The designers of Montreal's main courthouse didn't bother with architectural harmony. The lower stories consist of an oblong box covered with vertical black bars overhanging a smal er, glass-fronted box beneath. The upper stones shoot skyward as a featureless monolith. The building blends with the neighborhood like a Hummer parked in an Amish colony.

I entered the Palais to a packed house. Old ladies in ankle-length furs. Gangsta teens in clothes big enough to accommodate armies.

Men in suits. Black-robed attorneys and judges. Some waited. Others hurried. There seemed no in-between.

Winding among large planters and uprights bearing starburst lights, I crossed to a bank of elevators at the back of the lobby. Coffee smel s drifted from the Cafe Vienhe. Alreadv wired, I considered but passed up a fourth cup.

Upstairs, the scene was similar, though tipped in favor of the waiting game. People sat on perforated red metal benches, leaned against wal s, or stood conversing in hushed voices. A few conferred with counsel in smal interrogation rooms lining the corridor. None looked happy.

I took a seat outside 4.01 and pul ed the Petit file from my briefcase.

Ten minutes later Louise Cloutier emerged from the courtroom.

With her long blonde hair and oversized glasses, the crown prosecutor looked about seventeen.

"You'l be my first witness." Cloutier's face was tense.

"I'm ready," I said.

"Your testimony is going to be critical."

Cloutier's fingers twisted and untwisted a paper clip. She'd wanted to meet the previous day, but the pizza basement caper had nixed that.

Our late-night phone conversation hadn't provided the degree of preparation she'd wanted. I tried to reassure her.

"I can't tie the marks on the bones to Petit's specific hacksaw, but I can say firmly that they were made by an identical tool."

Cloutier nodded. "Consistent with."

"Consistent with," I agreed.

"Your testimony is going to be key, because in his original statement Petit claimed he never laid eyes on that saw. An analyst from

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your lab is going to testify that she removed the handle and found minute traces of blood in one of the screw grooves." I knew al of this from the previous night's discussion. Cloutier was verbalizing the case against Petit as much for her sake as for mine.

"A DNA expert is going to testify that the blood is Petit's. That ties him to the saw."

"And I tie the saw to the victim," I said.

Cloutier nodded. "This judge is a real pisser about qualifying experts."

"Aren't they al ?"

Cloutier flicked a nervous smile. "The bailiff wil cal you in about five minutes."

It was closer to twenty.

The courtroom was standard, nondescript modern. Gray-textured wal s. Gray-textured carpet. Gray-textured fabric on long bolted benches. The only color was at center stage, inside the gates separating the spectators from the official players. Attorneys' chairs upholstered in red, yel ow, and brown. The blue, red, and white of the Quebec and Canadian flags.