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thought. He scanned the jury out of the corner of his eye and squirmed.
    Johnson waited a few seconds in the silent courtroom, then placed himself between the defense and prosecution tables. “Mr.
     Jagoda, did you get a good look at the person who shot your wife?”
    “Yes. He is that man”—pointing—“in the light blue shirt and dark blue jacket.”
    “Please note that the witness has pointed out the defendant, Harold Vekt.” Harold began to open his mouth but was glared down
     by Herrera.
    “Would you tell us, Mr. Jagoda, if the defendant’s appearance differs in any significant way from what it was at the time
     of the crime.”
    “His hair is different. It was blond, and much longer.”
    “Then how can you be certain it was he?”
    “When I first saw his picture at the police station, there was something about it, but I passed it up because of the hair.
     But then I remembered that I’d been told to pay more attention to the permanent features than the changeable ones. And I suddenly
     recalled that as my wife pulled the robber’s hair it had appeared to shift slightly, backward from the hairline.
    “The eyes and mouth, the shape of the chin were exactly as I remembered them.”
    “One more question, sir. For how long a time would you estimate you had an opportunity to observe the defendant’s face and
     become familiar with it?”
    “I can’t tell you in minutes or seconds. For as long as it took him to ask for an address, and for me to answer him; and for
     him to threaten us with his gun and demand our valuables, and for each of us to remove our valuables and put them in the briefcase,
     and for him to back away several feet and run forward again.”
    “I appreciate that you can’t know the exact time lapse. But between two minutes and half an hour, which is closer?”
    “Two minutes.”
    “How about between two minutes and fifteen minutes?”
    “Fifteen. Definitely.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Jagoda. Pass the witness.”
    Herrera, four inches shorter and considerably bulkier than the prosecutor, rose from his chair but stayed behind the table.
     “Mr. Jagoda, may I offer my sincere condolences for your losses.” Jagoda’s expression did not change. “But you must appreciate
     that describing the tragic nature of a crime does not provide evidence that any specific person committed it.”
    “Objection.”
    “Sustained. Save it for the summation, Mr. Herrera.”
    “Sorry. Mr. Jagoda, you estimated the time you and the robber were in each other’s presence as between two and fifteen minutes,
     closer to fifteen. During how much of that time were you actually looking at his face?”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “Let’s start with the time before he pulled the gun. When he asked directions and you answered him. Were you looking at his
     face throughout that time?”
    “Well—I suppose so. What else would I have looked at?”
    Vekt scribbled something. Herrera threw it a stony glance and took an audible breath before continuing.
    “Was he, for example, holding anything in his hand?”
    Jagoda hesitated. “Ye-es. A bit of paper. I assumed the address he wanted was on it.”
    “You assumed—so you didn’t actually see it?”
    “I tried to, but it was out of reach.”
    “You tried to. So then, for part of that time, were you not looking at the paper rather than at the man’s face?”
    Jagoda was silent.
    “Please answer.”
    “I would have to say yes.”
    “Now—let’s get to the rest of the time, after the gun was displayed. How did you react when you first saw the gun?”
    “I was horrified—paralyzed.”
    “Where were your eyes? What were you looking at?”
    Jagoda sighed and closed his eyes. “The gun, mostly.”
    “And when you were putting your valuables into the briefcase, what were you looking at?”
    “The items I was handling, and the gun, and his face.”
    “When he turned his attention to your wife, what were you looking at?”
    “Primarily the gun. It was