I can always tell how impressive an expert is by how quiet the gallery is. When Jan McHenry speaks, I can hear a pin drop. The jury is paying strict attention.

“And how many colors of fabric were produced in that test run?”

“Only one. Light blue, pattern BL three-zero-zero-nine X.” She points at the bag on the table. “That’s the color of the sample I examined.”

“Thank you, Ms. McHenry.”

Bastinelli looks at the defense table. “Counselor, your witness.”

I’m not sure what kind of damage Tess Hardy can do to Jan McHenry on cross, but I’m sure she’ll do her best.

Hardy walks briskly to the lectern like she’s in no mood to waste time.

“Good morning, Ms. McHenry.”

“Good morning.”

“Ms. McHenry, are you an expert in soil analysis?”

For a second, McHenry seems thrown by the question. “Soil? No.”

“You seem certain that you can pinpoint the date that this fabric was manufactured, correct?”

“Yes. As I just said—”

“I’m not asking you to repeat your testimony, Ms. McHenry. My question is: Can you tell us with any degree of certainty how long that fabric sample was buried—or if it was buried at all?”

“I evaluated the fibers. Not the dirt.”

“I’ll take that as a no. So the sheet could have been buried a year ago, correct? Or left in somebody’s crawl space for the past two decades?”

“Objection!” says Bastinelli. “Calls for speculation.”

“Sustained,” says the judge. “Move along, Ms. Hardy.”

“Let me approach it another way, Ms. McHenry. For the moment, let’s stipulate that this fabric is, in fact, the age you say. However, based on your expertise, you cannot say with certainty that it has been buried underground for the past seventeen years, is that correct?”

“No, I cannot.”

“Or that it enclosed human remains for that entire time or any portion of that time.”

McHenry speaks directly into the mic. “I cannot say that.”

“Thank you, Ms. McHenry. No further questions.”

I see what Hardy is doing. She’s undermining the prosecutor’s gains with this witness.

More important, she’s sowing the seeds of doubt.

CHAPTER
108

Washington, DC

President Madeline Wright sits in the rear of a black up-armored Suburban parked on N Street in Georgetown. Secret Service agents in plain clothes are stationed at both ends of the cross streets. Another agent stands by the back door of the vehicle.

It’s ten p.m. Two hours ago, Burton Pearce interrupted Maddy’s daily call with Cole to tell her about a serious problem with the Grand Bargain. He described it in three simple words.

“Trent. He’s wavering.”

Now Maddy’s here to solve the problem.