were shown to you, is that correct?”

"That's correct.”

"His photograph was not among those of known felony offenders in this city.”

"It was not.”

"Known offenders whose nickname was Sonny.”

"Yes, sir.”

"Not among those.”

"No, sir.”

"Were you shown pictures of anyone who may have committed a felony in California, for ex ...”

"Objection!" Addison shouted. "May we please approach the bench?”

"Come on up," Di Pasco said.

The attorneys moved to the bench.

"Your Honor," Addison said, "at this time, I would like to move for a mistrial.”

"Denied," Di Pasco said.

"Your Honor, the assistant district attorney's question implies that Mr. Cole has been convicted of felonies elsewhere ...”

"Yes, I know. And you know that in the pretrial Sandoval application ...”

"Yes, Your Honor, but ...”

"... I ruled that I'd allow questions about the defendant's prior murder conviction, based on your representation that Cole would testify and put his credibility into issue. Nothing has changed my mind about that. Moreover, you opened the door by bringing in the photographs in the first place.

Resume your questioning, Mr. Lowell.”

Lowell went back to the witness stand.

"Mr. Assanti," he said, "were you shown photographs of known felony offenders in California?”

"Not to my knowledge.”

"You were only shown pictures of felony offenders in this city.”

"Yes.”

"And Sonny Cole's picture was not among them.”

"It was not.”

"Thank you, no further questions.”

"I should caution the jury at this time," Di Pasco said, "against accepting questions as evidence.

Questions are not evidence. Only answers are evidence. You must not read anything into questions, you must accept them solely as vehicles for eliciting responses.”

At the defense table, Addison smiled.