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THE DRIVE TIME DURING Rob Jacobson’s first trial in Riverhead was about half what I’m facing now. Both Jimmy and Ben have tried to convince me to rent an Airbnb in Mineola—to spare me the daily, three-hour round-trip drive.

I have consistently refused, just as they’ve refused my insistence that I like being in the car. Mostly I like being alone in the car.

“To quote my sainted father,” I said the last time Ben brought it up, “go pound sand.”

He smiled. This was at dinner on Sunday night, just the two of us. And the dog, of course.

Then I told him again what I’d assumed both he and Jimmy already knew: the double shot of alone time in the car got me ready for each day in court and also gave me a chance to review the day’s proceedings.

Nothing against either one of them, the two great loves of my life along with Rip, who only occasionally tries talking me into doing things I don’t want to do.

Dr. Sam Wylie emails me Sunday night to inform me that she wants to see me in her office for one last pretrial check of my vitals. So I leave my house at six thirty on Monday morning and make a stop in Southampton.

“Body temp, pulse rate, rate of breathing, blood pressure,” she tells me now as I sit down.

No receptionist at this hour. Just the two of us, meeting the way we used to meet before class in high school, about a hundred years ago, when we were the hot chicks who thought we were going to live forever.

“You may think of them as vitals,” I tell her. “Me? I think of them as the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. And by the way, I looked it up, and blood pressure isn’t technically considered a vital sign, you just measure it along with those other bad boys. Or girls, as the case may be.”

“I thought I was the one who did the homework for both of us when we had a first-period quiz,” she says.

It turns out my blood pressure has risen over its normal numbers.

“We’ll just write that off to where you’re headed after leaving here,” she says.

“You realize my brain needs all the blood it can get today, right?”

“Look at it this way,” she says, offering a crooked grin. “Lack of the proper amount never seems to have slowed you down before.”

“I’ve probably mentioned this before, doc,” I say, “but you’re never going to make it as a stand-up comic.”

“Wait,” she says, “check this one out: A lawyer walks into a doctor’s office …”

“You know what’s funny about doctor’s offices?” I tell her. “Not a single goddamn thing.”

Just like that, the funny goes out of her.

“You can do this,” she says quietly.

“Just about everybody who says they love me keeps suggesting that I can’t do this,” I say. “And they all seem to know me pretty well.”

“I’ve known you longer.”

I’ve seen her cry before when we’ve been seated across from each other like this. Every time she has, I’ve pointed out, and quite correctly, that it’s the patient who’s supposed to be doing the crying.

I’m afraid she’s about to restart the waterworks, her eyes having turned a telltale shade of pink.

“The last time you cried in front of me,” I say, trying to cut her off at the pass, “I think you even ruined my mascara.”

Then I add, “They all think the trial is going to kill me,” before I add, “in more ways than one.”

“I simply won’t allow it,” Sam says.

She stands. I stand. She comes around her desk and we fall into a hug and then she is crying. But I stand strong. No way I’m doing my face all over again.

“You got this,” she says finally.

“Hold the thought,” I say. “But you need to let go of me now.”

She does.

“I’ve never asked you this before,” Sam Wylie says, “and whatever you tell me won’t leave this room. But do you think he killed that family?”

“Which family?” I ask her.

“You know which family.”

I don’t hesitate.

“No,” I say.