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  Bud grinned. "No, ma'am, I would not. We were the toast of the town, back then. It was before Wal-Mart and Woolworth got to Cummington, so everyone came to us first."

  "So you'd agree that what you say in answer to a hypothetical question isn't always the way things work out when you're faced with the actual situation?"

  She could see the wheels turning as he sorted out the words. God preserve her from stupid people. "Yes," Bud said, "I guess that's true."

  "Then what the deceased said in the context of your sister's unfortunate situation might not have been what she wished for when she actually found herself in similar straits?"

  Bud's face went dull red. "I can't say," he mumbled. "I can't be sure."

  "Mr. Spitlick, when your sister was terminally ill and comatose, were you under a lot of stress?" She started pacing, her back to the witness.

  "Oh, yes," Bud said, relieved to be talking about a topic he could firmly grasp.

  Audra turned to face him and pinned her cold blue gaze to his. "Why didn't you kill her?"

  Graham jumped up. "Objection."

  "Sustained."

  Audra smiled at the defendant. "Withdrawn."

  Allie could hear the water running, so she knew Cam was taking a shower. He had come home from work in the middle of the day because he had been on the midnight shift, and this was his usual procedure: he'd eat everything in the refrigerator that did not require heavy cooking, he'd shower, and then he'd crawl into bed and sleep like a log for six hours.

  He had left the door ajar. Allie watched the steam slip out of the bathroom in a long, thick curl and come to lie on the Oriental runner in the hall. He was singing, and he must have been washing his hair, because every few words came out gurgled. His eyes were probably screwed shut.

  She cracked the door a smidgen more and put her face up to the opening.

  She told herself that she was still angry at him; that she didn't want to be looking, so it didn't matter if it was her business or not. Through the smoky glass stall she saw the length of his legs, his arms raised overhead to soap his back, the muted outline of his buttocks.

  It wasn't until she had run back down to the kitchen and waited for the fire to leave her cheeks and the shaking to stop that she realized her agitation had nothing to do with voyeurism. It had to do with the fact that in spite of her best intentions, she could not help wanting something she knew she should not have.

  Dascomb Wharron almost did not fit into the witness box. Graham saw several jurors hiding smiles behind their hands as the bailiff helped the doctor settle himself across the seat of the witness chair and a second one that was placed inside for his comfort. Great, Graham thought. Our one expert witness is a laughingstock.

  But Wharton's answers were clear and clipped, very professional. When he listed his credentials, which included Harvard Medical School and a residency at Massachusetts General Hospital, even Judge Roarke looked impressed.

  "How long have you practiced in Cummington, Doctor?" Graham asked.

  "Twenty-one years," Wharton said. "And what kinds of cases do you see?"

  "I'm a general practitioner. I deliver babies, I take care of those babies when they have whooping cough, I get them through the chicken pox and give them school physicals and physicals for the Army, I help some of them give birth to their own children. I also see a wide range of emergent cases: appendectomies, gallstones, cancers of various kinds."

  "When did you first see Maggie?"

  Wharton shifted; the floor of the witness stand creaked. "Maggie started coming to my office when she moved to Cummington, which was in 1984. I was quite familiar with her medical history."

  Graham nodded. "Can you tell us how you diagnosed her cancer?"

  He did not listen to Wharton's story of how Maggie had come to him with a broken ankle, a skating accident, and how X-rays had revealed not only the best way to set the bone, but lesions which indicated a tumor had insinuated its way into her body. Instead, Graham watched the jury. For the first time during the trial, some of them were taking notes. Most of them perched on the edge of their seats.

  Wharton explained in layman's terms the type of breast cancer Maggie had; the decision to do a radical mastectomy that would also remove the lymph nodes; the meaning of finding the secondary site--the bone lesions--before the primary one. He chronicled her forays into chemotherapy and radiation, as well as the side effects she experienced.

  Jamie did not look at the doctor. He stared into his lap.

  "Can you tell us, given the various cancers Maggie had, what the prognosis was?"

  Wharton sighed. "She was going to die. It wasn't a matter of if, but of when."

  "In your experience, was there any hope for improvement in her condition?"

  "I haven't seen it, no."

  Graham stood beside Jamie. "Did you tell Jamie and Maggie this?"

  "Yes, of course."

  "And what were their reactions?"

  "Maggie was very stoic about it. I believe that she had known what I was going to say. Jamie didn't take it quite as well. He held her hand the entire time I was speaking, but when I was finished, he told me I was out of my mind. He suggested that I had mixed up her results, and that they would get a second opinion."

  "Did they, to your knowledge?"

  "Yes," Wharton said. "The doctor's findings confirmed mine. He sent along a diagnosis to stick in her file." "Did you ever meet with Jamie alone?"

  The doctor nodded. "He came to see me several times with new cures he'd heard about. Once it was something to do with Chinese ginseng, I believe, and another time it was some sort of chiropractic nonsense that supposedly broke up the cancer. He said that he liked to meet with me alone because he didn't want to give his wife false hope, but he would then explain the latest theory that he'd found. It was evident he did a great deal of research on ductal melanomas and the different therapies that they'd responded to in other cases. However, even the more reasonable treatments he brought to my attention would not have made a difference for Maggie."

  "Would you say he was a devoted husband?"

  For the first time since he had taken the stand, Wharton looked at Jamie. "I've rarely seen the like."

  Graham sat down again. "Dr. Wharton, when did you last see Maggie?"

  "She came to my office for a 4:45 appointment on September fifteenth. Friday, I believe it was."

  "What did you tell her on that date?"

  "She was complaining of flashing in her eyes and temporary blindness, which I explained was a result of the tumor pressing down on her optic nerve. At that point, the cancer was spreading through the brain. I told her that I was not sure what part of her would be affected next. Depending on the direction the tumor took in its growth, it could have depressed her respirations. It could have led to seizures, or a stroke. It could have resulted in permanent blindness. I told her I just did not know."

  "Can you tell the court what Maggie's state of mind was like when she left your office?"

  "Objection," Audra said. "Witness cannot know what was going on in the deceased's mind."

  "I'll rephrase. Can you tell me how she was acting before she left?"

  Wharton shook his head. "She was very subdued. She thanked me and she shook my hand." He paused, as if remembering something. "She forgot her coat; my secretary had to call after her as she walked down the hall." He pursed his lips. "She already knew she was going to die; she was told that day that her body systems would be shutting down in a Russian roulette order; I don't imagine she was feeling very spirited."

  Graham thanked the doctor. "Nothing further."

  Audra stood up before Graham had even made it back to his chair. "One question, Dr. Wharton. In your expert opinion, can you tell the court what the chances would have been of the victim dying of natural causes by the morning of September 19, 1995?"

  Wharton let out his breath slowly. "It would not have been very probable."

  Audra smiled. "Nothing further."

  Graham