Her hand flew to her mouth and she folded in on herself, sobbing. The ambulance attendant glared at me. A little self-consciously, I reached over and patted her back. After she’d calmed down a bit, I placed one of the pictures we’d found of Phillips and his dog in her lap. “Do you recognize this man?”

She didn’t touch the photographs. She became utterly motionless. My hand on her back could feel the distant thump of her heartbeat-her only sign of life.

Still without moving, she asked, “Is this the man outside?”

“We think so.”

“Mr. Phillips.”

I sat opposite her again. She wouldn’t look at me. “You knew him?”

“Yes.”

“From where?”

“Jury duty. We served together. He used to pass that very picture around. He loved that dog like I loved Albert… I don’t understand… He was nice. He was the last one to vote guilty. He said he couldn’t condemn another man, no matter how horrible what he did.”

“It’s not your fault; you know that, don’t you?”

She thought a while before answering. “No.”

She wasn’ t the only one.

2

Orchard Heights is an exclusive developer’s dream come true. Once a farmer’s rolling field off Orchard Street west of downtown, it sits high enough to both “afford” a view and to overlook but not actually see Interstate 91, which separates it from Brattleboro. The field consists of five low hills, each crowned with a $200,000 ranch-style house that looks down on a narrow, winding street, fed like a stream by one slim driveway per house. Token trees have been planted tastefully here and there, hitting a medium between privacy and the view. In all, the effect is so carefully manicured that even the mountains, the snow, and the distant woods look totally artificial, as if some low-key, expensive Hollywood set were awaiting the arrival of the camera crew.