Any number of older cops allow themselves the luxury of a binary mindset: if you’re not for me, you must be against me. It is an attitude that develops over time and seems to arise from bruised and abraded altruism. These cops come to believe that their frequently dangerous work among less-than-savory elements of society is never adequately appreciated by the citizenry they became cops to protect.

Beyond its simplicity and convenience, the attitude is perhaps a defense mechanism that props up their self-esteem and allows them to stay in an ugly job long enough to earn a pension. The downside is that it leaves them raw to the merest slight, quick to construe innocuous remarks as criticism, and quicker still to cut the people who make the remarks out of the already slim herd of those with whom they will associate.

A prosecutor, now and then, usually one who prefers to move in quick

straight lines, develops a similar attitude. You’d think, though, a guy smart enough to earn a law degree would have enough sense to keep it under wraps.

Wood had been making eyes at Crandall, trying to get his attention without waving or tugging at his sleeve, but Crandall ignored him.

Before Reardon even sat down, Crandall was on his feet and said to Pratt, “Bare feet, huh?” His tone suggested the rest of the question was: “That all you got?”

Pratt withdrew his gaze from the jury. He turned to Crandall, sat back in his chair, and twisted the knob on the grin like he had just run into an old friend. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had waved or blown Crandall a kiss.

“No shoes, Potter,” he replied, not missing the opportunity to repeat and underscore his point.

Crandall blinked, apparently at the use of his first name, but his next question had already found form on his tongue.

“You’re aware of the time Ms. Nusbaumer arrived at Mr. Ratliff’s house.”

“I know what time he said she arrived, Potter.” He returned his attention to the jury. “No one can corroborate it.”

Crandall paused momentarily, starting to sense where Pratt intended to go.

“You are aware that Mr. Ratliff had gone to bed before Ms. Nusbaumer arrived.”

“Well, again, Potter. . . .” He glanced at Crandall as he began then turned to the jury. “That’s what he said.”

“Mr. Pratt, isn’t it likely that a man who is awakened by a bloody woman—a woman he has known for the better part of his life, a woman he has a relationship with—is likely to be barefoot when he finds her severely injured and pounding on his door at that time of night?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

Pratt tapped the book and spoke to the jury.

“Not one member of any police force asked him.” He turned back to Crandall. “Did they, Potter?”

“Mr. Pratt, you know as well as I do I get to ask the questions here.”

Pratt remained silent, his grin modulated to sympathetic, unfazed by the rebuke. A juror or two shot Crandall looks shaded with reproach as though they thought Pratt deserved an answer, not rudeness, but he did not notice.

He tried again to rehabilitate Orlo.

“How long after the murders occurred did you go to the Ms. Nusbaumer’s property and speak with Mr. Ratliff?”

Pratt gave dates about a couple of months after the Defendant’s arrest and several months after the murders.

“A lot can happen in that amount of time.”

“I’m sorry, Potter.” Pratt shook his head. “If that was a question, I didn’t understand it.”

“Five months after the murders occurred, you took a sample from Mr. Ratliff’s boot.”

“The only one anyone took.”

Crandall exhaled through his teeth.

“When you took that sample, you were aware that Mr. Ratliff was taking care of Ms. Nusbaumer’s property after the murders while she recuperated from her injuries?”

“Objection,” Reardon said. “Assumes facts not in evidence.”

“Overruled,” Secrist said without explanation, probably because he knew Reardon had objected only to put the jury on notice to pay attention to Pratt’s answer.

“If it’s not in there . . .” He launched his index finger up and over so that it landed point down in the middle of the book’s cover. “And it’s not, neither your investigators or I am aware of it.”

Pratt would never answer yes or no, only in ways that reiterated or underscored his direct testimony.

“You’re aware that the police found no evidence that Mr. Ratliff was in Ms. Nusbaumer’s home on the night the murders occurred?”

“Just as I am aware they found no evidence that the Defendant was in her trailer that night.”

Pratt played the fulcrum. If Crandall pushed on the Bunny end of the board, Pratt would raise police ineptitude. If Crandall stood on the cop end, Pratt raised up Bunny to the jury above all others.

It was mighty good lawyering. No one would ever know whether the idea belonged to Reardon or Pratt, but those among the clans who knew them both would’ve put money on Pratt.

Crandall tried a different tact.

“In thirty-some years as a state police detective, you never charged a suspect without ruling out all the other suspects?”

“Well, Potter, first of all, it’s the prosecutor who charges, isn’t it? The police just bring him the evidence. Isn’t that how it works?”

“Answer the question, Mr. Pratt.”

“The question is: Have I ever been involved in an investigation in which someone was charged before all other suspects were ruled out?”

“You heard it.”

“The answer is once,” Pratt said to the jury. He turned to Crandall. “Just once. As you well know, Potter.”

Crandall jerked himself erect. For just a moment, as color rose in his neck, he looked uncertain.

“You don’t take pleasure in saying bad things about our police,” Crandall said, “but you’ll take money to say them anyway, won’t you?”

Pratt adjusted the grin to show there were no hard feelings.

“Mr. Reardon paid for my time and expertise, Potter. . . .”

“It’s a yes or no, question, sir.”

“Mr. Reardon has to live with whatever opinion he gets, Potter. . . .”

“Yes or no, Mr. Pratt.”

“Potter, Mr. Reardon could no more buy my opinion now than you could when I was a detective.”

Once more, for less than a second, Crandall looked stunned.

“You know, Mr. Pratt, I’ll thank you not to refer to me by my first name.”

“I don’t understand. How long we known each other, Potter? You think we should pretend we don’t know each other pretty well by now?”

“Oh, we do, and you, sir, are a god-damn liar.”