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through the preliminary testimony: where he lived, where he worked, how far he’d gone in school—meaningless questions to get him comfortable with testifying. Then, “Mr. Calhoun, did you murder your daughter?”
    “No sir, I did not. I loved my Angelina more than anything else in the world. I would never hurt her.”
    “Then how did that little girl get in that grave?”
    “I don’t know. She’s not my daughter.”
    “Your wife says she is.”
    “My wife’s not thinking right.”
    “No further questions,” Wilson said as he turned and walked back to the defense table.
    The prosecutor easily discredited George on the stand.
    “Where is your daughter?” he asked.
    “I don’t know.”
    “Did you ever report her missing?”
    “No.”
    “Did you ever tell anyone she was missing?”
    “No.”
    “Did you make any effort to find her?”
    “No.”
    “Is your daughter alive?”
    The transcript noted silence by the defendant.
    “I’ll ask you again: Is your daughter alive?”
    More silence until the judge said, “Mr. Calhoun, you must answer the question.”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Mr. Calhoun, are you asking us to believe that your four-year-old daughter whom you love more than anything in the world simply disappeared, and you did nothing about it? And you don’t even know if she’s dead or alive?”
    “That’s what I’m saying,” he answered, assuring his conviction by a jury of his peers.
    The first reading confirmed Dani’s suspicion about Bob Wilson. His lackluster defense during the trial bespoke an attorney who foresaw an inevitable guilty verdict and expended little effort to alter that outcome. Over and over he failed to attack the prosecutor’s witnesses, despite glaring holes in their evidence, or raise objections to improper questions. But even more noteworthy was the absence of any real defense. Aside from a handful of character witnesses, the only testimony refuting the charge was Calhoun’s. Although George had sworn he hadn’t murdered his daughter and that the child found in the woods was not his own, the defense presented no forensic evidence to back up his claim. How could that be? The files contained photographs of the murdered girl, her features burned beyond recognition. Surely, given George’s insistence that the dead child wasn’t his daughter, DNA testing would have been ordered, if not by the prosecution, then by defense counsel. Dani stopped herself. Seventeen years ago, DNA testing was not routinely done.
    Bob Wilson should have done more to discredit Sallie’s confession. His cross-examination of her was shockingly inadequate. Perhaps he thought she was a more sympathetic witness than her husband and that he would do more damage than good if he questioned her aggressively. He was wrong. Her testimony sealed George’s fate. If Wilson had cross-examined her more thoroughly, he might have been able to show inconsistencies in her story, create doubt in the jurors’ minds. Sallie mentioned the devil in her testimony for the prosecution. Were she and George devoutly religious? Had they ever confided to their pastor their concerns about their daughter? Dani didn’t know the answers because Wilson hadn’t asked those questions. Letting the jury hear Sallie’s testimony without his having made any effort to contradict her seemed a colossal error by Calhoun’s attorney.
    Dani’s brief review of the transcripts and exhibits suggested a number of avenues for appeal. Many had no doubt been raised as the case wound its way up through the court of appeals, the state supreme court, and petitions for certiorari to the United States Supreme Court. Calhoun’s case had made it to the highest court twice, a not uncommon journey for death-row inmates. She would have to wait until Melanie completed her review of the appellate briefs and decisions to see what arguments were still available. Dani still didn’t know whether she believed that George Calhoun was guilty or innocent,