In Cold Blood

The district attorney gritted his teeth at the thought of another day of cross-examination. "I've questioned her type before," he told the mayor. His mind was still reeling from the circus that had been opening statements, and the defendant's appearance in a pink mink wrap and a fresh tan. Respect for the dead was not her forté. "You'll never get her to crack under pressure."

The mayor inspected his nails quietly. "Then it's a good thing that's your job instead of mine." In the silence that followed, they both knew this had become a personal vendetta long ago. At the heart of the case was a dead man, but a representative of certain entrenched interests and an old friend of the political establishment. He had made bad decisions, to be sure, but no-one deserved what had found him in the end.

His was a very public death. As the vortex of money, sex and politics proved irresistible, the media had thrown their weight into the trial, and the evidence that had once seemed so overwhelming began to take on a distinctively circumstantial tinge in public opinion. Whether it produce justice or not, the trial would stagger to a close one way or the next. As he left for the courtroom, the district attorney just prayed it would bring justice for someone, somewhere.