The latest case she has been recording is another disturbing one, and one that has the whole town focused and attentive, the least likely person accused of murder. Here’s this asshole of a man, a surgeon who lives in one of the biggest houses in town, probably has Viking and Wolf appliances, and drives whatever car you might drive if you wanted to spend a lot of money, and just because he was good at taking a scalpel to someone’s heart, he thought he had license to fuck anything that could fog a mirror, play head games on his wife, who since his incarceration had broken free of her dumpy-mama wardrobe and stepped back into the light of the living (part of his excuse for having affairs was that his wife had stopped taking an interest in her appearance). He sits there in his orange jumpsuit, obviously disgusted by the women who file up to testify, and not by choice, these women. Imagine getting subpoenaed into such a mess—you think you have a little secret with this prominent person in town, only to find out that not only did you screw a murderer but you are one of many, you are not so special after all. Shelley can’t help but wonder what the husbands think of these wives they’d trusted who fell under the spell of this person who is not even physically attractive. And certainly there is no personality or emotion to be found in his little superficial shell; he is like those locust shells that get left behind on the pine trees.

As a child, she liked to burn those shells, hear them pop and singe, a little pile of amber cracklings, something that she never should have told Harvey about; there are little books of matches in the pockets of his pants every time she does laundry. Where does he even find those matches, with names of restaurants and hotels that haven’t been around in years? She used to collect shells, all shells—locust and turtle and crab—because of her name; in fact, she knows that her name perhaps served as prophecy for who she would be, because she does have a shell, a good hard shell, and she has needed one, oh my, yes, she has needed one, growing up the way that she did. How many even survive such a thing? How many can come out of such a place and wind up with two wonderful sons and a job that comes with benefits at a time when benefits are so hard to get.

Yesterday, she was thinking of all of this and had to ask that the judge repeat herself: “Excuse me, Your Honor, too much coming in at once. Could you please repeat what you said?”

Judge: I said, “Objection overruled.”