“And to this juror,” she turned to a woman, about seventy. Smartly dressed. “You should say yes to the proposal you get tonight. He’s a good man and you’ll be happy.” She didn’t tell the woman that her soon-to-be husband would die in two years. It wouldn’t help. The man had an incurable cancer. They had to enjoy the time they had left. Fear and treatments would do no good.

The woman smiled. She believed in premonitions. Why, her sister had them now and then, too. They were Irish, so it made sense. The woman nodded.

“And to this juror,” Betsy said, nodding to a man with dreadlocks, “You know that fishing trip you and your brother have planned for next weekend?” The man’s eyes flared open. “Your brother is going to call tonight to cancel. His wife is pregnant. You’ll go to their house to celebrate.”

“Objection!” Zoe the mean prosecutor finally sputtered, still reeling from the lies Betsy had said about her daughter. “Objection, objection!”

“Objection overruled,” the judge said, still thinking how fun it would be to see his brother. “You were the one who brought this up.”

“But I object now!” the prissy prosecutor said, quaking in her $600 shoes.

“Too bad,” he said. “Sit down.”

“And to this juror.” Betsy pointed at a young woman. “Your brother is going to get in a car accident tonight. He’ll be okay. But go to the hospital.” She paused, then stared hard at her. “Mend things with your brother. Don’t let anything get between you two again.” The juror cried.

The prosecutor stood again, her designer suit straining as she breathed hard, already wanting to hit Betsy for lying about her daughter. She had seen her daughter . . . she had talked with her daughter . . . she had spent time with her daughter . . . well, she couldn’t remember when they’d last talked, or spent time together, but she’d been busy with this trial! And when she did have time, she needed to get her hair and nails done and go to the spa. Appearances brought on promotions and pictures of herself in the newspaper.

But her daughter, Cassandra, she was not having sex with a boy. She liked playing the violin! She was a child. She envisioned her in kindergarten. She envisioned her on Saturday morning. She still liked to wear those fluffy, blue, footed pajamas. She was not having sex!

Prosecutor Zoe thought that Betsy talking about her premonitions would make her look like a lunatic, but it didn’t, she could tell. The jurors were eating it up. She was so angry she wanted to slam her fists into the table.