Detective Billick sighed and waited until Potter opened his eyes before he said, “Yes. Possible.”

“Thank you,” Potter said. “I have no further questions.”

Dwayne felt hope glimmer like an unsteady match flame, but the district attorney was as sleek and mean as a battleship in her dark gray skirt and jacket, cruising forward without concern for anything around her. She was big boned, thick, and tall, but not unattractive at all, with short dark hair and bright red lipstick. Her voice was booming and strong, as certain as a concrete wall that steered you in its own direction.

The flame flickered out when the battleship maneuvered toward the bench and asked the judge if she could redirect the witness.

“You did damn good,” Dwayne whispered to Potter as the defense lawyer sat and slouched down low, still fuming. “What’s she doing now, though?”

“Piddling,” Potter said, snatching up his pen and resuming his doodles. Soon the image of the district attorney took shape, but instead of the dark serious suit, she wore a bikini made out of animal skins.

Dwayne rumpled his brow but didn’t ask more because the DA had begun to speak.

“How many knife fights a year in this town?” she asked.

“About three or four,” Billick said.

“Any at Gilly’s Trackside?”

“No.”

“Never?”

“Not in the eighteen years I’ve been on this force. It’s not that kind of place.”

“Did you go down there, to Gilly’s, and ask questions about a knife fight?” the DA asked.

“Of course. Yes.”

“Anyone know anything?”

“No,” Billick said, shaking his head and trying not to smile. “Just Chuck Willis, who said he saw a black man running past who ditched something in that culvert.”

“Anyone even hear about a possible knife fight? Maybe that same man running past and slashing out at someone?”