Stone washed the dishes, then stuck his head up through the hatch for a look toward the Shipwright’s Arms. The bar was jammed with people, and their raucous laughter reached all the way to the marina. He noticed that two of Henry’s policemen stood near the restaurant, ready to stop any journalist who so much as ventured onto the lawn between the bar and the marina.

“I think we’re safe for the evening,” he said, climbing back down the companionway.

She met him, tugging at his shirttail. “No safety for you,” she said, unzipping his fly.

At ten sharp on Friday morning, Stone, with Allison beside him, began walking across the lawn toward the Shipwright’s Arms. Somebody had nailed together a little platform and on it stood a forest of microphones, taped and lashed together, their wires snaking into the crowd of reporters like so many reptiles. There were two ranks of cameras, high and low, and the TV reporters stood by, microphones in hand, for their own comments. The print journalists stood in clutches or sat on the grass, notebooks at the ready, and photographers were everywhere. Stone had never faced anything like this, and he wasn’t looking forward to it. The buzz of voices turned to a shout as he and Allison approached.

“Good morning,” he shouted over the crowd, taking a sheet of paper from his shirt pocket and waiting for the noise to subside. When they were quiet, he spoke. “My name is Stone Barrington; I am one of the legal team representing Mrs. Allison Manning in the case against her, about which I am sure you have all heard. I will be making a statement, and then I will take questions for thirty minutes. Then Mrs. Manning will make a brief statement and will answer no questions.”

There was a roar of outrage from the assembled media.

Stone shouted them down. “I hope you can understand that Mrs. Manning is facing a serious charge in a strange country, and that by answering questions at this stage, she might inadvertently put herself in further jeopardy. I know that none of you would wish to contribute to her difficulties.” He began to read his statement, covering events from the time of Allison’s arrival in St. Marks, including the coroner’s inquest and her questioning by Sir Winston Sutherland. He gave them a brief primer on the workings of the St. Marks criminal justice system, and they listened, rapt and astonished. Finally, he wrapped up his statement and asked for questions, glancing at his watch. “To preserve some sort of order, I will point to a questioner and answer his or her question only. Let’s do this one at a time, people.” He pointed at a woman television reporter.

“Mr. Barrington, do we understand you to say that in St. Marks, the judge selects the jury, and that the defense may not even question them or object to them?”