The judge glanced over at the female guard who brought Veronica to the courtroom every day. “You’ve seen the accused change from her prison jumpsuit into street clothes?”

“I have, Your Honor,” the guard said.

“Does she have such a birthmark?”

“She does, Your Honor,” the guard said.

“I’m impressed,” the judge said. “Mr. Coules?”

“It’s in the shape of a strawberry,” Coules said, “and there’s a freckle at the top that looks like the stem. I guess I’m Oliver Mason, too. And so is every man in this courtroom. Including you, Your Honor.”

The judge banged his gavel. “I warn you, Counselor-”

“Come off it, Judge, I saw you looking when she was on the stand,” Coules said. “You’d have to be a lot deader than Oliver Mason not to. Now will you please get this fraud out of here?”

The judge sighed as if he’d just learned at sixty that there is no Santa Claus. He banged his gavel desolately. “Bailiff, remove the medium.”

The bailiff bolted up the aisle like a defensive end looking for a quick sack. He grabbed Shawn around the waist and started to haul him toward the exit.

Gus followed. “I told you to stop thinking about her cleavage.”

The judge cleared his throat. “I apologize to the jury for this interruption. Have you reached a verdict?”

As he struggled to free himself from the bailiff’s arm-lock, Shawn saw the jury forewoman stand up again. She raised the verdict form and began to read.

“We have, Your Honor,” she said with a quaver in her voice.

Shawn looked at the forewoman and saw. Saw the savage pen stroke under the verdict that almost tore through the paper. Saw the ring on her finger-a class ring, Santa Barbara High School, class of 1958. Saw the Med Alert bracelet dangling off her wrist-allergic to bee stings. Saw the small smile of triumph on her face as she sneaked a glance at Veronica.