A Picture of Guilt by Libby Fischer Hellmann Page A

year.”
    “Thank you, Miss Foreman.” Brashares clicked his heels, turned around, and withdrew to the defense table. His face had a sheen, as if he’d just finished a five-mile run. He nodded to Ryan. “Your witness.”

C HAPTER N INE
    I took a sip of water. The mood in the courtroom lightened. A low buzz came from the observers, and people seemed to relax, except for the Bosanick family, who sat tight-lipped and silent.
    But when Kirk Ryan rose, the murmuring stopped. People shifted in their seats. A woman in the second row licked her lips. The door at the back of the courtroom opened, and my father walked in. How had he gotten downtown? He nodded at me and sat down in back.
    Ryan, a squat man with the confidence of someone much bigger, pushed a hand through wavy blond hair. Pasting a smile on his face, he ambled toward me as if we had all the time in the world.
    “Good morning, Miss Foreman. Nice to see you again.” He was referring to the deposition I’d had last week with his staff. Brashares had been right. They hadn’t been hostile; in fact, everyone had been quite polite. I returned a weak smile.
    “You’re a documentary filmmaker, correct?”
    “Not exactly.”
    “You’re not?”
    “I produce industrials—corporate sponsored videos.”
    “But you did produce Celebrate Chicago for the city’s millennium celebration, which subsequently ran on cable television.”
    “Yes. The City of Chicago sponsored that.”
    “So.” He cupped his hands around an imaginary sphere. “Some of your products eventually do end up on television?”
    I didn’t know where he was going, but I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like it. “Yes.”
    “And prior to being on your own, you worked at a television station producing news documentaries, correct?”
    “Many years ago, yes.”
    “Even so, would you say you have an understanding of the news process?”
    “Objection!” Brashares jumped up. “I don’t know where this is leading, or how it’s relevant to the proceedings.”
    “I’m laying foundation, Your Honor,” Ryan replied quickly.
    The judge rubbed his nose. “I’ll allow it.”
    “So.” Ryan turned back to me. “Miss Foreman, would you say you have an understanding of the news gathering process?”
    “I suppose so.”
    “You watch the news regularly?”
    “Local or national?”
    He dipped his head, as if to acknowledge I’d scored a point. “Let’s start with local.”
    “Not that often.”
    “Pardon me, but didn’t you say you recognized Johnny Santoro from his picture on the news?”
    “I saw it in the newspaper.”
    He ran his thumbs underneath the lapels of his suit. “So you do keep up with local news. Through the newspaper.”
    I nodded.
    “Please respond audibly.”
    “Yes.”
    “And when was it that you recognized Johnnie Santoro’s picture in the newspaper?”
    “About two weeks ago.”
    “But the crime with which Santoro is charged occurred over a year ago. Are we to believe that you, a former TV news professional, haven’t watched the news or picked up a newspaper in all that time?”
    “Objection!” Brashares again. “The prosecution is assuming facts not in evidence.”
    “I’m getting to them right now,” Ryan said.
    “See that you do, Mr. Ryan,” the judge said.
    “Well, Miss Foreman? Have you not watched the news or read a paper in that time?”
    I squeezed my hands together. “Of course I have.”
    “Then you know the Santoro case has been one of the major news stories of the past year, correct?”
    I nodded.
    “Please respond audibly.”
    “Yes.”
    “For someone who was once in the news business, someone who knows the value of timely information, someone whose shows are still broadcast on the airwaves, why did you wait so long to come forward with your…”—he made imaginary quotation marks in the air—“…discovery?”
    “I didn’t realize that Mr. Santoro was the man on the intake crib video until last week.”
    “But you read the