Washburn threw an open glance at the jury. Could his point be more plain? But it was, of course, necessary to nail it down in all its particulars so there could be no misunderstanding at all. "In other words, Evan," he said, "did you have any motive to kill Ron Nolan on account of your relationship with Ms. Wheatley?"
"No, I did not."
"And did you have any motive to kill Mr. Nolan to prevent him from talking to the FBI?"
"No. He'd already done that."
"So you had no motive to kill Mr. Nolan, is that right?"
"I had no reason to kill him."
Washburn cast one last sidelong glance at the jury box, fixed on Mrs. Ellersby for a second, and was pleased to note that she was nodding soberly, as if newly convinced of something. Evan's testimony had, he was sure, made a strong impression on her. And if on her, then maybe on one or more of the others.
MILLS ROSE SLOWLY from her table, her brow creased, her face set in an expression of deep concern. She came and stood in her spot and brought her right hand to the side of her face, then let it down. "Mr. Scholler, as you've testified, on June third, two thousand four, you went up to Mr. Nolan's townhome with the intention of fighting him, and then you did in fact engage in a fight with him, am I right so far?"
"Yes."
"What did you do after that fight ended?"
"I don't remember."
"You don't remember? Did you black out?"
"I don't remember."
"So it is not your testimony that you suffered a blackout, after all. Is it?"
"No. Whether I did or not, I don't remember."
"You suffered quite a beating yourself in this altercation, did you not?"
"Yes."
"And yet, with all the problems you've had, particularly with traumatic brain injury, you did not seek medical help?"
"Apparently not, but I don't remember."
Washburn raised a hand at his desk. "Your Honor, objection. Badgering. If he doesn't remember anything, it follows that he doesn't remember particulars."
This satisfied Tollson, and he nodded. "Sustained."
Mills pursed her lips and paused to phrase her question so it came at things from a slightly different angle. "Mr. Scholler," she said finally, "what is your first memory after you sustained your injuries on Wednesday night at the hands of Mr. Nolan?"
"I remember waking up in a hospital bed, I think it was the Saturday night."
"So Wednesday night through Saturday night is a complete blank, is that right?"
"That's right."
"All right." Mills paused for another second or two, and then-just like that!-her posture changed. Her back straightened perceptibly, a wisp of a grim smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Obviously, she had reached some decision, as though she'd done everything in her power to get to this point, and now the time had come to commit irrevocably to her strategy. "So now, Mr. Scholler, as you are sitting here in front of me and the members of this jury, maybe you killed Mr. Nolan and maybe you didn't. You just don't remember. Is that right?"
Evan sat with the question for a long moment.
"Mr. Scholler," she prompted him. "It's a yes or no question. Can you tell me that you did not kill Mr. Nolan?"
Evan's eyes went to Washburn, who returned his gaze impassively. Coming back to face his prosecutor, Evan leveled his gaze at Mills. "I don't remember," he said at last.
AT EIGHT-THIRTY THE NEXT MORNING, Mary Patricia Whelan-Miille sat on the corner of her desk in her small office. Behind her, outside the window, the freak storm was into its second day and showing no signs of clearing. In the parking lot just outside, the cold and heavy rain slanted nearly horizontal in gusting sheets. In front of Mills, her secretary, Felice Brinkley, sat with a notepad on a folding chair that she'd set up by the door.
Felice was a no-nonsense woman who wore minimal makeup and had let her hair go almost completely gray. Mills thought she'd done this as a defense against being hit on by guys-with her finely pored skin, sculpted cheeks, and a hooded, sensuous cast to her eyes, and even with the gray hair and lack of fuss, she was a strikingly attractive woman. The curvaceous figure didn't hurt either.
Thirty-six years old, she was the mother of two boys and a girl, all under twelve. Mills also believed that Felice was among the smartest people she'd ever met and constantly tried to persuade her to take the LSATs and become a lawyer herself, but Felice would have none of it-perhaps in itself, Mills had to admit, a testament to her intelligence. The way it was now, Felice was explaining for the fiftieth time, she could come in early, work her regular hours, skip lunch, and be home just about in time to be there for the kids when they got home from school. Her husband, John, worked a swing shift in maintenance for the city for the pay differential, so one of them was always there for the kids. "That's just our priority."
"But with the extra money, and there'd be a lot more of it, John wouldn't have to work at all if you got in with a high-ticket firm, which you would," Mills replied.
