With the thermometer showing three degrees, I left the inn early and drove around town for ten minutes to charge up the Subaru’s aging battery. It had been sitting since Sunday evening, and I knew from frustrating experience that the short hop from the inn to the courthouse wouldn’t do it any good. By eight forty-five I was in my spot next to the Peabody twins, watching the courtroom fill up. Clad in matching cardigans with pearl buttons—one in navy blue, the other pale gray—Arlette and Trulette complimented my jury selection story, which they’d read that morning online. “Of course, we still buy your paper every day, but it doesn’t get delivered until ten o’clock,” the one in the blue sweater reassured me. “We couldn’t wait to read your story, now that we know you.” There was a big crowd of locals again, a few familiar faces from the day before. Tom O’Rourke was saving seats on the left side.
