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probing, Milcray expanded on certain crucial moments in his account: Where was the sheet of paper with the address and the phone number? Lost. How close did he and Veronique sit on the futon? Close enough to touch, but not touching. Did Veronique threaten to kill him? No. Did Veronique have a weapon? No. Did Veronique ever punch or kick him? No. Was Veronique dead when he left? Milcray said no, that his assailant was still moving. Did Veronique look seriously injured? Yes.
    He was made to rehearse the most minute details of the physical confrontation several times, and this made for certain ambiguities. How exactly did Milcray manage to dress while under attack? Did he try to rise? How many times? Repeatedly revisited, some of this became muddled. More muddled than any complicated story would become under close examination? Difficult to say.
    At trial, the prosecutor—rumpled, gesticulating, deferential with the judge to the point of sycophancy—made much of the defendant’s changing stories: first five white men and a melee (each time the prosecutor said the phrase “five white males,” his voice oozed sarcasm, as if to whisper, “See how he played the race card, the skunk!”); then, once he was cornered by the authorities, a tall tale of a drag rapist. And even that story had changed.
    Milcray’s lawyer, in his opening statement, declared that his client still stood by much of the story he told the detectives, but that he now admitted to fibbing a bit there as well. In particular, Milcray now asserted he had not met Veronique on the street on August 1 but, rather, via a telephone chat service the same day. The defense attorney explained: Milcray had made up the story about the street encounter because he was embarrassed about having used a “date-line” phone service, and having gone to the home of someone he met that way. Milcray had a fiancée, after all.
    The prosecution scorned this “correction” as bald strate-gizing, necessitated by the improbability of the first story: Who, after seeing photos of Randolph Cuffee (or, rather, of his somewhat distended corpse), would believe that anyone could, in broad daylight, mistake this large-featured, robust man for a woman, wig or no?
    The defense attorney wanted to know if anyone had a photograph of Cuffee alive. No one, apparently, did.
    Or no one willing to help the defense, anyway.
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    W e watched the grainy color video of Milcray’s confessional statement on a television wheeled up beside the witness stand. After some back and forth between the judge and a court officer, the lights were dimmed; it proved impossible to lower the shades, despite several attempts. The gallery had filled in for the showing—various clerks, assistants, a visiting class from John Jay College of Criminal Justice.
    A large cockroach emerged from under the prosecution’s table, creating a minor disruption. It escaped the stomp of a squeamish female guard, and wedged itself into an invisible crevice at the foot of the bench.
    The taped statement was compelling. It made the evening of the killing feel close. The ADA was young, handsome, Asian, wearing a tie. He had a three-ring binder open in front of him, and he and Milcray sat across from each other, a narrow table between them, like tournament chess players. Shortly after the recording began, the invisible camera-operator tightened the frame on Milcray, and the ADA became a disembodied voice, inquisitive, measured. A digital readout of the time (both elapsed and local) rolled along at the bottom of the screen. One sensed that each question, seemingly straightforward, concealed complex structures: legal implications, potential charges, due-process considerations. The ADA took his time, making it clear he had to think before he spoke. Milcray responded quickly, telling the story, his intonation rising restlessly at the end of each phrase, as if he were looking for some confirmation from