David Rosenfelt - First degree

I call Willie and Kevin and tell them the news. Willie tells me that he's decided what he's going to do with some of the money. I assume he's going to buy a yacht on which he can tool around the inner city, but he tells me otherwise.

"It's an investment," he says. "But it ain't gonna make any money."

"Most investments are like that," I say. "But you don't usually know it going in."

"I want you to come in for half," he says.

I'm really not in the mood to deal with this insanity now, so I say, "After the trial, we'll talk to cousin Fred."

Kevin comes over at noon, and along with Laurie and Edna, we sit around waiting for the call that we hope doesn't come for quite a while. At one point I get up and open a window; it's not hot, it's more to let the pressure out.

At three-thirty, Edna answers the phone and nervously tells me that it's Rita Golden, the court clerk. It takes what seems like an hour and a half for me to walk the eight feet to the phone. There are a lot of things that this could be other than a verdict. The jury could want testimony read back, one of them could be ill, they're ending deliberations for the day, etc., etc. Any of the above would be fine with me.

"Hello?" is my clever opening line.

"Andy," Rita says, "there's a verdict. Hatchet wants everyone here at five o'clock."

"Okay," I say, and she gives me a few more instructions. I hang up, turn, and break the news to Laurie, Kevin, and Edna. They've all been a part of our discussions hoping for a long deliberation, but no one voices the pessimism we all now feel.

"What time are we leaving?" Laurie asks.

"In about an hour," I say before dropping a bomb that Rita dropped on me. "Laurie, you're supposed to pack some things. Just in case …" I don't finish the sentence, since it would have sounded something like "Just in case last night was the last one you will ever spend out of prison."

Laurie nods and goes to the bedroom to pack a suitcase. Kevin hasn't said a word; he's feeling exactly what I'm feeling. It's a sense of powerlessness and fear. The powerlessness comes from the awareness that our ability to influence events is over, and the fear is from knowing that those events have already been decided.

The truly chilling part is that we both feel we have lost.

The scene outside the courthouse is chaotic, but they get us through and into the courtroom just before the appointed time. Ever since we got the phone call, I've felt as if I'm watching things in slow motion, yet at the same time realizing that they're moving at high speed.

Laurie hasn't said a word since we left the house; I don't know how she's bearing up under this pressure. Kevin has been spouting optimistic one-liners, none of which he truly believes. The bottom line is that how any of us are acting and feeling does not matter; the result has been determined, and within moments we are going to have to deal with it, one way or the other.

Hatchet comes in, issues a stern, cautionary warning against outbursts after the verdict is read, and calls in the jury. Their faces are somber, expressionless; their eyes are averted from both the defense and the prosecution.

Laurie leans over and whispers in my ear. "Andy, thank you. No matter what happens, you've done an amazing job. And I love you more than you can imagine." I don't know how to respond to a comment as caring and generous as that, so I don't.

Hatchet instructs the foreman to give the verdict slip to the bailiff, who carries it over to the clerk.

Hatchet says, "Will the defendant please rise?"

Laurie stands quickly, almost defiantly. Kevin and I are on our feet a split second later, and I take Laurie's hand. I'm not sure which one the shaking is coming from.

"The clerk will read the verdict."

The clerk looks at the form for the first time and seems to read it silently for a few moments, as if she wants to be the only person besides the jury who knows how this ends. There is not another sound in the room, and her words come through so clearly that it is as if I am hearing them through a stethoscope. I know I'm standing on my legs, but I can't feel them.

"We, the jury, in the case of the State of New Jersey versus Laurie Collins , find the defendant, Laurie Collins … not guilty of the crime of murder in the first degree."

I'm sure the gallery must be in an uproar, I'm sure Dylan must be upset, I'm sure Hatchet must be banging his gavel, but I'm not aware of any of it. All I'm conscious of is a three-way hug between Laurie, Kevin, and myself, a hug so tight that I think they'll have to carry us from the room in this position and pry us apart at the hospital.

Laurie tells us both that she loves us, and Kevin, his eyes filled with tears, keeps saying, "It doesn't get any better than this." He's wrong; it would be better than this if Barry Leiter were alive to see it.

But this is pretty damn good.

Hatchet thanks the jury, releases Laurie from custody, and adjourns the proceedings. Dylan comes over to offer his surprisingly gracious congratulations, and they take Laurie away for some quick processing and paperwork.

When she comes back, she has a smile on her face and no bracelet on her ankle.

She looks great.

LAURIE DECLINES MY OFFER OF A GET-AWAY-from-it-all vacation to some island paradise. At this point, her idea of paradise is to live her life unshackled, to run errands with impunity, and to sleep in her own house every Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday.

I've given Edna a couple of weeks off, and in fact haven't even moved the files and things back to my office. If it took me six months to get back in emotional work-mode after the Willie Miller case, I'm figuring six decades this time.

The press conference was intense after the trial, again bestowing hero status on me. Surprisingly, it hasn't died down, though the focus has switched to Darrin Hobbs. New revelations seem to be leaking from the investigation daily, and it seems that there may have been as many as eight ex-army buddies who have been committing crimes under his protection. It appears almost inevitable that he is going to be arrested and charged.

I've heard from Cindy Spodek, who is getting the hero treatment from the press and the cold shoulder from most of her colleagues. She tells me that the dominant emotion she feels is relief, and I know exactly what she means.

The ever-unpredictable Willie Miller has reacted with apparent nonchalance to his sudden wealth, behaving responsibly and prudently. Fred has invested most of the money, leaving some aside for Willie to have some fun. It turns out that Willie's idea of fun is to buy a Volvo, because he's read in Consumer Reports that it's a really safe car.

Willie, is that you? Willie?

I'm going to get a firsthand look at the new Willie in a few minutes, as he's coming by the house to pick me up and drive me to what he says is going to be our investment together. He's keeping it a surprise, but I assume it's not going to be anything too formal, since he suggests I bring along Tara.

Willie pulls up and I get in the beige Volvo. Tara jumps into the backseat with Cash, and I get in the front. After instructing me to put my seat belt on, Willie drives off.

About fifteen minutes later we pull up at an abandoned, dilapidated building, with an old sign identifying it as once having been called the Haledon Kennels.

"Come on," Willie says, and gets out of the car before I have the chance to tell him that this would not be a good investment, and I wouldn't want to run a kennel even if it were.

Willie lets Tara and Cash out of the car, and they walk toward the door with us. It's locked, which is not a problem for Willie because he takes out a key and opens it.

"You have a key?" is my perceptive question.