“Okay, according to what Reverend Raleigh told me in that first interview, he came home that evening at six thirty p.m. He drove his car into the back driveway, where he found Mrs. Raleigh working on the garage door latch with Palmolive.”

“Why was she doing that?”

To destroy evidence. Convenient.

“According to Reverend Raleigh, because the latch had been sticking.”

“Did the Raleighs have a security system for their home on Credo Drive?”

“Yes, sir—recently installed as a precaution against the threats Reverend Raleigh was receiving at the church.”

“And was the garage covered by this alarm system?”

“No, sir.”

“Okay, so how long was Reverend Raleigh at home that evening?”

“No more than an hour. He told me that he did not eat dinner at the house but talked with his wife and shared a glass of wine with her. He then left for the Bridwell Library at SMU to work on a sermon.”

“And so it’s now about seven thirty in the evening. Did Reverend Raleigh go to the library?”

“No, he was in his car.”

“How do you know that?”

“He made a call from his car phone.”

“Who did he call?”

“Lucy Goodfellow.”

That answer caused more than a commotion. Lucy Goodfellow was the bishop’s daughter. Judge Barefoot Sam slapped his gavel on its pink granite block.

“Folks in the gallery, we can do this with or without you,” he said.

Anne looked over at the press, none of whom were paying attention to the judge. They have their scoop now . . . Anne noticed Standing Raleigh glance over his shoulder with a slight frown. This is all too strangely scripted and postured, Anne thought.

“So from the records of the car phone,” Blackburn said, cantering back and forth in front of the witness stand, “when did the reverend place this call?”

“Seven thirty-two p.m.”

“And then where did he go?”

“To Lucy Goodfellow’s apartment.”

Several members of the press picked up and started moving toward the exit. Still time to make the evening news.

“Did Reverend Raleigh tell you this in your interview—the one you conducted at the hospital?”

“No. He said he was at the SMU library. Then later, after we received the phone records and interviewed Miss Goodfellow, he verified it.”

“So he lied about it the first time?”

“Objection,” Whiteside said calmly—he knew this was coming.

“Sustained.”

Blackburn rephrased. “In the presence of her father, did the defendant admit to going over to Lucy Goodfellow’s house the night of his wife’s attempted murder?”

“No. That came later.”

“After you caught him in a lie.”

“Objection.”

“Sustained.” The judge grimaced in the middle of a sip of coffee. “Counselor, please move on.”

The prosecutor is too gung-ho on the mistress, and the defense is almost playing possum, Anne realized. It offers a motive, but Raleigh couldn’t have been stupid enough to think there was a world where he runs off with her.