And then he brought her in. Maria Ruskin came into the amphitheater from an antechamber, where a court officer manned the door. She was superb. She had struck just the right note in her wardrobe, a black dress with a matching jacket edged in black velvet. She had not dressed up, and she had not dressed down. She was the perfect widow in mourning who had business to attend to. And yet her youth, her voluptuousness, her erotic presence, her sensual self seemed ready to burst forth from those clothes, from that stunning but composed face, from that full flawless head of dark hair ready to be tousled with mad abandon— -- at any moment! -- —on any pretext! -- —with the next tickle! —the merest wink! Kramer could hear the jurors rustling and buzzing. They had read the newspapers. They had watched television. The Foxy Brunette, the Mystery Girl, the Financier's Widow -- —it was her.

"Do you remember when we used to live in the Village, the way I used to go off to work?"

"The way you used to go off to work?"

"When I first started working for Pierce & Pierce? The way I used to give you the raised left fist when I left the apartment, the Black Power salute?"

"Yes, I remember."

"You remember why?"

"I guess so."

"It was supposed to say that yes, I was going to work on Wall Street, but my heart and soul would never belong to it. I would use it and rebel and break with it. You remember all that?"

Judy said nothing.

"I know it didn't work out that way," he went on, "but I remember what a lovely feeling it was. Don't you?"