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I AM WELL AWARE of the change Welsh has made with her opening witness. The original plan was to call the first detective to arrive at the Carson home the night of the murders.

The call Katherine Welsh made last night—after Brigid fell asleep in my guest room and I was still very much eyes-wide-open awake—was a courtesy on her part, nothing more, Welsh knowing before she made the call that there would be no grounds for me to object to the change she was about to make.

“I’ve gone back and forth on this,” Welsh told me on the phone. “But I finally decided this was the best way to handle things. Put it out there, first thing, so to speak.”

“Do what you have to do,” I said, and told her I’d see her in court.

So to speak.

But even knowing what’s coming, it’s still jarring when I hear her stand and say, “The people call Jimmy Cunniff.”

“What the—” I hear Norma Banks say from my left, and I give her a look that stops her right there.

Jimmy walks through the gate and makes his way toward the witness stand, wearing his one good suit, white shirt, navy tie. He’s even shaved and, I see, shined his shoes for the occasion, trying not to look like what we both know he is, which is a grumpy witness, if not a hostile one.

He’s testified plenty of times, in his life as a New York City cop. Has sat in that chair so many times he’s lost count.

Just not like this.

As Jimmy takes his seat, Rob Jacobson, face clenched like a balled fist, leans past Thomas McGoey and motions me to come closer to him.

“You couldn’t give me a heads-up on this?” he hisses.

I feel a big smile cross my face. I can’t help myself.

“Not as much fun when you’re the one getting smacked in the face, is it?” I whisper to him.