"Is that all she told you?" Drysdale had pushed himself back from his desk and stopped juggling his baseballs, but he held three of them in one enormous hand against his cheek. "I think she left out a little tiny bit."

"Art, I just spent an hour talking to her. She didn't kill her son."

Drysdale, more or less expecting this, nodded. "Maybe not on purpose."

"What does that mean?"

"It means let's say the kid got in the way."

"Of what? "

"Of Mrs. Witt killing her husband."

Hardy turned in a half-circle. "Please…"

Leaning forward, Drysdale said, "Please yourself, Diz, this indictment is rock solid. The kid was there and died while she was committing the crime of murdering her husband. As if you didn't know, that makes the son a Murder One, too. Just like if a bank robber shoots a guard by mistake. Sorry, but Murder One."

"Have you talked to her?"

"Oh, sure. Everybody gets arrested, I run upstairs and protect their civil rights 'til they're processed. Then I hold their hand until bedtime and make sure they get tucked in. Give me a break, Diz."

Hardy knew Drysdale was right – of course there had been no reason for him to have talked to Jennifer Witt. But Hardy couldn't let it go. "She didn't even do it by mistake, Art."

Baseballs were getting juggled again, a bad sign. "That's why there are trials, my man. Figure out what really happened."

"But you've charged her."

Again, reluctantly, Drysdale stopped his routine. "Traditionally that precedes an arrest. You want, you can have a copy of the discovery on Larry Witt and Matt Witt. Read it yourself."

"You want to tell me about it?"