8:53 a.m. State pathologist on stand. Confirms V had terminal cancer. Describes botched morphine injxn. Cause of death adrenaline overdose. Resulting death terrifying and painful, as video showed. Jury horrified by CSI-type detail. Good bang for the buck, if ur Shad.

As Annie realizes what’s going on, she begins to hover around my chair, waiting for updates, but I shoo her back to the television.

“Why doesn’t Mr. Rusty just call you on his cell and leave the line open?” she suggests.

Not a bad idea, I think. But then the likely reason hits me. “I think that would technically be breaking the law, or at least the judge’s order about media in the courtroom. Rusty would technically be broadcasting the trial.”

“That’s called narrowcasting,” Annie corrects me.

Jesus. “Okay, but you know what I mean. The judge has only allowed six pool reporters into the courtroom, and they can only make audiotapes for their records, not for broadcast.”

She shrugs and looks back at the television, but I sense that her attention has not left me.

8:55 a.m. Shad questioning M.E. n detail bout why adrenaline injected. Complicated. Going to record voices on my dictation recorder. U listen later.

For the next few minutes no texts come in, and anxiety begins to rise in me. Not only because of Quentin’s apparent unwillingness to act like a lawyer, but also because Carl should have called by now. Glancing back into the kitchen I see Serenity sitting with an arm around Dolores’s shuddering shoulders. Tee looks at me and shakes her head. I decide to give Carl one more minute.

My mind shifts straight back to the trial. In his opening statement Shad offered no explanation for why Dad would have chosen adrenaline to kill Viola if he botched the morphine injection. Convincing the jury that this was a plausible choice under the circumstances is critical to Shad’s case, and as a former prosecutor, I can see problems with it. But there’s no point in speculating. If Rusty succeeds in his covert recording, I’ll hear Shad’s examination of the pathologist soon enough.

My phone vibrates powerfully in my hand, signaling an incoming call. Checking the LCD I see carl sims. A premonition of death passes over me, leaving a sense of dread behind.

“Hello?” I say quietly.

“Penn, I’m at Mrs. Booker’s and it’s not good.”

“Tell me,” I whisper, having struggled mightily not to say, Is she dead?

“I found the old lady lying on the ground beside her porch. She’s alive but unresponsive. Looks like a fall to me. Serious head trauma.”

I close my eyes, overwhelmed by horror and guilt. “That was no fall,” I whisper. “That’s a crime scene, Carl.”

“I’m afraid you’re right. I’ve got paramedics on the way, so I’m about to be real busy. Can you inform the St. Denis woman?”