The morning headlines were direct: New York Times: “O’Connor Arraigned for Geyser Partner’s Murder” and Boston Herald: “Geyser Stock Plummets Over Murder Charges.” The local paper included the headline I feared most: “O’Connor’s Attorney Sexually Assaulted.”

As Harry and I flanked our now-famous client, Michael O’Connor, the reporters flogged us on our way into the courthouse. “Is the assault related to the case?” “Have they caught the guy yet?” Question after question. I felt sick to my stomach. The closer I got to the defense table, the higher my panic rose.

The courtroom was as crowded as I have ever seen it. The bailiff looked nervous, like a country boy in the presence of royalty. The prosecutor looked over at me as I arranged my files.

Christopher Bain, prosecuting attorney, is tall and thin with thick, dark hair that sweeps down in front like a horse’s forelock. He is forever whisking it back with a sudden whip of his neck, causing a reflexive blink which, in turn, makes his glasses slip down his ski jump of a nose. To get them back in place, he repeatedly twitches his nose like a rabbit. Bain’s expensive-looking suits belie his public servant’s salary. I often see him shopping at the outlets. His ties never quite match his suit. Conversely, his leather belt and well-shined shoes always match. Bain’s take-no-prisoners style is adored by juries, but not always by judges.

Bain looked over in my direction and shook his head. Today, his white shirt was molded to his athletic body. Normally, he would not approach the defense table before a hearing, but over he came.

“I’m so sorry to hear what happened to you. Are you doing okay? I’m here for you if you need to talk.” He reached over to pat my shoulder, and I about jumped out of my skin. I could feel the tears welling.

All I could manage was, “I’m okay.” Then I turned to Harry and whispered, “Switch me places. I can’t do it. Not today.”

“What?”

“You know that I want to do this more than anything else. But I’m shaken up today. It took half an hour to cover the bruise on my cheek with make-up. Please do this arraignment. Let me do the next one.” I hated hearing the words coming out of my mouth. I was angry with myself for being such a weakling, for letting the reporters shake my confidence. I was angry at Harry for offering me the opportunity at the most vulnerable moment in my life. I hated myself for not having enough courage to take on the job. The look of disappointment on Harry’s face screamed volumes.

“This kind of opportunity doesn’t present itself often,” is all that he said. He escorted me to his left and took the place of the first-chair attorney – the one that was cued to speak. I noticed that Bain was watching the musical chairs. He shook his head slowly and mouthed, “I’m sorry.” I averted his stare as Judge Furmer took the bench. Bain followed my gaze and looked directly at the judge. She didn’t bother to look back. This was clearly disappointing to Bain, who likes everyone to take notice of him, especially women.

Bain has a reputation in Jackson as a ladies’ man. He loves the transient state of many of the women in the town – they are either tourists or ski bums willing to be wined and dined by one of the few men in town dressed in a suit. Bain’s law office is perched above an art gallery near the town square, giving him a full view of the town’s patrons du jour. Jackson’s most distinguishing and eye-catching feature is, in fact, its town square, a picture-perfect city block, flanked on all four corners with St. Louis-style gateway arches, each one made from hundreds of elk antlers.

Bain once told me (at a county bar association meeting after a few beers) that he particularly liked the town arches in the winter because they are draped with little white lights, which remind him of the eyes that once guided the elk through the expanse of forests in Yellowstone and Grand Teton National Park. He said the lights also remind him of his sacred belief that the courageous animals live on – a reincarnation of sorts – which is what Bain believes life is all about. He loves to talk about reincarnation, rebirth, and reinvention. If I didn’t know better, I would think he was from Berkeley instead of Wyoming. Bain loves to tell his newly made lady friends that the Tetons got their name from French-Canadian trappers who called them “Les Trois Tetons,” meaning “The Three Tits.” He tells me that there’s something titillating about being able to say “tits” in front of a woman on a first date. I never know what to believe from him after he’s had a few drinks.

“All rise,” the bailiff announces to the courtroom on the first day of Michael O’Connor’s murder trial. “The Honorable Sheryl Furmer presiding.” With standing room only, the reporters are crammed in the back row, their notepads and pencils poised for prose. The courthouse in Jackson is unremarkable from the outside. It looks like any other government building – gray, rectangular, with many small windows that suggest entombment. But the interior of the courtroom is sufficiently decorated, with slate-blue carpeting on the floors, which gives a calming effect and probably hides dirt well, and with comfortable black canvas bucket-seat chairs, a dark wood partition separating the gallery from the public, and an impressive, dark, oak-stained bench, behind which the judge reigns. Above the judge’s bench hangs the Wyoming state seal with this inscription: “Equal Rights: Livestock: Mines: Grain: Oil.”

“Please be seated,” Judge Furmer says. “The People of the State of Wyoming versus Michael Brian O’Connor, case number WC000599. Counsel, please identify yourselves for the record.”

Bain whips his hair, adjusts his glasses, and says, “Good morning, your Honor. Christopher Bain on behalf of the People of the State of Wyoming.”

“Good morning, your Honor. Andrew J. Harrison on behalf of the defendant, Michael O’Connor.” It is peculiar to me to hear Harry call himself Andrew J. Harrison. Everyone in town knows him as “Harry.”

“Good morning, counsel. Mr. Bain, please present probable cause,” Judge Furmer said.

“The defendant, Michael O’Connor, was Preston Parker’s business partner in a pharmaceutical business named Geyser, Inc. Michael O’Connor was the last person seen with Preston Parker on the ski slopes. A witness can testify that the last thing he heard the defendant say to the deceased was: ‘Over my dead body.’ The witness claims that the two men were having a fight over business practices. Within an hour of this argument, Preston Parker’s unconscious body lay bleeding in the trees of Granite Canyon, an out-of-bounds ski run on the slopes of Jackson Hole Ski Resort.

“The autopsy notes that Preston Parker suffered blunt force trauma to the head. Toxicology reports indicate that the deceased was also poisoned. Michael O’Connor was present at the scene of the ski accident and was present both at the hospital and at the after-care facility where the