Brendan looks amazing in a dark gray suit with a blue shirt and a necktie with alternating dark blue and black stripes. My hands are sweating. I pull my left hand from Rev’s and try to wipe it dry on my pants. “Don’t do that,” Rev whispers to me without turning his head or moving his lips. He’s like a master ventriloquist that way. “If one of the jurors sees it, they’ll think you’re worried.” “I am worried!” I hiss back at him. I leave off swiping my hand and start twisting the engagement ring on my left hand. “Are you and Ben sure about this?” “No,” says Rev. “We’re not sure about anything at this point.” In the last twenty-four hours, Ben and Rev had come to a consensus: Despite the fact that Ben had methodically and painstakingly picked the bones clean from every one of the prosecution witnesses’ testimonies, the sleep lab footage–which Lucinda Gaelic had cleverly held back until just before the state had rested its case–had been the pièce de résistance, the tantalizing “picture worth a thousand words.”
