The trial was being held at the U.S. District Courthouse and at exactly one o'clock, Malcolm and Marielle arrived in the Pierce-Arrow limousine, driven by two policemen and accompanied by four FBI men, among them John Taylor. He was glad he could be there to give her strength. She felt his presence close to her, and it made her feel braver. Malcolm had said not a single word to her since they left the house. His silent accusations had begun to wear her down in the past months. She looked as gray as her dress when they got out of the car, and Malcolm assisted her silently up the steps of the courthouse. She was wearing a pale gray coat and matching hat, and the wind nearly swept it off, just as the press descended on them in a wave, and the FBI men had to fight to make a path for them. And as they entered the courtroom, Marielle realized again how painful this was all going to be, and how pointless. At the end of it, they would not get Teddy back. What purpose did it serve? He was gone, and after three months their hopes of having him returned alive had grown dim now. All this was was an exercise in accusation.

The Pattersons took their seats in the front row behind the U.S. Attorney. John Taylor sat next to Marielle, and one of his assistants was next to Malcolm. There were two more FBI men just behind them, and two uniformed policemen on either side of them, and just ahead, so they were surrounded by more than adequate protection. And Brigitte was already in the courtroom waiting for them when they arrived. She glanced warmly at Marielle, and nodded politely at Malcolm. A few moments later the bailiff appeared and demanded that all rise as the judge entered in his black robes, and gazed around the courtroom. He was a tall man with a rugged face, and a shock of white hair, not unlike Malcolm's. In fact, the two men were vague friends, but he was known to be a harsh judge, and Malcolm had made no objection when he'd been selected.

Judge Abraham Morrison took his seat, and scowled at everyone as he looked around his courtroom. There was a long silence and people began to squirm in their seats, particularly the press, whom he seemed to scrutinize, and then the jurors, the Pattersons, the defendant, and the attorneys.

“My name is Abraham Morrison.” His words rang out sonorously. “And I'm not going to tolerate any nonsense in this courtroom. If anyone here misbehaves, I'm going to throw you out of here so fast your head will spin. Any contempt of court, I'll put you in jail. Any press gets out of hand, you're banned from here, for good. Anyone attempt to coerce a juror, unduly influence a juror, or even talk to a juror, I'll prosecute. Is that clear to everyone in this room?” There were nodding heads and a murmur of voices. “We're here for a serious matter. A capital offense. A man's life is at stake, and a child's life may have been taken. These are not matters I take lightly.” He looked straight at the press section then. “And if you hound anyone here, either the jurors, the defendant, or the witnesses,” he looked pointedly at the Pattersons, “you'll be out the door faster than my bailiff can throw you. Does everyone understand the rules here?” There was a long silence as everyone sat in awe of him. “Do you?” His voice boomed again, and there was a chorus of “Yes, sirs.” “Good. Then maybe we can get started. I won't tolerate a circus in my court. Let's get that clear right from the beginning.” More nodded heads, and he put on his glasses and carefully perused some papers. Marielle looked over at the defendant's table then, and she noticed that Charles was looking thinner and pale, and the hair at his temples seemed to have become grayer than when she last saw him. He was wearing a dark blue suit, a white shirt and dark tie, and he looked more respectable than most people in the room, but that wasn't the issue. Tom Armour looked extremely serious too, in a pin-striped suit with a vest. And he seemed suddenly younger than he had when she had seen him in her own home. She had never told Malcolm about the meeting.

Judge Morrison looked back up at the courtroom again, and his gaze swept the room. “I think we all know why we're here today. This is a kidnapping case. The kidnapping of Theodore Whitman Patterson, a four-year-old boy. His parents are here today.” He waved vaguely in the direction of Marielle and Malcolm, and she could feel her heart pound. It was difficult to believe that, after three months of constant press, there was a person alive who didn't know who they were, but it was as though Judge Morrison wanted to introduce them. He liked a great deal of decorum and respect, but he also liked a personal touch in his courtroom.

“The defendant is a man named Charles Delauney. And the theory, ladies and gentlemen, and I am addressing prospective jurors here, is that Mr. Delauney is innocent until proven guilty. The burden of proof is on the prosecution. The prosecutor, Mr. William Palmer,” he waved at him then, “must convince you, beyond a reasonable doubt, that Mr. Delauney is guilty. It is then up to Mr. Armour,' he waved at Tom, “to convince you that he is not guilty. If Mr. Palmer does not make a convincing case, if you are unconvinced, if you do not believe beyond a reasonable doubt that Mr. Delauney kidnapped this child, then you must acquit him. You must listen very carefully, and you must take your responsibility seriously. And I will tell you now that I am going to sequester this jury. You will be put up in a hotel, at the government's expense, for the duration of this trial. And you will not be able to speak to anyone except your fellow jurors. You cannot call your children, chat with your husband, visit with a friend, go out to a movie. You must stay with the other jurors, in the hotel, until your duty is done, without prejudice or distraction. The press won't make that easy for you, newspapers, radio, it's all very tempting, and very confusing. But you must make every effort to keep yourself pure of all that until this is over. And if there is anyone here to whom being sequestered would present an undue hardship for the next several weeks, for reasons of health or family responsibility, please speak up when your name is called. We are going to need twelve jurors and two alternates. And ladies and gentlemen, we thank you for your assistance.” He turned to the bailiff then and told him to call the names of the prospective jurors.

The first woman was so frightened she almost tripped on the way to her seat, and she was shaking so hard Marielle could see it as she watched her.

The second juror was a woman too, an elderly black woman who had a hard time getting to her seat, she was so old and crippled. Then there were two men, both middle-aged, and a man about forty with one leg, a Chinese girl with incredibly long hair in braids, a good-looking young black man, two pretty young girls, and a middle-aged woman who kept staring at Malcolm and Marielle, two more men, and then two nondescript-looking women as alternates.

And as soon as they were seated, Judge Morrison introduced the attorney for the United States government, William Palmer, to the room. He turned, looked around the courtroom, and then turned again to smile at the jury. “Hello, my name is William Palmer. I am the attorney for the United States government in this case, and I am here to represent the People. I represent you in this case, and I will need your help to convict this man,” he waved vaguely at Charles, “whom we believe kidnapped a four-year-old boy, Teddy Patterson, twelve days before Christmas.” As though that somehow made it worse, but actually it had, for his parents. “If any of you know this man, or me, or the defendant's attorney, Mr. Armour, or the judge, or anyone associated with us, you must speak up now, or it will prejudice the case, and you will be excused. Just tell the judge, when he calls on you and asks your name and occupation.” He then sat down abruptly and Tom Armour stood up and introduced himself, and Marielle saw immediately that he had a far more winning way with the jury. He didn't talk down to them the way Bill Palmer had, and his manner was smooth, instead of grating, like the U.S. Attorney's. He explained that the case against Mr. Delauney was purely circumstantial, and there were two objects which connected his client to the case, but there was no proof that he had actually kidnapped the child, or had anything to do with it at all. And as he spoke, Marielle saw that several of the jurors nodded. He sat down again then, after thanking them for their help, with a warm smile that made the two young girls giggle, and the judge frowned as he watched them.

“May I remind you, ladies,” he barked down at them, “this is not a social event, or an amusing matter. Now,” he looked over the rest of them, “does anyone here have a health problem that would hinder them from being sequestered?” The elderly black woman held up a hand, and Morrison looked down at her with a warm smile. “Yes? Your name please, ma'am?”

“Ruby Freeman.”

“Yes, Mrs. Freeman?”

“It's my legs. I got terrible arthritis. It hurts me all the time.” She looked up at him sadly.

“I can see that.” He nodded sympathetically.

“Some nights, I can't hardly move. And my daughter… she takes care of me… I help watch her baby while she works.” The woman started to cry as she said it…”If I don't go home to her…she can't go to work… we won't eat…her husband was killed at the factory where he worked…” The saga of despair seemed to go on forever.

“We understand. Perhaps your daughter could find someone else to help her for a short time. But Mrs. Freeman, do you feel you might be in too much pain to do the trial justice?”

“I think so, Your Honor. You don't know what a terrible suffering arthritis is until you have it. I'm eighty-two years old, and I've had it for twenty years, and it's almost killed me.”