More Twisted

courtroom early, as he always did, and sat primly at the defense table as the witnesses and spectators and (yes, thank you, Lord, the press) showed up. He mugged subtly for the cameras and scoped out the prosecutor (state U grad, Lescroix had learned, top 40 percent, fifteen years under his belt and numb from being mired in a dead-end career he should have left thirteen years ago).
    Lescroix then turned his eyes to a man sitting in the back of the courtroom. Charles Cabot. He sat beside a woman in her sixties—mother or mother-in-law, Lescroix reckoned, gauging by the tears. The lawyer was slightly troubled. He’d expected Cabot to be a stiff, upper-middle-class suburbanite, someone who’d elicit little sympathy from the jury. But the man—though he was about forty—seemed boyish. He had mussed hair, dark blond, and wore a rumpled sports coat and slacks, striped tie. A friendly insurance salesman. He comforted the woman and dropped a few tears himself. He was the sort of widower a jury could easily fall in love with.
    Well, Lescroix had been in worse straits. He’d had cases where he’d had to attack grieving mothers and widowed wives and even bewildered children. He’d just have to feel his way along, like a musician sensing the audience’s reaction and adjusting his playing carefully. He could—
    Lescroix realized suddenly that Cabot was staring at him. The man’s eyes were like cold ball bearings. Lescroix actually shivered— that had never before happened in court—and he struggled to maintain eye contact. It was amoment. Yet Lescroix was glad for the challenge. Something in that look of Cabot’s made this whole thing personal, made it far easier to do what he was about to do. Their eyes locked, the electricity sparking between them. Then a door clicked open and everyone stood as the clerk entered.
    “Oyez, oyez, oyez, criminal court for the county of Hamilton, First District, is now in session. The right honorable Jennings P. Martell presiding, all ye with business before this court come forward and be heard.”
    Pilsett, wearing a goofy brown suit, was led cautiously out of the lockup. He sat down next to his lawyer. The defendant grinned stupidly until Lescroix told him to stop. He flicked his earlobe several times with an unshackled finger.
    When Lescroix looked back to Cabot the metallic eyes had shifted from the lawyer and were drilling into the back of the man who’d killed his wife with a $4.99 Sears Craftsman claw hammer.
    The prosecutor presented the forensic evidence first and Lescroix spent a half hour chipping away at the testimony of the lab technicians and the cops—though the crime-scene work had been surprisingly well handled for such a small police department. A minor victory for the prosecution, Lescroix conceded to himself.
    Then the state called Charles Cabot.
    The widower straightened his tie, hugged the woman beside him and walked to the stand.
    Guided by the prosecutor’s pedestrian questions, the man gave an unemotional account of what he’d seen on June third. Monosyllables of grief. A few tears, Lescroixrated the performance uncompelling, though the man’s broken words certainly held the jury’s attention. But he’d expected this; we love tragedies as much as romance and nearly as much as sex.
    “No further questions, Your Honor,” the prosecutor said and glanced dismissively at Lescroix.
    The lawyer rose slowly, unbuttoned his jacket, ran his hand through his hair, mussing it ever so slightly. He paced slowly in front of the witness. When he spoke he spoke to the jury. “I’m so very sorry for your misfortune, Mr. Cabot.”
    The witness nodded, though his eyes were wary.
    Lescroix continued, “The death of a young woman is a terrible thing. Just terrible. Inexcusable .”
    “Yes, well. Thank you.”
    The jury’s collective eyes scanned Lescroix’s troubled face. He glanced at the witness stand. Cabot didn’t know what to say. He’d been expecting an attack. He was uneasy. The eyes were no longer steely hard. They were cautious. Good. People detest wary truth-tellers far more than self-assured liars.
    Lescroix turned back to the twelve men and women in his audience.
    He smiled. No one smiled back.
    That was all right. This was just the overture.
    He walked to the table and picked up a folder. Strode back to the jury box. “Mr. Cabot, what do you do for a living?”
    The question caught him off guard. He looked around the courtroom. “Well, I own a