“Was there a belt or a rope, or anything in the garage by which Peggy Raleigh could have choked herself?”

“No, sir. Not that we came across.”

His hands. He had to be close. Very close.

“During the time you were at the Credo Drive residence, how long did the paramedics work on Mrs. Raleigh?”

“I would say ten minutes before they took her away in the ambulance.”

“And in that ten minutes, what was Reverend Raleigh doing?”

“He paced back and forth between the house and the garage.”

“Did he hold his wife’s hand?”

“No.”

“Did he kneel next to her?”

“No.”

“Did he whisper a prayer in her ear?”

“No.”

“Did he touch her? Stroke her hair or her arm?”

“No, he stayed clear. He said nothing and did nothing.”

“Thank you, Officer.”

Day one of the Standing Raleigh trial. After jury selection there had been a series of delays. Whiteside had asked for more time to prepare, and that sparked rumors in the papers (which Anne was not supposed to read but did anyway). The first was that Raleigh was going to confess. But the case was too high-profile for the district attorney to offer a plea deal. The second story—no doubt started by Whiteside—was the DPD were looking into another suspect.

Both of these juristic rabbit holes kept moving the start of the trial back until it landed on that Friday. That morning the jury had heard opening statements. Blackburn was heavy-handed and Miltonic—Reverend Raleigh had fallen like Lucifer himself. Whiteside was more nuanced, Anne thought, admitting Raleigh was a man of frailties and sins, but that didn’t make him evil or capable of attempted murder. Benefit of the doubt. Be aware of your own bias, she reminded herself. Judge the facts, not the history of the Christian church and its clergy.

After lunch, the prosecution presented the medical evidence, and Anne’s stoic approach crumbled. The chief examiner described in detail how grisly it was to strangle Mrs. Raleigh and how hypoxia to her brain had led to her current comatose state. It was completely abominable, and Anne kept sneaking looks at Standing Raleigh but couldn’t get a read on him. He sat there emotionless through it all. He wore a very expensive tailored blue suit with a pocket square, his thinning sandstone-gray hair perfectly combed.

Inscrutable. Distant. And well coached, Anne surmised.

“Your Honor, I’d like to call Detective Hume to the stand.”

Detective James Hume had a shaved bald head like Mr. Clean. He wore a gray pinstripe suit and a silver silk tie, the knot hanging below a collar cheater. With a lineman frame filled out over years on the force, he was still imposing as the hard soles of his black boots announced each step across the courtroom floor. Blackburn gave Hume an assuring nod and began.