The closing statements began immediately following the noon recess: first Mornet with a tidy and predictable summary of the government's case, then the defense with an elegant but slightly garbled plea for acquittal. Put aside the prejudice of the day, Clunet admonished the jury; examine only what has been said, not what has been implied. Remember that one life is no less meaningful than a hundred lives, and that if we condemn an innocent then ultimately we are all condemned. Through all this she remained largely stiff, with her eyes fixed on any empty frame that had once enclosed a picture of Christ.

There were approximately forty-five minutes between these closing statements and the verdict, and once more she spent the time alone in a room at the top of the staircase. There were two oval windows here, providing a rather stunning view of the city. The sky was white, except to the north, where the last of the rainclouds lay. The only immediate sound was from a solitary typewriter.

She remained quite still, with both hands pressed against the bars. Then it seemed that she had to sit; even if it meant withdrawing from the window, and the fine view, she had to sit down. In an earlier fantasy, she had seen this moment as becoming intensely meaningful, with some sort of last-minute revelation and a sense of peace. She would have settled for a little mascara and a glass of white wine to help her face the jury.

It was four o'clock in the afternoon when they led her back to the courtroom. The temperature was eighty-two degrees Fahrenheit with no relief in sight. The earlier rain had hardly dampened the streets, and the subsequent humidity had left everyone drained. The prisoner, observers were later to say, appeared listless. Her attorney was drenched in perspiration. Even the court clerk had difficulty rising to the occasion as he read the verdict: death.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Four

THERE were three sweltering days after the trial, then— following an odd wind and distant thunder—more rain. Gray had been on a narrow bed, examining his shoulder. At the sound of the rain he put on his shirt and moved to the balcony. Then, although no one had specifically told him, he knew. He knew.

De Massloff came at about four o'clock, and once again Gray first saw his friend from a distance, at least fifty yards along the lane. In spite of the rain, the man was walking very slowly. His good eye was fixed on the pavement. He did not even attempt to avoid the puddles.

They met on a small terrace above the garden. There were azaleas here, and classic long-stemmed roses. There was also, of course, a clear-cut sense of Zelle.

"They say that there's still a very good chance for an appeal," de Massloff was saying. "And of course one can't rule out the possibility of a pardon."