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feelings about me and speak the truth about this case and this sham of an autopsy. Eddie Meacham needs your help.”
    God, he was good. For years I’d loathed him—today, settling into the witness chair, I loathed him still—but sitting in that restaurant a few weeks ago, I couldn’t help admiring his skill and what appeared to be his passion. I also couldn’t resist his plea to exercise my best judgment and do whatever I thought was right. Flattery? Probably. But wasn’t it possible to be flattered and right?
    And what was right, I came to decide as I studied Dr. Hamilton’s autopsy report and my own collection of skeletons and corpses, was to take the stand and point out the impossibility of the medical examiner’s conclusions. Thus it was that I found myself on the witness stand this bleary-eyed morning, wielding bones and diagrams to explain skeletal geometry. Grease led me smoothly through it all, ending with the account of my futile attempt, the previous morning, to replicate the wound path described by the autopsy report. “In your expert opinion, then, Dr. Brockton—based on your extensive knowledge of skeletal trauma and on your own experimental investigation—is it even remotely plausible that the blade of a hunting knife followed that zigzag path through the body of the deceased?” It was not, I said. “Thank you, Doctor, for your candor and your courage,” he concluded, his voice breaking slightly with emotion. I half expected a tear to trickle down his cheek as he returned to the defense table and gave his client’s shoulder an encouraging squeeze.
    At the prosecution table, Bob Roper stared morosely at his copy of the autopsy report, then rose to cross-examine me. Neither of us was looking forward to this. He began by leading me through a grade-school exegesis of the steps in the scientific method: observation, hypothesis, controlled experiment, conclusion. I wasn’t sure where he was headed with it, and I grew impatient as we covered the subject in numbing detail. Then I began to discern the trap he was setting for me. “You’ve done dozens of scientific experiments on human decomposition at your research facility, haven’t you, Doctor?” I acknowledged that I had. I could hear the jaws of the trap creaking open: “Dr. Brockton, do you consider reproducible results to be an important part of the scientific method?” Yes, I hedged, in general I do. “And yet you performed this experiment you’re testifying about today, the one you’re using to impugn the medical examiner’s autopsy, only once, isn’t that correct?” Snap!
    “That is correct, but—”
    “Doctor, correct me if I’m wrong, but if one of your graduate students turned in a Ph.D. dissertation—let’s say, a dissertation about the effects of temperature on the rate of human decomposition—and if that dissertation were based on a single thermometer reading and a single corpse, I’m guessing you’d call that shoddy research. Wouldn’t you?” I had to admit I would. My face burned. Roper spun on his heel and strode back to his seat. “That’s all the questions I have for this witness.”
    DeVriess didn’t even stand up for his redirect. “Dr. Brockton, are you familiar with the Manhattan Project?” Of course I was; back during World War II, much of the top-secret work to develop the atomic bomb had taken place just twenty miles away, in Oak Ridge. “The Trinity test in New Mexico—the single experimental detonation of an atomic bomb before Hiroshima—would you call that shoddy science, Doctor? Or would you call that pretty convincing proof?”
    I could have kissed that slick bastard. “I reckon I’d call that pretty convincing proof.”
    Roper objected, but the judge just smiled and shook his head. Grease moved for an immediate dismissal of all charges; the judge turned him down, too, but did grant his motion to exhume the body of Billy Ray Ledbetter so I could examine it in the flesh—or in what was left