Back when I was an ADA, I joked that I’d cross-examined more lying spouses than any lawyer in America. It must be something in the DNA of sexual offenders; unlike most defendants, they like to take the stand. A police shrink once told me that she believed it gave them a feeling of power, the same rush that caused them to become predators in the first place.

Stuart Goodwin is a different kind of lying spouse. He isn’t the bad guy here. He’s doing what many people would say was the honorable thing: exposing himself to a perjury prosecution in order to protect the mother of his son. But my task is no different than with any other lying witness. I’m here to rip him to shreds.

From the look of him, I don’t imagine that will be difficult.

“It must have been something of a . . . shock to learn that your wife was engaging in a months-long extramarital affair with another woman,” I say.

He flashes a little grin—more baring his teeth than smiling. “Yes. It was shocking to me. I would have never imagined it in a million years.”

“Prior to learning about the affair, would you have said that your wife kept no secrets from you?”

“That’s right. Or I from her.”

“Do you own an iPhone, Mr. Goodwin? Or any cellular phone?”

“I do. And it’s an iPhone.”

“Do you have a passcode on it?”

He pauses for a moment. I suspect that his phone habits are not something discussed in prep with Burrows.

“I do. I use my thumbprint to unlock it.”

“So even though you trust your wife implicitly, you still lock your phone. Is that right?”

“It’s not because I don’t trust Dana—”

“You would say, wouldn’t you, that your wife deals with much more confidential information in her job than you do in yours?”

Burrows objects. I’m sure it’s to throw off my rhythm, to give his witness some time to regroup. He knows I’m entitled to this information. Judge Gold looks as if he can’t be bothered to issue a ruling and asks me to rephrase instead.

“Let me ask it as two questions, Mr. Goodwin. First, what do you do for a living?”

“I’m an art teacher.”

“At the college level?”

“No. Elementary school.”

“I see. So, finger painting, arts and crafts, that sort of thing?”

I might as well have called him a wuss. Still, he doesn’t look the least bit ruffled.

“We do other things too, but you have the general idea.”

“Can we agree that your wife, as an Assistant District Attorney, had access to much more confidential information than you do as an elementary-school art teacher?”

“Yes.”