The plane took off and gained altitude, and Pat sipped but strangely found himself not thirsty for it. He was sick of the taste, sick of chasing it. The plane leveled off, and Pat closed his eyes, imagining a rocket launch and that cauldron of white and yellow fire. Borman was right; after the initial acceleration there is no sense of motion. Pat opened his eyes and asked the stewardess to clear his drink. He looked out the Plexiglas oval and saw the Everglades below. Thick knots of vegetation, steam clumped over the canopy, thousands of roosting birds like white pinpoints on the map. To the distant south, a long brown smudge of fires burning. To the north, the afternoon storm clouds were churning in, the lightning glowing like flashbulbs under wads of cotton. Always a storm coming. The stewardess brought Pat a fresh drink—she had misunderstood. Pat knew they were moving, but he couldn’t feel it. He looked at the drink and then back at this long green tangle until it gave way to the western shore and the gray, waveless waters of the gulf.

April 8

[ APRIL 8 ]

“Your Honor, the defense calls the Reverend Standing Raleigh.”

Anne Malone snuck a peppermint Life Saver from her pocketbook and studied Raleigh as he moved in tandem with his attorney toward the witness box. Raleigh looked down, unassuming, penitential. The same well-practiced demeanor he used for Sunday services, Anne thought. Haynes Whiteside laid a binder open on the lectern and adjusted the black foam tip of his microphone. Sergeant Redman administered the oath to the witness, and you could hear the shutters of a dozen cameras. Even though this moment for the media had been sanctioned by Judge Samuels, he erupted when it carried on too long.

“I will have this room cleared . . .”

Judge Sam pointed his gavel at the line of cameramen, who lowered their lenses. Then silence.

“Proceed, Mr. Whiteside.”

The defense attorney shook off his annoyance. Having Raleigh testify was a huge gamble, and the judge had just aggravated the delicate tension. The bailiff brought Raleigh a fresh glass of water as Whiteside began.

“Reverend Raleigh, did you attack your wife?” Whiteside asked, calm as could be.

“No I didn’t,” he replied, rubbing his eyes but showing no tears. Raleigh was wearing a dark blue suit, a starched white shirt with a forward point collar, and a red paisley tie. Too flashy for a minister, Anne thought, anywhere except Dallas.

“Do you know who did?”

“No, I don’t.” Raleigh’s voice broke slightly.