Dead in the Water

with Thomas at the wheel, was silent. Stone sat in the front, reading the opening statement he had written, merely for something to occupy his mind. Leslie Hewitt would probably ignore it anyway. He glanced occasionally at Allison, who sat in the backseat, gazing absently out at the St. Marks landscape, seemingly calm and self-possessed. Her hair was pulled back tightly into a bun, at Stone’s request, and she wore a mostly blue, floral-printed silk dress. She looked about twenty-one, Stone thought.
    They arrived in the official parking lot nearly simultaneously with Sir Leslie Hewitt’s ancient Morris Minor station wagon. Everyone got out and shook hands, smiling, attempting good spirits. With Hewitt in the lead they entered the building through the police door and climbed the stairs to the second floor, passing through ashort corridor to the door used by guards, lawyers, and defendants. To one side was a small robing room, and Stone and Hewitt donned their robes and wigs. Once again, Stone felt foolish.
    They entered the courtroom. Stone had forgotten that Allison would have to stand in the dock, several feet behind the defense table; he would not be able to confer with her when court was in session. He felt very much out of his element. In New York he would have been at home in any courtroom and in at least partial control. Here he felt like an intruder, and he worked hard at not letting Allison know it.
    Spectators were filing into the gallery, which was raised in tiers like a college lecture room or, more aptly, London’s Old Bailey. The room was not paneled, simply painted, and the paint had begun to fade and peel. Stone saw Frank Stendahl, the insurance salesman, enter and take a front-row seat not far from the dock.
    At the front of the room, elevated above the defense and prosecution tables, was the bench; to the judge’s right was the witness box, and beyond that, the jury would sit. Stone and Sir Leslie sat down at the defense table. A moment later Sir Winston Sutherland swept into the courtroom, his robes flowing, followed by his assistant.
    “Leslie,” Stone asked, “did you have an opportunity to study the opening and closing statements I wrote?”
    “I read them,” Hewitt replied.
    “There were a number of very important points, particularly in the opening statement, that I thought should be included in your opening.”
    “I’m aware of that, Stone,” Hewitt said, arranging his robe. “Please don’t concern yourself with my opening.
    Stone sighed and tried to make himself comfortable in the hard wooden chair.
    A moment later, the bailiff entered, stood at attention, and cried, “Hear ye, hear ye, all rise for the Lord Cornwall.”
    All rose, and the judge, resplendent in red robes, his black face contrasting sharply with the whiteness of his long wig, entered and sat down at the bench in a high-backed, ornate leather chair, with a gilded crown set at the top, a remnant of Her Majesty’s rule. “Good morning,” the judge said.
    Hewitt was on his feet. “Your Lordship,” he said, “a small request before we begin.”
    “Yes, Sir Leslie?”
    “We have a long day ahead of us; I wonder if the prisoner might have a chair?”
    Stone’s stomach lurched at hearing Allison so described.
    “Of course, Sir Leslie. The bailiff will provide a chair for the prisoner.” The bailiff found a chair and set it in the dock for Allison, who thanked him sweetly, eliciting an unexpected smile.
    Stone hoped that was a harbinger of things to come.
    “The court will come to order,” the judge said. “I will hear from the minister of justice.”
    Sir Winston stood, cleared his throat, and spoke. “Your Lordship, today we hear the case of the people of St. Marks against the prisoner Allison Manning, on a charge of murder. We are ready for Your Lordship to select the jury.” He sat down.
    “Call the first juror,” the judge said.
    “Call the first juror!” the bailiff cried.
    A door opened at the rear of the courtroom and a man entered. He was elderly and thin and he was wearing a three-piece wool suit that fit him very well. He took the first seat in the jury box.
    “State your name and occupation,” the bailiff said.
    “I am Charles Kimbrough,” the man said. “I am a tailor by trade, and I am recently retired.”
    “Mr. Kimbrough,” the judge said, “are you in good health and of sound mind?”
    “I believe I am, Your Lordship.”
    “Are you acquainted with the prisoner or any