The four whites and eight blacks sat politely in the jury box, staring back and forth from Lampkin to me as if they were watching a tennis match. Some of them were scowling. One was picking at a fingernail while another seemed asleep.

“Dr. Scarpetta, isn’t it true that you tend to manipulate situations to suit you?”

“I object! He’s badgering the witness!”

“Overruled,” the judge said. “Dr. Scarpetta, please answer the question.”

“No, I absolutely do not tend to do that,” I said with feeling as I looked at the jurors.

Lampkin plucked a sheet of paper off the table where his felonious nineteen-year-old client sat.

“According to this morning’s newspaper,” Lampkin hurried ahead, “you’ve been manipulating law enforcement for years . . .”

“Your Honor! I object! This is outrageous!”

“Overruled,” the judge coolly stated.

“It says right here in black and white that you have conspired with the FBI to send an innocent woman to the electric chair!”

Lampkin approached the jurors and waved the photocopied article in their faces.

“Your Honor, for God’s sake!” exclaimed the C.A., sweating through his suit jacket.

“Mr. Lampkin, please get on with your cross-examination,” Judge Bowls said to the overweight, thick-necked Lampkin.

What I said about distance and trajectories, and what vital organs had been struck by ten-millimeter bullets, was a blur. I could scarcely remember a word of it after I hurried down the courthouse steps and walked swiftly without looking at anyone. Two tenacious reporters followed me for half a block, and finally turned back when they realized it was easier to talk to a stone. The unfairness of what had happened in the witness stand went beyond words. Carrie had needed to fire but one small round and already I was wounded. I knew this would not end.

When I unlocked the back door to my building, for an instant the glare of sunlight made it hard for me to see as I stepped inside the cool shaded bay. I opened the door leading inside and was relieved to see Fielding in the corridor, heading toward me. He was wearing fresh scrubs, and I supposed another case had come in.

“Everything under control?” I asked, tucking my sunglasses inside my pocketbook.

“A suicide from Powhatan. Fifteen-year-old girl shot herself in the head. It seems daddy wouldn’t let her see her dirtbag boyfriend anymore. You look terrible, Kay.”

“It’s called a shark attack.”

“Uh-oh. Damn fucking lawyers. Who was it this time?”

He was ready to beat somebody up.

“Lampkin.”

“Oh, good ole Lamprey the eel!” Fielding squeezed my shoulder. “It’s gonna be all right. Trust me. It really will be. You just gotta block out the bullshit and go on.”

“I know.” I smiled at him. “I’ll be in the decomp room if you need me.”