Every head in the courtroom swiveled to stare as Shawn marched down the aisle between benches packed with spectators. At the defense table, Veronica Mason gazed at Shawn with new hope. Under a low-cut blouse, her perfect breasts heaved as she breathed a sigh of relief.

“Man,” Shawn whispered to Gus, “does she ever button all the way up?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Gus said. “I thought we cared about her innocence, not her cleavage.”

“I can care about lots of things at the same time.”

Veronica’s was the only friendly face in the room. The spectators in the gallery looked like they were at a football game and Shawn had run onto the field just as the home team was about to score. Behind the bench, a graying Jerry Garcia look-alike in a black robe stared openmouthed at the interruption into his courtroom.

“I object!” Shawn shouted, striding toward the wooden gate separating the spectators from the trial’s participants.

The judge pounded his gavel so hard his small gray ponytail bounced up and down and his beard trembled. “What do you mean, you object? Who are you?”

Shawn glanced at the judge. And saw. Saw the crystal pyramid holding down a stack of papers. The leather thong around his neck disappearing under the black robe.

“I’m Oliver Mason, and I’m here to say my wife did not kill me!”

A shocked whisper went through the crowd. In the jury box, the forewoman, a saggy matron in a black dress, went ashen, the verdict sheet trembling in her hand. Bert Coules, the Santa Barbara district attorney, jumped up from his chair.

“Your Honor!” Coules shouted. A former Army Ranger, Coules still sported the buzzed hair and buffed body of the military’s most elite. When he looked at Shawn, Gus could almost see his eyes narrowing into sniper scopes.