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  For the filling, mix together the chopped pecans, 2 tablespoons sugar, 2 tablespoons brown sugar, and cinnamon. Set aside.

  Punch down the dough with your fist. Then, on a lightly floured surface, flatten it into a rectangle, about 15 by 10 inches. Spread it with 2 tablespoons of butter, then dust it evenly with the chopped pecan mixture. Beginning at the 10-inch side of the rectangle, roll the dough up tightly and pinch the edge closed. Roll it, stretch it, and mold it until it is cylindrical.

  Cut into eight even slices and place them in a pan, not quite touching. Wrap the pan tightly with foil and refrigerate for at least 12 hours. Dream of them rising, that proof again, evidence that some things grow bigger than we ever expect.

  Heat the oven to 350 degrees F and bake 35 minutes. When golden, remove from the oven. Immediately invert on a platter, and serve warm.

  Marin

  Minutes later

  I

  've always sort of wondered about the term bearing witness. Is it that testifying is such a hardship? Or is it childbirth lingo, the idea that a witness brings forth something new to the trial? That's certainly true, but not in the way you'd imagine. Witness testimony is always flawed. It's better than circumstantial evidence, sure, but people aren't camcorders; they don't record every action and reaction, and the very act of remembering involves choosing words and phrases and images. In other words, every witness who's supposed to be giving a court facts is really just giving them a version of fiction.

  Charlotte O'Keefe, who was on the witness stand now, was not even really capable of bearing witness to her own life, in spite of the fact that she'd lived it. By her own admission, she was biased; by her own admission, she remembered her history only when it was entwined with Willow's.

  I would make a lousy witness, of course. I didn't know where my story started.

  Charlotte had knotted her hands in her lap and sailed through the first three questions: What's your name?

  Where do you live?

  How many children do you have?

  She'd stumbled on the fourth question, though: Are you married?

  Technically, the answer to that was yes. But practically, it had to be spelled out - or Guy Booker would use Charlotte and Sean's separation to his own legal advantage. I had coached Charlotte through the right response, and we had not managed to practice it yet without her bursting into tears. As I waited for her to answer, I found myself holding my breath.

  'Right now I am,' Charlotte said evenly. 'But having a child with so many special needs - it's caused a lot of problems in my marriage. My husband and I are separated right now.' She exhaled, a slow whistle.

  Good girl, I thought.

  'Charlotte, can you tell us about how Willow was conceived?' At the gasp of an elderly juror, I added, 'Not the nuts and bolts . . . more like the decision you made to become a parent.'

  'I was already a parent,' Charlotte said. 'I'd been a single mother for five years. When I met Sean, we both knew we wanted more children - but that didn't seem to be in the cards. We tried to get pregnant for almost two years, and we were just about to start fertility treatments when, well, it just happened.'

  'How did that feel?'

  'We were ecstatic,' Charlotte replied. 'You know how sometimes, your life is so perfect you're afraid for the next moment, because it couldn't possibly be quite as good? That's what it felt like.'

  'How old were you when you became pregnant?'

  'Thirty-eight.' Charlotte smiled a little. 'A geriatric pregnancy, they call it.'

  'Were you concerned about that?'

  'I knew that the odds of having a Down syndrome child were higher once you were over thirty-five.'

  I approached the stand. 'Did you speak to your obstetrician about that?'

  'Yes.'

  'Can you tell the court who your obstetrician was at the time?'

  'Piper Reece,' Charlotte said. 'The defendant.'

  'How did you select the defendant as your ob-gyn?'

  Charlotte looked down at her lap. 'She was my best friend. I trusted her.'

  'What did the defendant do to address your concerns about having a baby with Down syndrome?'

  'She recommended that I do some blood tests - a quad screen, it was called - to see if I had an even greater chance than the norm to have a baby with neural defects, or Down syndrome. Instead of my risk being one in two hundred and seventy, it was one in one hundred and fifty.'

  'What did she recommend?' I asked.

  'Amniocentesis,' Charlotte replied, 'but I knew that carried a risk, too. Since I was scheduled to have a routine ultrasound anyway at eighteen weeks, she said we could read the results of that first, then make a decision about the amnio based on what we saw. It wasn't as accurate as amnio, but there were supposedly certain things that might turn up that would suggest Down syndrome, or rule it out as less likely.'

  'Do you remember that ultrasound?' I asked.

  Charlotte nodded. 'We were so excited to see our baby. And at the same time, I was nervous - because I knew the technician was going to be looking for those Down syndrome markers. I kept watching her, for clues. And at one point she tipped her head and said, "Hmm." But when I asked her what she'd seen, she told me that Dr Reece would read the results.'

  'What did the defendant tell you?'

  'Piper came into the room, and I knew, just from her face, that the baby didn't have Down syndrome. I asked her if she was sure, and she said yes - that the technician had even remarked on how clear the images were. I made her look me in the eye and tell me that everything looked all right - and she said that there was only one measurement that was the slightest bit off, a femur that was in the sixth percentile. Piper said that wasn't something to worry about, since I was short, that by the next ultrasound, that same measurement could be up in the fiftieth percentile.'

  'Were you concerned about the sonogram images being clear?'

  'Why would I be?' Charlotte said. 'Piper didn't seem to be, and I assumed that was the whole point of an ultrasound - to get a good picture.'

  'Did Dr Reece advise having a more detailed follow-up ultrasound?'

  'No.'

  'Did you have any other ultrasounds during your pregnancy?'

  'Yes, when I was twenty-seven weeks pregnant. It wasn't a test as much as a lark - we did it after-hours in her office, to find out the sex of the baby.'

  I faced the jury. 'Do you remember that ultrasound, Charlotte?'

  'Yes,' she said softly. 'I'll never forget it. I was lying on the table, and Piper had the wand on my belly. She was staring at the computer screen. I asked her when I'd get a chance to look, but she didn't answer. I asked her if she was okay.'

  'What was her response?'

  Charlotte's eyes looked across the room and locked with Piper's. 'That she was okay. But that my daughter wasn't.'

  Charlotte

  W

  hat are you talking about? What's the matter?' I'd sat up on my elbows, looking at the screen, trying to make sense of the images as they jostled with my movements.

  Piper pointed to a black line that looked to me like all the other black lines on the screen. 'She's got broken bones, Charlotte. A bunch of them.'

  I shook my head. How could that be? I had not fallen.

  'I'll call Gianna Del Sol. She's the head of maternal-fetal medicine at the hospital; she can explain it in more detail--'

  'Explain what ?' I cried, riding the high wire of panic.

  Piper pulled the transducer away from my belly, so that the screen went clear. 'If it's what I think it is - osteogenesis imperfecta - it's really rare. I've only read about it, during medical school. I've never seen a patient who has it,' she said. 'It affects collagen levels, so that bones break easily.'

  'But the baby,' I said. 'It's going to be okay, right?'

  This was the part where my best friend embraced me and said, Yes, of course, don't be silly. This was the part where Piper told me it was the kind of problem that, ten years from now, we'd laugh about a