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BEFORE I AM OUT of my chair and walking over to question Jimmy Cunniff under oath for the first time, Rob Jacobson once again motions me to come closer.

Then he whispers, “Clean this up.”

I then lean behind Thomas McGoey, whisper in my client’s ear that he can go fuck himself.

“Good morning, Jimmy,” I say brightly when I’m standing in front of Jimmy Cunniff.

“Good morning, Ms. Smith.”

“I think at this point in our relationship, we can both be on a first-name basis,” I say.

“You’re the boss,” Jimmy says, and I hear some chuckling from the jury box. A good thing. I want them to feel as if they’re eavesdropping on a conversation between a couple of old pals.

Which, in essence, they are.

I go through some preliminaries of my own, asking him how long he was with the NYPD. He tells me. I ask how he progressed through the ranks to detective, and he tells me that, too.

“In the course of your career, you ever see a murder weapon planted?” I ask.

“On multiple occasions.”

“And did the people doing the planting go down for that?” I ask.

Jimmy shrugs. “Sometimes it was the plant er who went down, sometimes the plant ee. And sometimes none of the above.”

“And how often were you able to catch the people who planted a weapon as a way of framing someone for a crime he, or she, didn’t commit?”

“Objection,” Katherine Welsh says. “Ms. Smith is clearly leading this witness. Your Honor, I’m sure Ms. Smith and Mr. Cunniff are often in the habit of finishing each other’s thoughts. Unfortunately, it’s completely inappropriate in these circumstances.”

“Sustained,” Judge Horton says.

“Let me rephrase,” I say. “If someone were trying to frame someone for murder, wouldn’t it be easy for them to hide a weapon as a way of making it look as if the person being framed had been the one hiding it?”

“All you’d need,” Jimmy says, “is access to the weapon, and access to the hiding place.”

I nod, and grin. “And how many people would you guess might have access to our client’s town house?”

“At this point in time?” Jimmy says. “A shorter list might be people who don’t have access.”

“Objection! Calls for speculation.”

“Sustained,” Horton says. He then focuses a withering glance at Jimmy. “I understand that you are a bar owner, Mr. Cunniff, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, Your Honor, it is.”

“Well, you’re not seated at the end of the bar this morning,” Horton continues.

To me the judge says, “Proceed.”

“Jimmy,” I say, “you’ve often told me that jails aren’t filled with smart people, isn’t that correct?”

“It’s an expression cops use quite a lot.”

“But smart people, even if they’re guilty, often find a way to stay out of jail, isn’t that also correct?”

“Unfortunately, it is.”

“And if they’re really smart, they can frame someone for a murder they didn’t commit,” I say, not even attempting to make a question out of it.

“Objection!” Katherine Welsh says, shouting this time.

But I’m already walking back to my table.

“Withdrawn,” I say. “Nothing further.”